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Nine times out of ten, when he calls her Mrs Morse, he’s up to no good - in the best way.
*
Sometimes, Joan wonders if the entire point to planning a wedding is to destroy the romance entirely with a flood of practicalities. While her fiance would just as soon elope and call it a day, Joan has pushed for something at least a little more traditional, at least partly to placate her parents - she’s pretty sure neither would forgive her if they couldn’t celebrate such a milestone as a family - but as all the decisions and details have piled up, Gretna Green has looked more and more appealing. Today’s latest and greatest on a list that seems to multiply by the hour the closer they get to the day itself: giving notice at the register office.
Aside from the near-miss crisis of Morse’s misplaced birth certificate (later discovered jammed in a Mozart biography as an unfortunate bookmark), the entire ordeal is considerably less stressful than any of the frightfully boring debates about place settings or seating arrangements which Joan has spent the last several months attempting to dodge. They’re in and out in under fifteen minutes. The building is a maze of hallways, though Joan doesn’t mind the meandering exit so much with her hand tucked warmly into her fiance’s. His fingertips brush over her knuckles rhythmically, and she responds by giving his hand a tight squeeze.
“You do realize, this is a one-time deal,” she says. “You only get one wife.”
“Good thing there’s only one I want, then,” he replies automatically.
Joan shakes her head with a soft smile. Leave it to Morse to ruin a perfectly good joke with something so saccharine. “What I mean is, you won’t be able to offer marriage as a rescue for any of your damsels in distress anymore, or flirt your way to a confession. Not as easily, anyway. You’ll have to devise a new signature strategy.”
She loves catching him off guard like this. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him hesitate for a brief moment, fluttering his fingers as he decides how to respond.
“Fair point. Maybe it’s my turn to play the damsel in distress now and then. Flip the tables for a change, see if I can’t get their guard down enough for a confession while they try to save me.”
With a snort, Joan agrees, “You do have that lost puppy look going for you. Bat those baby blues a few times, you’ll have every murderess in Oxford falling all over herself.”
They reach a quiet corridor that feels almost abandoned, and without warning, Morse tugs Joan into an alcove and pulls her into an embrace. Rather uncharacteristically throwing any sense of caution or propriety to the wind, he presses a series of kisses along her jaw, working methodically from her ear down to her throat - stopping to plant one lightly on the tip of her nose - then returns to nuzzling her neck.
“Feeling a little impatient, are we?” Joan huffs, not sure if the sound of her voice is a precursor to laughter or something else entirely.
“Mm, perhaps,” Morse says, somewhat muffled by her hair.
Joan lets out a little sigh, then rather reluctantly steadies herself to be the responsible one and reproves, “Morse. This is hardly…mmm… the time—”
“We’re more or less married already in the eyes of the law, aren’t we?” Morse glances down at the copy of the paperwork they’ve just signed, grasped tightly in her hand, and adds with a smirk, “Mrs Morse.”
“Not in the eyes of the church,” Joan retorts, and at Morse’s predictable scoff, she adds, “nor, perhaps more meaningful to you, family and friends…”
“Mm, fair enough,” Morse agrees readily, doing absolutely nothing to demonstrate the slightest hint of apology. If anything, his hands only tighten their grip around her waist, shifting her closer.
Joan smacks the papers rather ineffectually against his chest. “If you kiss me like that at our wedding, in front of our families and God, I’ll turn around and divorce you on the spot.”
The impact is rather negated by the unsteady hitch in her voice. Morse’s grin only widens.
“Oh? Would you rather I kiss you like this, then? Or perhaps like this?” As he cheekily demonstrates various options, she tries to summon the willpower for another reprimand, and finds it rather slow in coming.
“Morse,” she says, faintly, resolve weakening by the second. Thankfully - or not - she’s rescued by the sound of footsteps clipping down the previously empty hall.
She and Morse take an automatic step back, each quickly smoothing a hand over hair and rearranging disheveled clothing, and Joan can’t say she’s surprised to see her own look of longing reflected on her soon-to-be-husband’s face. He clears his throat and stares pointedly up at the ceiling, and Joan giggles softly.
“You’re looking rather well-kissed,” she teases, trying not to dwell too much on his mussed curls and flushed cheeks that must match the warmth in her own, and he smirks.
“Mm, well. I could say the same of you,” he observes, as they continue to wind their way toward the exit. “It’s rather a good thing I don’t wear lipstick, isn’t it? I seem to recall someone interrupting my last attempted purchase…”
**
The wedding itself goes so much more smoothly than Joan would have predicted, were she the betting type. And no wonder, with a hurricane of organization like Win Thursday at the helm. A startling number of friends and family pepper the church for the ceremony, more people than Joan recalls actually knowing, much less inviting; but stumbling through the haze of tradition and innumerable required graces, all without making a fool of herself somehow, feels so much more manageable with the constant touch of Morse’s hand: covering hers as they recite their vows, lifting her veil so carefully, at the small of her back as they make their way back up the aisle.
However, her nerves at meeting all the well-defined expectations of the ceremony pale in comparison to the need to fill a dozen roles at once at the reception. She’s somehow expected to be, simultaneously, the gracious host, boast-worthy daughter, fun-loving friend, and understatedly amiable coworker, not to mention pleasant and unobjectionable to anyone on the groom’s side of the aisle, all wrapped up in the picture-perfect image of the glowing bride. Her emotions are a frothing mix of unspeakably happy and something much more anxious, and she’s nearly dizzy with it all - although that could be the fact that she hasn’t had more than two bites to eat all day, and the champagne toast earlier may have gone to her head.
The newlyweds have scarcely had a moment to themselves, on constant rotation of hugging relatives and thanking friends for coming and catching up with people they haven’t seen in ages or being introduced to people they’re probably already supposed to know. Joan gave her parents a good deal of latitude with the guest list, mostly because she knows they won’t get nearly as much say in Sam’s. Besides, it’s not as though Morse’s list of invitees was very long: mostly the usual suspects from work, choir friends, one or two old faces from his Oxford days, and of course his sister. To everyone’s relief, Gwen Morse chose not to attend. Joan was in favor of not even inviting the bitter hag, but Morse insisted he had to keep up appearances, for Joyce’s sake at least. Joyce herself turned up with a rather dishy bloke on her arm, which was apparently less of a surprise to Morse than to Joan - he never does dole out unprompted gossip like that; she’ll have to train him better.
Unfortunately, Joan hasn’t even had time to say more than a few words in passing to her sister-in-law, tugged and tossed as she’s been in every direction. She’s barely gotten a word in with Sam, even, though in fairness, that may be for the best: she suspects he’s already gotten a few more drinks in him than he ought, given the way he’s blatantly flirted his way through half a dozen guests already. To his credit, though, he has done a decent job of covering for Joan’s hostess duties with their relatives; she supposes she’ll owe him one now. What she wouldn’t give for some food, and a few minutes of peace to…
There’s a steadying hand at Joan’s elbow, then, and all the clamor of the milling crowd around her fades to a distant buzz with Morse’s grounding presence.
“Hello,” he says simply, and Joan’s heart leaps into her throat at the way his eyes crinkle in an undimmable smile just to see her.
“Hello, stranger,” she answers. Her eyes dart down to his hand, to the gold band now glinting there, and a feeling akin to pride overtakes her, something that sings out joyously, perhaps a tad childishly, Mine, mine, this one’s mine! Morse seems to have the same idea, taking her hand and gently twisting the second ring next to the familiar emerald on her finger. The lump in her throat grows too big and she has to do something to tame it, so she casts wildly about for something to say and settles on inane commentary on their surroundings: “It looks sort of magical, doesn’t it?”
And it does, at that. Joan is gifted with a good eye for decorating and no patience for hemming and hawing over decisions like colors or centerpieces, and between Mum at the helm and Dad’s insistence on the thorough approach for any task left to him, there’s not a detail overlooked. Mum told her at the church earlier that Dad nearly fell off the chair stringing fairy lights from the rafters, but seeing as he didn’t, Joan feels justified in appreciating the extra bit of fairy tale sparkle they provide. Besides, there’s no better gift she could give her father in all of this than a justification to complain; it’s a father’s right, after all.
Morse takes in the room around them as though seeing it all for the first time. Seemingly his attention has been elsewhere all afternoon. “There’s no magic in this world,” he says solemnly, in that way he has when he’s reciting something, “only love. The rest is all smoke and mirrors.”
It’s more sentimental than he usually allows himself to be in public, and Joan wants to laugh, but finds she can’t - not when he’s clearly earnest, and not when he’s looking at her like that. Caught in his hypnotizing blue stare, she shifts a little and swallows, trying to tether herself to something.
Morse quirks a small smile and points out, “Nearly two whole minutes no one’s needed our attention for anything. Dance with me?”
It feels like floating, like she’s a bubble on the air, as she steps into the circle of his waiting arms. She leans her head against his chest for a moment, listens to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. When she lifts her head again, she’s surprised to see Morse’s eyes are closed.
“Endeavour?” she says tentatively, cupping her hand against the side of his face. Is he all right?
“I’m here,” he replies, softly, almost wonderingly. Joan smiles; she feels the same: I’m here, finally. I’m here, fully present. I’m here, with you.
They stand together like that for a few long, gloriously alone moments, swaying to music that feels so far away. This feels entirely different from their first dance together, earlier; it was an almost performative intimacy then, all eyes on them, and Joan’s thoughts were mostly about trying not to trip or stomp on her new husband’s feet. She knew Morse was incredibly anxious about remembering the steps they’d practiced - his dancing hasn’t much improved since they first started dating, and while Joan wanted to take pity on him and skip the requirement, there seems little point in going the traditional route for the sake of family if they aren’t going to follow some key expectations. This, however, this stolen bit of togetherness in the midst of all the celebratory hubbub, is the memory of today Joan knows she’ll rehearse for years to come.
With a brush of lips against the shell of her ear, Morse murmurs, “Care to get out of here, Mrs Morse?”
Joan sighs; she so hates to be the practical one right now. “I wish. The reception’s only just begun; we have hours left to go.”
“It’s a poor host neglects his guests,” Morse agrees, almost to himself, and then he adds, “We could just leave, of course.”
“What, slip away unnoticed? In this crowd? Someone’s bound to follow to check on us.”
“Mm, perhaps. You forget, though - I did have plenty of training in surveillance, in my police academy days. I’m sure we could manage to ditch a tail and evade pursuit long enough to reach a suitable rendezvous spot.”
Joan giggles as she reluctantly takes a step back, reaching out blindly toward the table for her glass and distantly hoping she doesn’t knock it over. “You sound like a spy novel, you know that?”
As if summoned by rumors of escape, Aunt Reenie appears at Joan’s elbow, just as Strange ambles over and taps at Morse’s shoulder. “Old man’s about to give a toast,” Strange informs them, and Joan catches the frown of disapproval on her aunt’s face, likely at being beaten to the punch at sharing any kind of news. Joan glances to Morse as she allows herself to be led away; the side of his mouth quirks in a wry smile, and she mouths, “Soon.”
He follows behind, and with a smirk and a nod, reminds her silently - as though she could have forgotten! - “Mrs Morse.”
**
The evening’s quiet peace feels like a hard-won victory. Morse has spent weeks pulling long hours on a convoluted case; before that, Joan was practically living at the office, juggling two simultaneous juvenile offenders that some genius had decided ought to be tried as adults. Well, Viv Wall wasn’t having any of that, and while it’s still her name that strikes fear into the hearts of tyrannous bastards overly fond of manufactured loopholes, Joan Morse’s name has begun to lift heads in courtrooms as well. The couple’s schedules are finally starting to sync up again, and not a moment too soon - Joan is tired of chasing normal. Starlight filters through the curtains, and the earlier storm has stilled to a fragile calm. Despite the newness of summer, it’s too warm in their bedroom, and between that and the nagging sense of things left unfinished in the day, Joan’s body is fighting sleep.
Finally, she gives in to the compulsion to check things off the list that won’t stop running through her head. “Did you pick up the baby shower gift?”
After a pause to realize she’s addressing him, Morse looks up from his book. “Ah, no. Knew there was something I didn’t get to today.”
“Morse!” Joan chides. “I only asked you to do two things today, and I already saw you didn’t clean the kitchen.”
“Does that need doing again? Really?”
Joan mimics his tone. “Did you not see the stack of dishes on your way up? Really?”
Morse frowns. Really, Joan thinks, it’s unbelievable how much a so-called detective can overlook in his own home. He’s always been like that, though, seemingly immune to mess. Nearly two years into marriage, it’s still one of their most frequent sources of conflict. She’s hardly a neat freak, and has done her best to set realistic expectations, but she remembers too well what Morse’s flat used to look like before they started dating, and she has no interest in living in a tip.
Stop that, Joan admonishes herself. Must be the heat, causing her temper to flare. She bites back her commentary and praises herself for only letting out a small sigh. “I suppose the kitchen can wait, but the shower is tomorrow. We can hardly show up empty-handed.”
“It’s not as though Sam will be able to tell we picked up a gift last-minute,” Morse objects.
Joan bites her lip. “No, but… I’m still not convinced Anke actually likes me yet. I keep trying, and we just never quite seem to connect. Sam won’t care one way or the other what we get, but I can’t help feeling like this will make or break my relationship with Anke, and… and I can’t risk a lifelong feud with my sister-in-law because the store was out of the last thing left on their registry!”
She flops back onto the pillows, and Morse quirks an eyebrow at her, his thinly pressed lips clearly attempting to hold back a snicker at her theatrics. “I hardly think you’re going to instigate the Thursday family version of the Montagues and Capulets over the wrong brand of bottle warmer.”
“The point is, I shouldn’t have to worry about it, Morse,” she snaps, and before he has a chance to voice agreement, she adds pointedly, “because you agreed to take that off my to-do list. At the very least, you could have washed up a bit in the kitchen tonight.”
He has the decency to look a tad guilty at that, and then a smirk slides over his face. “Well, you see, Mrs Morse,” he says slyly, “as you may recall, I was rather… distracted this evening.” He casts a devilish glance down at bare legs still tangled in bedsheets, and Joan feels her cheeks warm. She’s not nearly done being mad at him, but he makes it hard to maintain the conversation with that look on his face.
It absolutely shouldn’t work, and yet it does. Still, Joan knows she has the high ground on this one, and she isn’t quite ready to let go yet. “You can’t flirt your way out of trouble now, we’re married!”
He grins at her and pokes her in the calf with one toe. “Whyever not? That seems like the optimal time to do it.”
“Morse!” She can’t help laughing, especially not when he rolls over on top of her and leans in for a kiss, all the while exaggeratedly waggling his brows. “Stop, I’m still mad at you!”
“I know.” He leans back and schools his features into a more appropriately apologetic expression. “I’ll do the kitchen first thing tomorrow morning. Laundry, too, to make up for forgetting. And the party’s not till, what, 3? Gives me plenty of time to get over to Burridge’s and pick out the best damn bottle warmer in the place.”
“Well. Don’t get too crazy, now,” Joan cautions. “I still haven’t quite forgiven Sam for usurping me as the favorite, giving Mum and Dad their first grandchild. Hard to top that.”
“Mm,” Morse accedes, “and there’s still the possibility his wife may become your sworn enemy.”
Joan recalls her mother telling her, shortly before the wedding, that the best marriages are made up of two good forgivers, choosing to see and encourage the best in each other. While neither she nor Morse is anywhere near perfect at it, quick forgiveness is a habit they actively try to put into practice. The next day, she has to smile when she comes in from the garden for lunch, arms overflowing with a bountiful harvest of tomatoes, and sees a chalkboard hung up next to the refrigerator, with a label at the top that says “To Do” in large block letters, and “Forgiven?” written in Morse’s scrawl. A moment later, Morse himself appears, carrying a package wrapped in blue paper with an ostentatious bow.
“Mission successful?” Joan asks, with a nod to the package.
“No one else beat us to the bottle warmer,” Morse confirms. “It was on sale, so I picked up a vest, too. It’s got a tiger on it; looked the right size, I think.”
Joan raises a brow and jokes, “No hard feelings, then, with the tiger?”
Morse snorts. “With any luck, this one will be a fair sight less terrifying; although with Sam’s influence, it’s anyone’s guess.”
As she opens the refrigerator to pull out last night’s leftovers, Joan gestures toward the chalkboard. “New addition?”
“Thought it might help me to remember more of what I say I’ll do around the house. Notebook seems to do the trick for work; this way, you can add to it too.” A beat passes. “So, am I? Forgiven?”
Joan bumps him with her hip on her way to the table. “I suppose that depends on what Anke thinks of the tiger outfit,” she says, with a grin. “Although, I daresay Sam and I got out of more stalemates when we were fighting by virtue of necessity, ganging up against Dad, than anything else, so maybe a good family feud is just what we need.”
**
Years back, their honeymoon taught Joan and Morse that they had two different approaches to a holiday. While Morse prefers to use the time away to unwind, taking advantage of the opportunity to savor an evening of music or sleeping in, Joan tends to feel the need to put the break in her schedule to good use, to accomplish something - seeing the sights, at the very least. The disconnect led to some tension on that trip, before they found a way to meet in the middle, so they’ve gone into this one with the pre-arranged agreement that they can go their separate ways now and then, plus each gets two days to plan the agenda however they’d like and the other isn’t allowed to complain.
Today, however, is a blank slate, open to whatever spur-of-the-moment plans appeal. Joan’s already started out her morning plotting ideas. When she gets back from a walk along the water to greet the sunrise, an empty mug in the sink tells her Morse has already had his first dose of caffeine for the day. “Morning, sunshine,” she greets him, automatically pouring a cuppa for herself. She had some before she left, of course - she’s not a heathen - but a splash of seconds couldn’t hurt.
She hears a yawn behind her. “Nice walk?”
“Mm. Quiet. Peaceful, without so many beach-goers out yet. I heard it’s supposed to rain this afternoon, though, so I was thinking maybe we could head into town, maybe duck into a few shops and look at that little museum we saw on our way in. What do you think?”
“Hmm,” Morse says noncommittally.
Tea finished, Joan lets her cup clatter in the sink, and turns around, ready to argue for the museum at least. Her eyes widen in surprise.
“Endeavour Morse! Put some clothes on, for the love of...”
He grins at her, his expression all innocent mischief warring with something almost feral. “Why?”
“Why? Because - because! I’m not having this conversation with you while you’re naked!”
“Do you find it…” he raises one eyebrow, “distracting?”
Joan marches over to the bed, picks up a pillow, and whacks him with it. “Yes. Happy? Now get dressed. We’ve got places to go.”
“Oh, I don't know,” Morse drawls, stretching out languidly and fixing Joan with a rather wicked smile. “Seems a rather impractical order of events.”
For the sake of keeping up the pretense, Joan rolls her eyes, though the rest of her is quite on board with wherever this is going. “And why, pray tell, is that?”
“Well, Mrs Morse, I’ve a few particularly intriguing ideas for how to spend our hard-earned holiday that would at least eventually necessitate a return to this state.” He snakes one arm around her waist and tugs her toward him. “Just thinking pragmatically, you see.”
“Mm, maximum efficiency,” Joan agrees, a little breathlessly. Words don’t exactly come easily with whatever it is her husband is doing with those hands. “I'm beginning to see what you mean...”
After all, the museum can wait, can’t it?
**
Naturally, it’s hardly a one-sided strategy.
*
Mornings get so much crazier with a baby in the mix. She’s still working part-time at the Welfare three days a week, but even on the days she stays home, it’s a whirlwind. It’s funny, she’d always thought she would thrive as a working mum, but once their daughter arrived, Joan found herself increasingly fretting over the eventuality of leaving this living, breathing piece of her heart in someone else’s arms each morning and spending the entire day apart. Morse was the one to gently suggest she consider a compromise, and so three days a week, she leaves Sophie with Win and does her best to remember she actually does enjoy her work, even when she sometimes feels like she’s wandering around with a piece missing. It helps, sometimes, to remind herself that as much as she misses her own child, she’s making the world a safer place for other people’s children.
Tuesdays are home days, though surprisingly not much calmer, especially for those first few hours. She’s coaxingly spooning some sort of singularly unappealing, beige cereal goop into Sophie’s mouth when she hears her husband thump down the stairs. “You’re running late,” she observes, without any judgment heating her tone. It’s more or less become a standard fact of life for both of them these past few months. The parenthood-induced sleeplessness hasn’t done Morse’s usual insomnia any favors, and he seems to be finding it harder and harder to get up in the mornings. After hearing from some of her friends how little their husbands participate in the nighttime tasks of childrearing, Joan’s been glad Morse is quick to jump up to comfort a wailing infant at 3am - but she can’t say she isn’t almost desperately looking forward to the fabled sleep-through-the-night stage.
Once he reaches the kitchen, Morse places a hand at the small of her back as he leans down to kiss the top of Sophie’s head, then ducks around the two of them to dig through the fridge for last night’s leftovers. Joan wishes she could follow in her mother’s footsteps of lovingly prepared sandwiches every morning, but these days, it’s often all she can do to keep the pantry stocked. The nightmare of food shopping with an infant is practically a tradition now, Sophie inevitably howling by aisle seven, and with that on top of everything else on the never-ending to-do list… Maybe she’ll get back into the habit eventually; maybe their little family will find a different routine that works for them. Morse has never once made her feel bad about it, so it must just be that terrible mummy guilt Joan’s heard plagues first-timers the hardest.
“Big plans for the day?” Morse asks, running his fingers gently through the tangles in her hair she hasn’t had a chance to comb out yet. She knows it’s been difficult for him, too, leaving Sophie in the mornings. She’s usually asleep when he gets home, and now and then Joan will secretly jostle her awake just before he walks in the door, even knowing she’ll pay for it in crankiness later, just to see Morse light up at getting to play with their daughter for a bit before she goes back down for the night.
“Oh, you know, tummy time and toys, and fighting Mummy at nap time, and maybe finger painting if we’re—oh!” she cries, as Sophie gives a good yank on the spoon and promptly flings it to the floor.
“I’ve got it,” Morse says immediately, and bends to retrieve the purple plastic object. Joan hums appreciatively at the view, and Morse is wearing a smirk when he rises and hands her the spoon. “Hmm. Really, Joan?”
Joan defends herself with a laugh: “I’m entitled to some ogling now and then, aren’t I, as Mrs Morse?”
With a gleam in his eye, Morse reaches out to pull her into a kiss, then at the last second, dodges and reaches for the silverware drawer instead. He pulls out a blue spoon and hands it to her. “Figured the other one needs washing, now that Sophie’s had her way with it,” he says, solemnly enough, but she can’t miss that quirk of his eyebrow when he’s teasing her.
“Get over here, Endeavour,” she orders, and, cradling his face between her hands, gives him the kind of kiss she knows will make him glad to be awake. Then she pulls back and brushes over his shirt, adjusts his tie, all the little things she grew up seeing her mother do before sending her father off to work each morning. It might be silly, but she understands it now, taking pride in her husband’s appearance, making sure he looks cared for. She may not be able to protect him at work in any practical sense, but in these small displays of love, she can send him off with the best sort of shield she’s capable of making. I love you and I want the best for you, this ritual says, please stay safe, be careful, and come home to me. To us.
Just then, Sophie demands that her parents acknowledge her presence by letting loose a long string of enthusiastic babble. Morse huffs an enamored chuckle and lifts the baby out of the high chair, swinging her around so he can make silly faces at her. “You be good for your mother today, you hear? If you use up all her patience, I’ll drive her spare within minutes of stepping inside the house tonight.” He bounces her up and down a bit, and Sophie cheerfully grabs onto his tie, doubtless smearing it with her sticky breakfast.
Watching her husband with their daughter does funny things to the rhythm of Joan’s breathing. It strikes her that when she goes to work, this is what she’s defending, for every vulnerable person who crosses her path: a peaceful home, safety and self-determination, a chance to choose their own happiness. All these names, for all the roles she fills - Joan, Mrs Morse, Mummy; social worker, wife, mother - all one cohesive whole, and one she would choose again and again.