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It was a week before Morse was allowed to go home - the wound on his neck didn’t take to healing as quickly as the doctors had hoped, and it was still tender, stark scarlet against ghostly white. He had only had a few visitors - Thursday had come in almost every evening, updating him on Sarah’s case; Dr. Debryn had popped in once, and even Mrs Thursday had stopped by for half an hour, but Jakes hadn’t been.
Morse wasn’t too surprised, they had never really defined what they had and considering what he knew about Jakes, maybe going out for dinner a few times did not warrant a hospital visit. Just because he wasn't surprised, that doesn't mean he wasn’t disappointed. Regardless, Morse was itching to get out of the hospital and desperate to get home, and graciously accepted Monica’s offer to call him a taxi.
“Will you do something for me?” She asked, passing him his jacket.
“Yes, I will take the rest of my time off to rest.”
“No, well yes, but-” Monica ducked her head to catch Morse’s eye, “will you go and speak to him? Please, I think it’d be good for you.”
He only hesitated for a moment, “Okay, I will. Thank you. And, thank you, for the cab.”
~~~
It was almost nine when Morse stepped out of the hospital, the biting night breeze cutting through his coat. He pulled it a little tighter. As Morse was about to get in the taxi, he heard someone shouting his name and a rhythmic car horn shock through the air.
“Morse!”
He spun around, not quite able to hide a small smile as he apologised to the taxi driver and walked towards the other car.
Jakes had been leaning against the driver’s door, but, as Morse walked across the car park, he circled round to the passenger side to greet Morse, cigarette loose in his grasp, smoke swirling in the dirty orange streetlight like sad, grey angel wings.
“I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Drive you home?” Jakes was frowning but still opened the door and gestured Morse inside.
They drove in silence, the wheels splashing teardrops onto the bottom of the car and the radio crooning and crackling a classical station. Morse watched Jakes tap an agitated rhythm on the steering wheel and had the strangest urge to hold his hand tightly, to ground him. They didn’t speak until they were back at Morse’s flat.
It had been cold outside, the kind of cold that made your eyes water and your nose run, and when you went into the warm your cheeks would turn a sad sort of red. For a moment, when he turned from the kettle to the sink, Jakes could see this on Endeavour's face: a sick parody of how he looked the night Sarah took him.
“I’m not going to vanish.” Endeavour’s voice was soft, holding Peter’s heart and soothing it’s racing beat.
“You did.”
They stood there for a moment in silence, just this side of too tense, and in the light of the small washed out bulb, Endeavour could see Peter, really see him. His eyes looked more sunken than usual, dark circles weighing them down and making him look tired; he was pale too, ghostly, and Morse couldn’t help but wonder what he had been doing this past week.
They couldn’t stop talking, though they weren't saying much worth anything. The silence must be filled. Someone had put the record player on.
Morse’s cupboards were as good as bare - the few slices of bread had gone moldy - so they got fish and chips, though they were mostly cold by the time they sat down, legs intertwined, at the tiny dining table.
“I really thought you were going to die,” Peter said, poking idly at his mushy peas, “I thought that- “
“‘Please, love’.”
“What?”
“The last thing that I actually remember is you saying that. And then I didn’t see you for a week.” Morse says - more an observation than an accusation.
“I did come. To the hospital, that is.” He reached across and took a few chips off Morse’s plate, “The first day you were in there you were unconscious, or sleeping maybe, but I was there.”
“You didn’t come after that?”
“I didn’t go home before I came to see you. I don’t know how much you remember, but your neck…” Peter trailed off for a moment, staring at something only he could see. He shook his head, “My hands, my shirt - they were- there was blood everywhere and everytime I looked at you I thought you were dead, Dev. Everytime I looked at you, all I could see was you dead in that barn, or in the ambulance or-”
“Okay, okay. I understand. It’s just- I wish you had come to see me.”
“Right, well I'll remember that for next time you nearly die.”
“Knowing me that won't be too long.”
~~~
Peter could smell smoke when he woke up. It wasn’t often that Morse smoked - he hated the taste and the way the smell lingered, but on those rare occasions that he did, Peter liked to watch. It was nice to see a slightly more human side to him, though he created a rather lachrymose picture.
The duvet pooled wonkily around Endeavour’s waist, the bleak streetlights and stray sunlight trapped in the raindrops on the window making a dirty, blurred halo that illuminated his bruised torso and bounced off his curls, shredding Peter's heart.
“I’m still not going to vanish.” Endeavour croaked. Peter sat up against the headboard and plucked the half finished cigarette from Morse’s fingers, tugging Endeavour on top of him.
Peter ghosted his fingers across Morse’s shoulders, up towards the scabbed wound and back down again.
Endeavour shifted, pushing his face further into Peter’s neck.
Peter watched the cigarette burning down to the filter.
“Make sure you put that out,” Morse mumbled into Peter’s skin, and he was asleep again before Peter had lit another cigarette, blowing smoke as if it would take his discomfort as it went. It didn’t.
He couldn’t help but notice how fragile, how still, Morse looked and his mind helpfully supplied images of him bleeding out in that barn again, over and over and over until he almost convinced himself that this was a dream and Morse had died, that Peter had been too slow, too weak.
Peter’s free hand had still been tracing idle patterns across Morse’s freckled shoulders, so he guided his hand to the wound on Endeavour’s neck, ghosting his fingers over the shooting star and through a constellation of freckles. His pulse beat steadily under Peter's fingers.
Peter took a shuddering breath and let sleep take him once more.
~~~
It was late afternoon when Morse next woke. There was a cool breeze pushing through his flat - Peter had opened the window to air out the smoke - and the breeze carried the smell of slightly burnt toast, thick butter, and a palpable undercurrent of loving concern.
“You should eat something, Dev.”
“We should go for a walk later.”
For now, they sat, fingers intertwined on top of the tiny table. Peter’s fingers twitched as if to hold tighter. Endeavour tightened his grip a little.
“I’m not going anywhere, love.”