That Saved a Wretch Like Me: Chapter One
Another request from my lovely routine! This time for a five times-one time fic with Thursday and Morse. These two are my absolute favorite detective bromance, so I hope you enjoy as much as I do!
In the dead of winter, the coldest winter in ten years to ever hit Oxford, the heating at Cowley CID broke.
Everyone was suffering, but Morse was actually starting to feel a bit sick from his exposure to the cold, inside and out. The other constables and sergeants drank endless cups of tea and cocoa, knocking off work whenever they could to head home and rest in the warmth. Morse, however, did no such thing.
Used to working long hours, anyway (mostly because of his work as bagman while still having general duties), he was spending long hours in the unheated station, which only got colder when everyone had gone home for the evening. If Morse wasn't so horrified by gore, he might be amused by the mental image he got of his fingers cracking off like icicles as he sat at his typewriter. His fingers were almost the same iridescent blue as they were, anyway. He had considered buying gloves, but he always forgot.
One day, wrapped in his winter coat and shivering badly, Morse couldn't take it any longer. He felt like he was about to be physically ill he was shivering so badly. Morse left his desk to take advantage of the hot beverages served in the station. When he got to the kettle, however, he found it empty, the pipes frozen. Morse groaned in frustration and wandered back to his desk, jealous of Jakes, who was contentedly sipping coffee so hot, it was still steaming, who was smirking at him.
In fact, Jakes stopped smirking once Morse had turned his back. The DC was looking pale and ashen, and even Jakes, who had to admit his jealousy of Morse, didn't have the heart to jibe him. While More was usually a fast typist, fingers flying over the keys, today he could barely get through a line in under a minute. Jakes looked away, not in the habit of looking after his fellow policemen, and secretly hoping Thursday would notice.
Thursday's office was slightly warmer than the rest of the station, thanks to a convenient window that got quite a bit of sun during the day. And he had his pipe, which warmed him better than anything. He had been lost in his musings, having just finished up his lunch, when he noticed Morse walking back to his desk looking quite miserable. Thursday sighed. He had to admit that he was worried about the lad. Morse's slight frame couldn't hold weight well, and he was looking quite a bit thinner of late. Thursday hadn't ever seen the boy touch food, though Morse's stomach never voiced complaint that he could hear. Being the father that he was, Thursday had already taken Morse under his wing. What was one more kid to look after? And Morse certainly needed it, poor lad. He'd just been looking for the right moment to intervene. Seemed his time was now.
Thursday rose, joints creaking in the cold, and opened his door. A cold rush of air hit him, and it occurred to him just how cold it was out here. He noticed Morse hunched over and shivering in his chair, unable to even type now. The lad's lips and fingers were blue, even, from the chill, and Thursday felt fatherly concern bite him in the arse.
Thursday strode up to Morse's desk. The slender DC looked up, his teeth chattering badly, and sat up a bit straighter, stammering out a hesitant, "Sir." His 's' sounded like a snake's hiss, he was trembling so badly.
"Come on lad, up you come," Thursday said in his fatherly tone; gruff that would not be disobeyed, but gentle and welcoming all the same. "You could use something warming. Can't have my bagman turning into a snowman, can I?"
Morse smiled weakly and stood stiffly, ready to follow Thursday's lead as always. As they walked through the station, Morse noticed the stares were slightly more sympathetic than they usually were when he acted as Thursday's bagman. Even Bright, sitting stiff as if he was frozen in his office, nodded approvingly. Morse was too cold to be confused or touched. He followed behind Thursday, minding the ice on the steps of the CID.
Thursday led them to a pub. He sat Morse down in a booth closest to the radiator and ordered a round of whiskey. That would be a start in warming the poor lad.
After Thursday left, Morse huddled into an exhausted heap, still shivering even as he was blasted with hot air. He felt cold all the way into his bones, and the heat hardly seemed to be helping. He only realized he'd dozed off when Thursday touched his shoulder and passed him a glass of whiskey. "Here you are, lad," he said gently. "Get that down you."
Morse nodded and tried to sit up a little straighter. Holding the mug with both hands, he lifted it to his lips and drank. The sting of whiskey in his throat helped immensely, and he felt the warmth spread throughout him as it reached his stomach. He couldn't help giving a soft sigh of contentment as he eagerly drained the rest. As he set the mug down, he felt better. The heat was finally starting to sink into his bones, and the whiskey gave him a pleasant buzz. "Thank you, Sir," he said, looking a bit sleepy to Thursday's trained eye. "I owe you one."
Thursday raised a hand in casual acknowledgement. "Another round?" He asked.
Morse nodded, reaching into his pocket. "Easy, lad," Thursday replied with a chuckle. "Just owe me two and sit still a bit, won't you?"
Morse nodded, unable to complain, and Thursday wondered as he walked to the bar when exactly he'd started thinking of Morse as something of a second son.