For SinisteredGirl, who made me want to write. Your enthusiasm is infectious.
Disclaimer: Endeavour and all of its characters etc do not belong to me but to Colin Dexter, Russell Lewis and the glorious people at ITV. The two-part title is lifted from the awesome "Little Black Submarines" by The Black Keys. So please don't sue me.
Summary: In hindsight, the most ridiculous thing about it all is that it started off so innocuously. Frendeavour.
A/N: So, this fic pretty much exists because I thought the image of Endeavour tripping over anything would be unbearably cute and hilarious (and yes, my brain conjured said mental image for absolutely no reason at all) and it just seemed to escalate from there. Its set after the last episode and there are some spoilers for Morse's family related stuff, just so you are warned.
This is intended to be a series, but then a lot of things I write are, and seem to tail off. Also most of this was written on the bus to or from work so if its a bit choppy, apologies.
But I digress. Here is some Frendeavour, reluctant though it may appear at first - and whoever coined that term, you are an absolute darling - for your perusal, my lovelies. It will be slash at a later date; this one chapter can probably be read platonically, though it is heavily hinted at. I hope you enjoy :)
Reviews and concrit are love, for which I am eternally grateful. Flames are used to keep me warm in winter months, then thoroughly ignored.
Onwards, then!
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Treasure Maps, Fallen Trees
Operator Please, Call Me Back When It's Time
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In hindsight, the most ridiculous thing about it all is that it started off so innocuously.
It was a Friday.
Actually, it had been a good Friday for DI Thursday; one might even have called it a bloody good Friday because, for the first time in lord only knows how long, at five o'clock his desk had been clear. No murderers on the loose; no paperwork to file or suspects to harass; no Morse with his tail between his legs having been reprimanded for carefully ignoring orders again; no Bright breathing down his neck..though those two were rather heavily inter-connected. No stress, no anxiety, just the sweet satisfaction of a job well done and the weekend on the horizon.
Damn it all, it had been The Perfect Friday.
He should have touched wood the minute the thought entered the periphery of his consciousness.
He'd stood up, indulged in a rather undignified, bone-cracking, joint-popping stretch, given his office a final once-over and left in a thoroughly pleasant mood.
At just after 5pm on a Friday night, the station was unsurprisingly sparse; those left were trickling out quietly, discreetly, hoping not to be caught by a superior with 'just one more thing'. Of those still lingering behind, only one was still sat at his desk, typing away, oblivious.
Typical Morse.
Thursday had stood at his bagman's shoulder for a good couple of minutes before his presence was even acknowledged; at which point the young man looked up with squinting, blood-shot eyes, flinched, oh!, then offered a gentle half-smile and,
"Was there something you needed, sir?"
"Isn't it time you got off? Do whatever it is you young people do for fun these days?
The expression on Morse's face - part amused, part wistful, with just a dash of confusion - said it all. Thursday had heaved a sigh, rolled his shoulders in lieu of rolling his eyes, issued the order,
"Come on, then." Ignoring the young man's clear bemusement, he had started walking, one destination in mind.
Pub.
They drank in comfortable silence; it's one of the things Thursday appreciates most about the younger man's company, in fact, the easy nature of their - their what? Their working relationship? Their friendship?
Yes, they probably are friends, in their own psuedo-non-commital, roundabout sort of way. Regardless, the innate lack of small talk had been refreshing; there is something so direct, so honest about Morse - though he may be awkward, socially inept, all difficult angles rather than smooth edges, he is always honest.
In any case, Thursday had been relaxed and Morse had looked even moreso - which in and of itself was a rare sight - tie loosened, shirt untucked and sleeves rolled up, face, for once, not pinched with anxiety, not aged prematurely by deep worry lines and sallow skin but lightly flushed with warmth and alcohol.
He was too young, to go around looking as old as Thursday felt. It had been a...quiet privilege to see him so unguarded; to see him look his age.
The young man had even caught himself talking about work, the cases they had successfully closed and the paperwork he had to finish, smiled in a youthfully coy, sheepish kind of way and suggested that they talk about something else, under the proviso that it was the weekend, after all.
They talked about Win and the kids, home and family, for a little while; or rather Thursday did, but, as he felt Morse begin to close off, still unable or unwilling to contribute, they fell to silence again.
"Thanks." It had been so abrupt and so simple a word - addressed to Morse's beer, rather than Thursday himself - but spoken so earnestly, it had seemed to mean something else entirely. Something more. Thursday hadn't intended to react quite so indignantly but the words were out of his mouth before he'd had time to consider them,
"What for?" and as a result Morse's response was muted, self-conscious, a tiny quirk of lips and an awkward half-shrug. At Thursday's insistent frown, he had eventually offered,
"For getting me out of the office?" to which the older man had huffed a laugh and leaned back in his chair, trying to play off the deeper meaning within the words and hide how humbled he suddenly felt.
"Someone has to or you'd become part of the furniture." and then gentler, "Go and get the drinks in, then."
And that's where it all went wrong.
In Morse's defence, it wasn't exactly his fault; he had a glass in each hand and no magical third limb with which to brace himself when some young idiot went charging through the pub and knocked him flying. He'd almost managed to regain his balance but for an innocent umbrella poking out from under a table – Englishmen, ever prepared for quintessential British weather – over which he tripped and went down in a flailing of gangly limbs.
It would have been comical had his head not connected with the nearest table with a sickening crack.
Thursday had been on his feet in an instant, only three long strides away; he always had to be on the alert where Morse was concerned, it seemed, even off-duty. Even so, he was still beaten to the punch, and he had been forced to quickly shelve the admittedly unprofessional surge of protective animosity aimed at the middle-aged woman gingerly patting his bagman on the chest.
"Poor lad, what a tumble! Can you hear me? Are you all right, dear?"
As soon as Thursday had crouched down beside her, she had started to back away; God only knows what expression he must have had on his face but evidently it spoke volumes.
He had chosen to patently overlook her presence.
"Morse?"
The young man had been out cold for all of five seconds before starting awake, blinking glassily at his DI and slurring,
"Wha-a-appened?"
Thursday had done his best to be delicate, turning the lad's head about to inspect the offended area whilst quite the crowd looked unabashedly on but Morse had still hissed and winced, looking mortally offended that the older man would – seemingly - hurt him on purpose.
It hadn't been bleeding; just a tender, swollen knot at the back of his skull that was sure to hurt for a few days. Still, it was enough to have him worried. Mostly because of the dazed, somewhat vacant look on the young detective's face, his pupils enlarged, skin suddenly sickly white. He'd sat Morse up slowly – who cringed a little but otherwise kept a rather stiff upper lip – patting him on the shoulder by manner of consolation.
"Just a little knock on the head, nothing to worry about."
He had managed to ease Morse into a booth and get the boy a brandy, for all the good it was likely to do. It had served to remind him just how much of the lad was skin and bone, ribs and elbows and no flesh; what he needed, Thursday had decided, was a good woman, a good meal and a good night's sleep. Not to sit alone in that dingy little bedsit, drinking his headache away.
But reality and fantasy don't often overlap, unfortunately, and if his young friend had to go back to his dingy little bedsit and drink his headache away, then so be it – but Fred Thursday was not the kind of man to let him go alone.
He'd given Morse a good ten minutes to sit, woozy and a little shaken but otherwise in tact, before he had decided that the noise and bustle of a Friday evening at the local probably wasn't helping any. Their exit had been rather slow and sedate: the fact that Morse didn't argue about leaving was sign enough of how he felt. It had been quite the walk home, with his arm hovering behind the lad's back and Morse scowling every time his foot hit the pavement and jarred his pounding head.
At the door, Morse had offered him a queer, twisted smile, garbled something along the lines of – well, thanks, for walking me, sorry for cutting the evening short, uh, give my regards to and have a good weekend, sir – and attempted to escape, but Thursday was having none of it.
"Don't be daft, Morse. Go on up and sit yourself down, I'll get a brew on." His tone had brooked no arguments; Morse had somehow managed to look weary and apprehensive and relieved, all at once.
The room had been dark, littered with black shadows and the debris of a bachelor lifestyle - or rather, Morse's particular brand of it, which consisted of half-emptied bottles of alcohol, dozens of finished puzzles, strewn records, discarded shirts and a sandwich with a single bite out of it.
Morse had taken a seat, looking vaguely nauseous but otherwise unrepentant about the state of his living space.
"What am I going to do with you?" They had both known the question was rhetorical. "Stabbed and shot and now you're trying to crack your head open. Can't take my eye off you for a second."
He'd entered the tiny kitchen to put the kettle on when the quiet words drifted through,
"Do you know, sir, the last thing my father said to me?" Thursday had stopped dead in his tracks, paralysed by both the suddenness of the forthcoming admission and the mixture of anger, resentment and plain hurt in Morse's voice. "'I never liked the police.'" The laugh that followed was hollow. "He knew he was dying. 'I never liked the police .'" Thursday had re-entered the living room, unsure what to say; luckily Morse didn't seem to care either way, haphazardly pouring himself a glass of scotch and continuing, "He didn't like me, was what he wanted to say. Some 'last words'. Joycie said I reminded him of – of my mother. I think I just didn't remind him enough of himself. Or is that the same thing? I spose it is, really." He had rubbed at his head a little, brows drawing together, drunk half his glass in one large gulp and muttered I never liked the police incredulously under his breath.
Nothing like a knock on the head to shake some truth loose, Thursday had supposed – he'd joined Morse at the table, poured himself a glass.
"I'm a good detective!" The words had incited an echo of memory; Thursday had heard them from Morse before. He'd almost appreciated the willful arrogance at that point, at being presented a side of the young man's personality that he recognised. He'd nodded agreeably, knowing better than to voice an opinion at that particular moment. "We do a good job; we help people. Don't we?"
This, he could not ignore.
"Yes. We do - you do."
"So why couldn't he muster up a - a scrap of pride on his bloody deathbed then?..Sir?"
Thursday had been lost for words, struck dumb by the raw desperation, the seething frustration that he had never quite been witness to, before. That beautiful, terrible space between love and faith and pain where family was supposed to sit had been brutally empty.
Endeavour.
Morse had stared back at him, waiting for an answer.
"Because it was already too late, lad." His voice had been rough; though the pain was not his, he had still felt it as keenly as if it had been his own. "Why offer you something when it was too late to follow through?" Thursday could see the logic: either the man really was a bitter old bastard who wanted nothing more than to hurt his son, or he had figured it better that he died while Morse was still angry – that the anger would protect him from grief, from the ache of loss. If he had found the words to voice his pride, his son would spend the rest of his life wondering whether, if he had made more of an effort, they could have...
"Perhaps." Is all Morse had said, eyes suspiciously bright in the lamplight, before quickly chasing the word down with the rest of his scotch. Thursday had been quick to remove the bottle from sight before returning to the kitchen, despite knowing the lad would likely have more stashed away. He had wanted the sparrow under his wing to open up a little for quite some time but the last thing he had wanted was for injury and alcohol to loosen its tongue.
It had felt like taking advantage and it didn't sit right.
So he had made the young detective some tea and kept him talking about lighter things – opera and crosswords and successful cases - til his eyelids began to droop. Bed: it had been an order and Morse had complied, albeit sulkily, struggled to undress while Thursday tidied paternally in order to avoid looking at young, white skin, tried instead to find some semblance of order in the chaos of the one room the lad lived in.
When Morse had settled himself, curled onto his side to avoid aggravating his sore head, no doubt, Thursday had felt a tug in his chest.
So - young.
Morse had looked so awfully young.
He had taken a chair by the bed, desperate to reach out, reach over, just – touch – but restrained himself, even though it would only have been an act of compassion, of sympathy. Thursday was old and wise enough to sense danger and he had felt it, there in that moment, with Morse's round, red-rimmed eyes on him.
He had spoken gruffly, hands clasped tightly between his knees,
"Now you sleep that off over the weekend; any trouble and you go to hospital, understood?"
He had taken Morse's hum of agreement at face value, tried for a smile and promised himself that he would call the next day, just to be sure that the lad was all right.
But as he stood to leave, Morse had sucked in a breath, swift and sharp.
In the half-light of the room, the young man's eyes had been ghostly grey, wide and pleading.
"Don't..." He had whispered, mouth stretched into an unhappy smile that quickly dissolved into a grimace. His eyes had fluttered closed, dark eye-lashes resting on ivory cheeks, and he shook his head with a disdainful sniff, too tired, too proud, too disillusioned to ask.
But Thursday had heard it all the same.
Don't leave me.
And, God forgive him, how could he refuse?
"All right." He had murmured, perching himself on the bed - and then again, softer, as if soothing an animal caught in a trap, "All right."
Long, cold fingers had searched out his in the dark, hungry for something that Thursday had not known how to give.
He could only sit silent on the bed-covers, a lost, grasping hand wrapped in his own, waiting until Morse eventually drifted into soundless sleep.
And even though he had technically done nothing wrong – just taken care of a friend, offered comfort to a concussed, lonely lad who had no one else – guilt sat heavy on his heart.