Work Text:
Morse doesn't know who he expected to find at his doorstep. Someone looking to do him in - very likely, at this point. Joan, with some choice words for him or perhaps grave news - possibly. Peter Jakes? Never in a million years. But there he is, in the flesh, like he hasn't aged a bit, grinning at him as if Morse should've expected this.
"Wotcha", Peter says, taking a drag of his cigarette. "Glad I had the right door. May I come in?"
"By all means", Morse says, unable to think of anything else. He steps back and lets Peter in; Peter carefully lifts his suitcase up the step before turning to close the door behind himself. They're left standing in the hall in somewhat inappropriately close quarters, but neither of them finds it in themselves to move.
"So", Morse says.
"So", Peter says. "It's not all buried, is it. Or… was , but isn't."
"No", Morse says. "I'm going to get to the bottom of it. For Pete's sake. For…"
He can't look at Peter as he trails off. It feels too intimate when Morse doesn't even know where they stand with each other right now. Peter doesn't push or comment on it, just tilting his head, looking at Morse. Morse clears his throat.
"How did you know?" Morse asks.
"Oxford Mail", Peter says. "Hope keeps up with the news, I take a peek at the sports section every once in a while. Awfully expensive to get, but she thinks it's worth it."
"And…" Morse starts, but stops, realising how foolish it'd sound to ask if Peter finds it worth it.
"I've been on a plane for ten hours", Peter says. "And a bus for two. Would you happen to know of anyplace with a bed?"
The last question is pointed. Morse sighs. If Peter's come all this way with the intention of getting justice done after all these years, he's not going to turn him away. Not after everything. Even after everything.
"I do have a bed", Morse says. "But I - Peter, we can't go back to this. Last time…"
"She knows", Peter says, and Morse is taken aback.
"She knows what?"
"All of it", Peter says. "I'm often sure I don't deserve her; she disagrees. But secretly I'm so, so, glad for it. She doesn't mind. And if you don't believe me, you could ask her. I'll have to phone her anyway to let her know I've arrived."
Morse rubs at his eyes. He knows it might not be good for them to fall back into this, but at this point, he doesn't find it in himself to care. There's not much to lose now, is there, when he's almost died once already and more of that will be coming his way soon enough. He sighs, motioning for Jakes to make his way further into the house, picking up his suitcase to carry it up the stairs despite any protests.
"Why not?" Peter asks again, and Morse has no proper answer but to take another swig of his drink.
"It doesn't have to be forever ", Peter says. "Just see how you like it, and if you don't, hop on the first plane back. It could be so easy for you."
Morse frowns.
"For us", Peter adds, and there it is - the promise of more lurking somewhere beneath the words.
"I'll think about it", Morse says. He has a lot of other things to think about, and Peter knows it, but it's worth it to say it - just to make him smile.
When Morse opens his eyes and manages to look through the hazy remnants of anesthesia, Peter's already there. He agrees to mind the house for him for a bit, because of course he does; Morse tries to ask him whether he's even thought about his return ticket, but Peter just smiles exasperatedly, leaving Morse confused as to whether he's managed to utter the words aloud. Naturally Peter's there to bring him home once the hospital releases him; naturally, Morse protests, pointing out that he's gotten through worse without anyone playing nursemaid for him, but he gives up quickly enough after Jakes gives him a withering look.
It all comes spilling down Morse's lips that night as soon as they've carefully settled into bed, working around both of their sharp angles to avoid upsetting the wound. It must be because of all that he swallowed down at the wedding. Remarkably, Peter takes no offense to any of it: he listens with wide eyes as he hears what happened to the boy he once knew, the one whose death he's carried on his conscience for years for nothing, but after Morse is finished, all that comes out is a frustrated, wavering sigh. Peter breathes in deep and blows a cloud of smoke into their faces - thick and unforgiving like London fog - before he can speak. Morse's eyes sting: he's not sure what for, but the way Peter's have watered doesn't help.
"He wouldn't understand", Peter says, surprisingly quietly for how sharp his tone is. "You don't look at things the same unless you grew up in the gutter like I did."
"He's not a bad man", Morse offers weakly. That stands true even though he's not sure what kind of man Thursday is. A family man, he supposes.
"The world's full of passable men", Peter says. He picks out the cigarette from between his lips and offers it to Morse; Morse has no chance to protest before it's in his mouth. The corner of Peter's mouth quirks up into a strange sort of half-smile, and Morse sighs, indulging him. He really mostly smokes in bed, which makes the habit doubly bad, but Peter obviously doesn't mind.
"I've made my peace with that", Peter says, running his fingers up Morse's forearm. "I'm not that person anymore - not vulnerable to whether someone else is decent or… or a monster, or something in between. Even if he thinks the lives of the likes of us have no value, deep down, he'll never forget Pete's face - that's enough comeuppance. But I might be able to start forgetting now."
Peter pushes himself up by his forearms, looking down at Morse with a real smile on his face.
"No more nightmares", he whispers, and he's almost giddy with it, perhaps a little shakily so. "No more what-ifs. I was so weak, and yet -"
"You were a child", Morse says softly. "It couldn't have been your fault no matter what."
"I'm still working on that thought", Peter says. "It'll come in time, I'm sure. But God, Morse, I'm finally free ."
He plucks the cigarette out of Morse's mouth and kisses him, rough, ecstatic, his fingers closing around Morse's wrist, and Morse doesn't resist. He does frown as Peter pulls away.
"It's on my conscience too", Morse says. "Not just his. I'm keeping justice from being done by keeping his secret, I'm -"
"Like you kept mine", Peter says. "For years, without forcing me to testify, without trying to dig anything out of me. You know, in a world where everyone's out for themselves and their own blood, you're a very rare thing, Morse."
Morse doesn't know what to say to that. Maybe it's because of what everyone says - he has no family, no ties that bind. At least not ones that anyone else would think important. Peter must see the shadow that frustration casts onto Morse's face, because he leans close, lips brushing against his ear.
"I'll make you forget for a bit", Peter whispers. "If you'd like."
And, like he's done so many times before, Peter does - slowly, carefully, like he means it.
It's actually Morse who says it in the end. Peter hasn't prodded after the wedding, and for a moment, Morse is afraid that the offer no longer stands; but as he warily brings up the possibility, Peter's eyes light up. It doesn't take them long to settle on a date. The most nerve-wracking part of it is having to call Mrs Peter Jakes, first name Hope; but she's perfectly kind to Morse over the phone, giving him hope that maybe it isn't an altogether doomed endeavour. ( Ha .)
Their last day in Oxford is sunny, bright - almost like the old days. Morse grins as he locks up his suitcase, getting up off the floor to stand next to Peter where he's looking out the window. Morse wraps an arm around Peter's shoulders, leaning against him; he can allow himself that, at this point.
"You sure you don't want to help me pack up the entire house?" Morse asks. "For old times' sake?"
"If you're up for making several round trips over the Atlantic", Peter says. "In the car. I wonder if the Jag'll even fit two bags, it seems so… decorative."
"Careful how you speak about her", Morse says, but takes Peter's hand regardless. "We'll be fine."
Peter squeezes his hand, and Morse - encouraged by the sun and the way it makes him think of different times, when the stakes were just as high but the game felt cleaner, when DS Jakes' pettiness and his petty tips to the newspapers were the dirtiest play he had to worry about - leans in to kiss him.
He'll be back in due time, he's sure. He's not as enamored by the wild outdoors as Peter is, and he's sure he'll miss the satisfaction of a well-cracked case eventually. But for a while, just enough for the dust to settle, he'll go somewhere else. And everything will be new by the time he returns, even if it's after just a few months - a different street lamp will be busted, a shop will have closed, there will be new constables hired in and some familiar faces will have departed - and maybe that'll be for the best. By that time, he'll be a new man too.