This fic would not be online without my awesome Betas. My deepest thanks to Mud_Lark for her assistance and comments which improved this fic a thousand times. All my gratitude to Penny (TimeLord98) who rectified meticulously all my mistakes and turned them into proper 1960s English, and to AstridContraMundum who also did a stellar job of Beta-ing my nefarious murders of Queen's English (commas, typos, and outlandish wording).

What went on before: All you need to know is that Joan didn't leave Oxford after the Wessex Bank heist. Morse gave Joan shelter and let her rest and recover from her ordeal, then Dorothea Frazil offered her a job as an archivist.

When I concluded the previous fic, I never thought I'd write a sequel. However, it left some unresolved questions that begged to be addressed. So, here it is!

This fic was much more difficult to write than an AU Coda from Joan's POV, as the characters had a mind of their own. (Knowing Morse, it's no surprise that he would be difficult!) Besides, not being involved in the case, Joan had to have a much more minor role in the events of Harvest. I do hope that her coming-of-age journey is still true to her character and that this fic will continue fittingly this AU series.

'The Fool is a symbol of the soul's journey. It stands for change.'

'Lovely shade of orange,' Dorothea Frazil says with a twinkle in her eyes. 'It goes well with the green stripe on your neckline.'

The Oxford Mail editor-in-chief's reflection suddenly appears in the mirror behind Joan's. Joan starts; so absorbed is she on her task that she hadn't heard her come into the living room. Her hand wobbles, and the lipstick Dorothea is speaking of skids over, drawing an overgrown mouth like a clown's over Joan's upper lip. She lets out an expletive, and without another word, Dorothea exhumes a hanky from her pocket and hands it to her over her shoulder.

'Thanks,' says Joan, a little flustered, as the red-orange shade smears the once-white cotton. 'I think so, too.'

Concentrating, Joan begins anew, and this time, lipstick underlines her cupid's bow perfectly. It won't stay that way for long, she hopes. She'll find a way to entice Morse to kiss it away before he takes her back to her actual abode. Not that it should take a considerable effort. There isn't a part of her face that Endeavour hasn't already explored meticulously.

Reflected in the mirror, Dee Frazil's narrowed eyes note Joan's self-assured smile, and she laughs more openly. 'The big night, is it?'

Satisfied with her appearance, Joan turns around and looks at her hostess and friend with a question in her eyes.

The older woman takes a step back and gives her a deliberate once-over. 'Lovely. But I already said that, didn't I?' Her eyes travel the length of Joan's dress. 'Orange dress with green and white stripes, white tights, white Mary Janes. Hmmm…you went for the overall "Summer of Love Look," as Fanny would say.'

'Wasn't that the heading of her latest fashion column?' Joan laughs. 'It was…inspirational!'

'Hmm. You've been reading the Mail.'

'Couldn't do otherwise! I work there, remember?' Joan tosses back.

Dorothea lets out a small laugh. 'The pretty puppy has a bite!' She throws her jacket on the nearest armchair, then sits down and takes a cigarette from the pack placed on the side table. 'So, is that it?'

'That what?' Joan suddenly frowns, moving closer to the mirror hung over the mantel, and wipes out an infinitesimal smear of mascara from her lid.

'Your young man meeting your parents for dinner. Long overdue, don't you think?'

Young man. The time-honoured expression still creates a sparkling, exultant glow around Joan's heart.

'Morse already knows them,' she asserts in her best matter-of-fact voice, 'and they know him.'

They do, and that's the crux of the problem.

Maybe it would be easier if…things…had proceeded more smoothly. But Morse's poisoning by a crazy groupie, then Mr. Bright's sudden indisposition and the subsequent heavy workload piling up on Dad's shoulders have postponed Endeavour's…err…official introduction to the Thursdays. It was never the proper time for it.

Sure, Mum and Dad know about them. Morse is aware that they know, but, after much prompting, he reluctantly communicated to Joan that DI Thursday never ever alluded to it during their workday. Not once. Dad never mentioned it to her either, even if he was an unwitting witness to their…coming together at Crawley Hospital. And Mum once told her in a quick aside that 'Morse needed fattening up,' yet only her softened gaze gave more import to what would have been previously just a random observation.

Actually, Joan sometimes believes that she's the only one who isn't really conscious of their still new relationship.

Since their re-enactment of Sleeping Beauty's awakening—with a lovely reverse role playing—her occasional dinners with Morse—Endeavour—have morphed into dates—real dates with all the trimmings!—and delightful outings, made even more pleasurable by glorious weather. Leisurely strolls and picnics on the banks of the Isis, a game of snooker punctuated with laughter—she's truly hopeless—passionate discussions about everything under the sun from pop music to politics (Endeavour is the kind of man who wants people to agree with him wholeheartedly or not at all) and candlelit diners with blushing-inducing whispers are some of the reminiscences treasured in Joan's heart.

Still, every so often, she has to pinch herself. Does she deserve him? Will it keep going on? They've both dodged so many near disasters that she still feels her way into their quiet happiness. It doesn't seem…permanent, somehow. What could a man like Endeavour Morse find in a woman like Joan Thursday? She's so… ordinary while he is the opposite: brilliant, learned, gentle, considerate—the perfect gentleman. The kind of man she never thought that she would fall in love with.

Today of all days, Joan fears that only the English weather is on their side.

Which is not saying much.

The doorbell rings, right on time. Joan checks off 'punctuality' in the list of Morse's qualities, but she already knew that from all the previous occasions where she's opened her parents' door to invite him in.

This time, he has no shyness stepping through Dorothea's doorway. Miss Frazil had made herself scarce while Joan was lost in her thoughts, and again, Joan thanks whatever God exists for gifting her with such a considerate friend. Tonight, one less moment of awkwardness is a gift she won't look at in the mouth.

Looking dapper in a dark grey suit she hasn't seen before, Morse smiles a little self-consciously at her. 'Ready?'

'Ready.' She picks up her coat and handbag, yells, 'Dorothea, I'm off!' and closes the door behind her.

Morse looks quizzically at her brand new dress, her first purchase as an independent woman. Joan smiles mischievously and pirouettes around him. 'Like it?'

'It is…very…orange.' He still looks surprised, but adds gently, 'But it quite suits you.'

The colour even verges on blood orange under the late afternoon sun, when they leave the shade cast by Miss Frazil's house.

From the corner of her eyes, she sees Morse wince involuntarily. He focuses on Joan's animated face with resolve as she explains in a dogmatic manner, 'That's the colour to wear at the end of summer. Because of the autumnal equinox.' Her mock-serious façade crumbles before his bafflement, and she giggles. 'At least, I have it on good authority from The Oxford Mail fashion reporter.'

'Autumnal equinox, "day and night, light and dark in perfect harmony,"' utters Morse, seemingly quoting something.

'Housman, is it?'

'No.' Morse's mouth curls up deprecatingly. 'Not trite enough for Housman. I have it on good authority,—'

He holds the Jag door open as Joan slips into the passenger seat. A courtesy that she'd once labelled as quaint, but which is now delightful to her. Morse closes the door, walks around the car, gets in, and doesn't finish his sentence before switching the ignition on.

'—an inhabitant of Bramford,' he finally discloses. His eyebrows furrow. 'Delightful village. Celtic rituals, Mother Goddess worshippers, descendants of the Pendle witches aplenty and even a free tarot reading offer. No answers to my queries, though.'

Joan shakes her head disbelievingly. '"Curiouser and curiouser." Were John Steed and Mrs. Peel around?'

Her joke falls flat. Morse casts a swift, puzzled glance at her, so Joan goes on, 'What were you doing there, of all places?'

She doesn't truly care about the details of the case. But knowing that he will probably offer some kind of an explanation hadn't yet lost its thrill. Morse would never betray confidentiality, but Joan usually garners some interesting snippets of his workdays, and she now knows that thinking aloud before her is an unexpected pleasure for him. Sure, he keeps creepy crawlies and assorted shadows tightly locked away so she won't bump into them, but it doesn't mean that he cannot let some of her brightness beam into some of the dark corners of his daily grind.

Suddenly, one interesting bit stamps itself on her brain, and she exclaims, 'Tarot reading?'

Joan glances at his profile. Morse is focused on the road, slowing slightly as they near a bend. His face betrays nothing, but his hands grasp the steering wheel a little more tightly than necessary.

'Well, what did she tell you?' Joan probes. Something is upsetting him. He should typically sneer at it.

'She?' he stalls.

Yes, something's decidedly bothering him.

'Come on, Morse! Witches are supposedly of the female sort.' A lock of hair falls back on Joan's brow and she brushes it decisively away. 'What did she say?'

'She said nothing,' he finally divulges. 'I declined it.'

'Oh! Aren't you curious about the future?'

'Isn't what we're supposed to ascertain tonight?' His foot presses the brake pedal and the Jag stops in front of the Thursdays' house.

Unconvinced, their daughter snorts, repeating like a mantra, 'No, we're having dinner at my parents.'

Morse turns off the car and looks into her eyes. 'Isn't that the same?' There's some edginess under his rhetorical question.

'Endeavour…' Joan's hand rises towards his cheek, fingers reaching out for a caress. He evades it, turning his head sharply away then grins at her with a touch of contrition. 'Sorry. I didn't mean…'

She feels nervous, too, but she wouldn't admit it for all the tea in China. 'You know them, they know you. What's the snag?'

'That's it. They believe they already do.' He breaks off, sighing. 'At least, they already know the worst.'

Joan bursts out laughing. At the sound of her merriment, Morse's brow clears. He takes Joan's hand and raises it back to his cheekbone, completing her interrupted gesture, and her light stroke is both forgiveness and reassurance.

'I was on a wild goose chase for a missing man. His glasses turned up, but the corpse was two thousand years old,' he explains at long last, evading the sensitive topic.

'Then the answer to this riddle is obvious: you've got a Time Traveller on your hands!' she jokes.

'It would be the lesser of two evils.'

'And the other one would be?'

Endeavour doesn't reply. Following his gaze, Joan lowers her hand and seizes her handbag.

The front door of her parents' is now open and, in the gap, Fred Thursday's unmistakable silhouette is waiting for them. Morse's answer will have to wait.

Joan doesn't know what to expect. The etiquette book of introducing boyfriends in the Thursday household is a little disused. The latest blokes stood shaking and stammering under a volley of questions fired by her Dad and never came back. But they merely came to pick her up for some dancing and a few drinks. Nothing serious; not like tonight.

She darts glances at the man walking at her side on the garden path. No observer could tell that it wasn't another of his usual comings and goings from the house at an off hour from his usual pick-ups, but she knows otherwise. That's not Morse who's invited in; it's Endeavour. And it bloody worries him. He's not expected to dodge questions but to answer them.

When they reach the door, Win is standing next to her husband. Joan hugs them a little more tightly than she usually does. Greetings fly back and forth—Mum's wreathed in smiles, Dad's a little more guarded, Joan notices. Win then involuntarily proceeds to underline the unusualness of the evening when she insists that Morse call her by her nickname. He acquiesces, but the syllable goes through his mouth with some diffidence.

Still, drinks and dinner pass smoothly. They chew on excellent food and pleasant small talk; of all the likely innocuous topics, only the weather isn't discussed. It's afterwards that things get rougher.

They are in the living room, lingering over a cup of tea—'I don't go much for coffee in the evening,' Endeavour politely declined—when it comes to a head.

Fred Thursday's match is hovering above his pipe when he asks with deceptive casualness, 'So you're the "bloke knocked up in a heap by Joan's fatal beauty"?' His emphasis makes it clear he's quoting someone.

Joan inhales abruptly, and immediately a sip of her tea goes the wrong way down. She begins to cough. Of all the lowest tricks…

On the receiving end of Fred Thursday's phrasing, Morse scowls. He didn't expect it that way.

Neither did Joan. To have one of her jokes flung back at Endeavour is a low blow on Dad's part. He must now be aware that she was lying through her teeth regarding her—then—whereabouts. But again, when it comes to his daughter, Dad never plays fair. If looks could kill, the front garden would be littered by the corpses of her previous suitors.

Fred Thursday raises his eyes from his task then takes a satisfied pull at his pipe, expectation written all over his face.

'You may put it like that, sir,' Morse answers with a tiny amused puff, outwardly unruffled.

'Were you also the "bloke taking her in"?'

Fred Thursday's brutal progress is relentless; just like a tank. Morse's eyes flash something in riposte, but it's gone so swiftly that Joan cannot really define it. He looks squarely into her father's eyes.

Unstoppable force meets unmoveable object.

She hates to see the two men she loves the most butting heads, so she exclaims, 'Don't be so medieval, Dad! It's 1967, not 1067!' Her hands flutter hastily in her eagerness to prove her point, and tea sloshes into her saucer.

'We didn't raise you to become some bloke's fancy piece!' her father snaps back.

This time, at his unaccustomed ruthlessness, Joan's sharp intake of breath mingles with Win's exclamation of hurt disbelief. Morse's face blanches, his widening eyes showing how much the indignity a father can inflict comes also as an affront. Then, sheer haughtiness fills them, and his lips part.

But before he can reply, Joan does. 'Dad—,' she begins with as much calm as she can manage, then she pauses. It won't be any use to deny it, so she takes the bull by the horns. 'What if he did take me in?'

For Fred Thursday, her defiant admission isn't anything new. However Win's eyes betray her consternation at this flagrant disregard of all she taught her daughter. Joan has no choice now; she must explain. Probably what her father wanted. Nothing can hold a candle to his efficiency, although this is a low blow.

'You should knight Morse, instead of berating him!' Joan affirms hotly. 'If he hadn't been here, I would have gone away!' In Morse's eyes, a fleeting echo of his previous anguish flickers anew, bringing to her mind his flat despair when he confronted her that fateful morning. From her Dad's sharpened look, neither does he miss it. 'Probably for good,' she rams home.

'Whatever for?' demands Fred Thursday.

Joan takes the time to ponder it. She never really had a perfect answer to that question, but now is perhaps the time to put all this behind her. Definitively.

'I don't really know,' she admits at last. 'I had just enough to pay train fare. Otherwise…'

Otherwise, with that lost waif look of hers, she could have fallen prey to any bloke willing to take her in. It would have been the lowest point of her life. She had no place to go, not enough tin for a hotel room, even for a few nights. No immediate means to support herself. No back-up plan. It was a godsend that she keeled over at Morse's feet when he went after her.

'I just wanted out of my skin,' Joan finally puts into words.

Endeavour puts his arm around her shoulders, drawing her nearer to him on the couch. Her cheek briefly leans on his shoulder, and once more, she feels his tenderness shelter her like a feathery cloak. What sizzles between them is all that matters, truly.

She briefly lays her right hand on his knee and inhales deeply. 'I needed time to…to find myself. Morse gave me that. In spades. That's all.'

And that's all her parents ever need to know. The rest is between the two of them.

'If you really must know, Morse didn't lay a finger on me. Except...' She laughs drily at her father's thunderous look. 'Except for the time he picked me up from the pavement!' Her tone turns earnest. 'Come on! Morse is the kind of copper who sees young ladies safely home. Didn't you know that already?'

'Not this time,' reproves Thursday.

At that, Morse's hand faintly twitches on Joan's shoulder. She covers it with her own and laces her fingers through his.

'So that's the trouble, isn't it? Dad still wants to control everything,' Joan considers at first, her conscience prompting her to concede that her parents were just worried sick about her.

Still, she can't be hampered by it right now, so she goes on the defensive once more.

'How did you know?' she adds heatedly, 'I asked Morse not to say anything. He gave me his word.'

She doesn't have to look at Endeavour for confirmation. She knows he kept it. He's that kind of bloke.

'He kept it,' confirms Fred Thursday.

Unwisely, Morse butts in. 'It wasn't my place to say. Moreover—'

Wrong move. Morse's honesty sets her father afire again. He glares at Morse, and under the force of those narrowed, unremitting eyes, Morse swallows audibly and checks himself. His fleeting look at Win discloses that she'll be no help. Her mum seems even more upset than before, and it's visibly more distressing for him.

'You could have said you'd seen her! That she was all right!' Fred Thursday's voice rings with righteous indignation. 'Strange did.'

Joan raises such incredulous eyes at her father that he counters, 'Oh, yes, my girl, he did! He saw you enter Morse's bedsit.'

Yet, the sudden tension in the room isn't directed at her, but at Morse. It sets everyone quivering. Still, both men could hardly have been stonier, faces calm but bodies taut.

Morse's eyes find Fred Thursday's and search no further. 'I gave her my word,' he repeats quietly, and that's it.

It's only because Joan scrutinises her father keenly that she sees faint approval flash across his face. Was he testing his bagman?

Fred Thursday takes his pipe from his mouth and considers it intently. 'Well,' he finally drops, 'Maybe it was for the best.'

Win's hands, which were clasped tightly on her knees, relax, and she nervously rubs them together. She looks at her husband with a hopeful eye. He nods at her with a tiny smile, and she smiles tentatively back.

They have reached a point where there is nothing else to do but pause and draw a deep breath.

'We didn't come here for a row,' Joan declares, somehow unwilling to lower her guard. 'Whatever you may think, it's our lives, not yours.'

Morse puts a restraining hand on her arm. 'Joan, it's alright. Your father had the right to know.' Their eyes lock. 'He has,' he repeats more compellingly, and she grudgingly nods.

As if it were licence for probing further, Thursday asks, 'Then, what are your intentions regarding my daughter?'

This time, he really does it. Morse looks as gobsmacked as he can be, and Joan feels so furious that she's robbed of speech. It this isn't going to send Morse packing, she doesn't know what will.

But Endeavour rises to the occasion. He answers quietly, 'Sir, that's a question for Joan, actually. I won't do anything that she wouldn't like.'

All eyes suddenly converge on her.

Joan winces. What her parents want for her is so bloody obvious: the engagement party, Uncle Charlie's blue jokes at the wedding, a two-up two-down on some new estate, every house the same, with a pram in the hall. Not only is she supposed to acquiesce meekly, but also to drag poor Morse on this straight, respectable path.

Well, that's not the future she has in mind.

Not for a while, at any rate.

She wants to live to the full, to find out what she's made for and achieve it. To enjoy her relationship with Morse without gluing any label to it.

She won't be pressured into anything, even something she really does want, she realises with a start.

She also recognises that her mounting exasperation comes more from her father broaching the subject so openly than from her uncertainty about Morse. If he had not been christened 'Endeavour,' 'Dependable' would have suited him as perfectly. He'll wait for her to make up her mind, she's dead sure of it.

'It's early days yet,' she says carefully. 'We've been dating for…what? About a month?'

And at her restrained answer, all light goes out from Morse's eyes. She sees the blood drain from his face, leaving dejection in its wake, before he swiftly masters himself and covers it with a courteous, bland look.

'But it's…not casual,' Joan hastens to add. However, her late addition doesn't seem to make a big difference to Morse.

Still, her father insists. 'Happy, are you?' he asks Joan pointedly.

She nods cautiously, as if admitting it out loud might make it all disappear. Her curt answer satisfies him somehow, because he settles back more fully in his armchair. Win's reaction is more spontaneous: she smiles at them so widely that her eyes crinkle at the corners.

After that, the evening ends fairly quickly. When they leave, Joan feels her father's meditative gaze weighing on them and sees her mother's warm and compassionate eyes resting on Morse. 'Joan is difficult,' Win seems to commiserate. Nonetheless, they haven't expounded on her reluctance. But her wanting to take things one step at a time should reassure them, surely?

While he drives her home—to Dorothea's, Morse is at his most taciturn. Not a silence springing from ease, but stillness that tugs at her heart. Her attempts at conversation are skilfully deflected with an infuriating politeness, and they part without deciding on their next rendezvous.

Morse's face is courteous and quite unreadable; Joan can't guess what is going on in the mind behind it.

And the orange shade on her lips doesn't get mussed up at all.