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morseverse2016-02-17 06:35 pm
anonymorse) wrote in morseverse2016-02-17 06:35 pm
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prompt post #1
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(Anonymous) 2016-02-24 10:59 pm (UTC)(link)Morse & Max Hurt/Comfort 2/?
(Anonymous) 2016-03-08 05:03 am (UTC)(link)The first day back to general duties should have been a relief. No one’s life at stake, no puzzles to solve. The only thing he was wrestling with was a hangover. Typically following a particularly challenging case he relished typing up the case notes. It appealed to his sense of order in the same way he enjoyed filling in the neat little boxes of a crossword. But this morning, those bloody typewriter keys and their clacking. Typically he found Strange’s customary coffee and bacon sandwich an endearing habit. This morning it set his stomach churning. Typically the scent of Thursday’s pipe tobacco brought a smile to his lips, today it brought only a haze to the already spinning room.
Today wasn’t typical at all. He gave up pretending that it was when just a quarter to six he found himself covertly thrusting his head between his knees and taking slow measured breaths over the bin beneath his desk hoping not to revisit last night’s pitiful supper. The nausea passed, but it was all too clear that fresh air was an immediate necessity, if only to avoid making his hangover vividly known to his colleagues.
He would have escaped without notice if Strange hadn’t intercepted him, smiling good naturedly and clapping him on the shoulder saying, “Pint, Matey? Look like you could do with one.” Truth be told, he only had thoughts of bed. But he couldn’t have slept anyhow. And Strange, stood there, brows knit in concern but trying hard to mask it with his usual ever present smile. Bless him, though. He could tell this invitation was a direct result of Strange deducing his fragile emotional state. Simply put, he was a good friend. And hair of the dog was, supposedly, a good cure. “Why not.”, he conceded.
All the while they were walking Morse became increasingly aware of the sharp, searing pain through the stitches in his side. He was far from steady but Strange was good enough to slow his pace accordingly and pretend not to notice. He mercifully showed the same kind of tact in not calling attention to his equally shaky mood and chattered on happily carrying the bulk of the conversation.
Twenty or so paces away from the pub door Morse began to wonder if Strange was going to need to carry him as well. He stopped abruptly smacked with sudden vertigo. He clapped Strange on the back in a gesture he hoped would come off as camaraderie rather than holding on for dear life.
“Steady on, Matey”, he said taking Morse by the elbow and meeting his gaze solemnly saying, “I can order you a cab instead of a beer you know. You’re looking fairly peakey. Injury acting up?”
Taking a slow breath Morse replied, “No more than to be expected. That’s exactly why I do need a drink.”
Strange looked doubtful but only hovered by his side until they were installed at a table and fortified with two pints of London’s Pride. Two pints later all small talk, which Morse was disastrous with to begin with, was exhausted. Strange suggested ordering some supper. Morse knew it was a good idea. Eventually he would have to walk home and his gait was slowed enough by the pain in his side. He could have used some food on top of that to start to sober him up. But the “hair of the dog”, contrary to what his Oxford mates may have bragged about, had been a piss-poor cure. At this point he was drinking to subdue Gull’s voice in his head that had amplified steadily throughout the day. The nausea had grown worse so he briskly declined the offer of food. He shook his head slightly and made a noncommittal gesture
“Probably best to warm something up at the flat then. Not on sergeant’s pay yet are we?” Strange chuckled only slightly bitterly. Morse did not take the invitation to usual workplace complaining. He was too busy trying to keep how ill he felt from being readily apparent.
He could tell Strange was his usual peckish self though, so he followed up with, “but don’t let me keep you.”
“Sure I can’t walk you home matey?”
He gestured vaguely at the half empty pint he had no intention of finishing. Strange bid him a concerned good evening, leaving Morse to his own thoughts.
What bothered him the most as he replayed the situation over and over in his head was the notion that Gull knew him better than he thought. That he must have seen something in him in that damned fluff piece casting him as the “singing detective” that caused him to pin Morse down, to choose him like a collector would a rare moth, pierced through the heart and set behind glass a dead and decaying trophy.
He knew he was stuffed full of useless, esoteric, book learning. It was not indicative of where he came from, a scholarship student from a solidly middle class home, never struggling to put food on the table, but never a public school family either. It was not indicative of where he was headed. He thought of Reece’s bemused expression when he’d told him he was in police work. He thought of Jakes’s look of mild disgust whenever he’d had to unwillingly play the pretentious scholar in the past few days. No, his Oxford education had no current purpose but to give him joy. To have sufficient knowledge to comprehend the Italian sung on his records, or give him the answers to fill into his crosswords.
And yet if Gull had seen him and somehow known just from that brief article that Morse was the type of person who felt the thrill in rich, clever, logic-driven problems, if he had been so certain of his abilities and inclinations that he had used them and, twisted them, and reduced them to this deadly game, then what else did he know about him? He knew enough to ask that question, “who couldn’t you save?” And, Morse thought, as he breath quickened and his heart raced, he claimed to know the answer too.
He couldn’t stay here, couldn’t continue to sit here and brood. He leapt to his feet, and in doing so upset his chair so that it clattered to the floor. The room rocked and pitched. He broke out into a sweat and tried to find something to grab hold of, something to steady him. He heard a rush of breaking glass and felt his socks dampen, realizing belatedly that he’d knocked the pint glass and was now standing in a puddle of tepid beer and glass shards. He heard voices fade in and out. He felt his stomach twist at the smell of the warm, heavy stout, and began lurching toward the back door that opened onto the alleyway.
He hadn’t made it more than a few steps, however when the stitches in his side gave an excruciating throb and he was momentarily frozen to the spot but no less dizzy and sick. He felt a gentle hand at his elbow and another around his shoulder. There was a soft voice in his ear saying, “Alright lad, let’s get you some air. No need to make a scene in the pub, eh?”, he half pushed half, half supported Morse to the door and continued speaking to him in a low, calm tone, “That’s it. You’re alright.”
They made it to the alleyway where Morse was immediately sick onto the cobblestones. The man held him by the shoulders to keep him steady. When he was finished and his knees buckled, he lowered him gently so he could sit propped against the outside of the pub wall. As he knelt next to him he winced noticing the red blooming across Morse’s shirt from the stitches that had opened, and realized he was dealing with something more serious that your nightly drunk.
“Alright mate, my friend’s a doctor. Won’t be long.” He vanished back into the pub and Morse sat, breathing slowly, Trying not to think about the blood on his hands that were grasping his side. He felt a hand gently lift his chin and he opened his eyes onto the blurry but unmistakable face of Max DeBryn.
“Well I’ll be. Fancy meeting you here.”
Embarrassed, Morse struggle to get up but DeBryn kept a firm hand on his shoulder. “Not, just yet, Morse. Let me give you a proper looking over.” He undid the buttons on Morse’s shirt and tenderly pulled his hands away.
“A moonlit alley does not make for an optimal examining room to be sure”, DeBryn complained.
“I’m sorry”, Morse slurred.
“For what?” DeBryn balked. “You may be a genius of a detective but I doubt even you can command the heavens to blaze in order that your injuries might be seen to” he muttered as he put a cool hand to Morse’s forehead.
“No, I’m sorry...for...for disturbing your” his voice broke off. He was having a hard time remembering exactly where they were. But there was another man here, wasn’t there? It had not been Max who had lead him out of the pub.
“For disturbing my what?”, DeBryn prompted in a tone not entirely kind.
“Your...drink.” Morse finished.
“You didn’t,” he murmured. “Though your drink appears to have disturbed you.”
“ ‘ve only had two”, he replied a shade defensively. “Just a bit hungover ‘s all.”
“Oh to be sure” DeBryn replied, “but not just hungover. Also a bit bleeding, and a bit feverish and if I had to venture a guess I would say a bit of an infection. Alright, on your feet”, he took hold of Morse’s elbow and wrapped an arm tightly around his waist, careful to avoid the newly reopened wound, and pulled him to his feet. He shook dangerously for a minute upon regaining his footing but DeBryn held him steady.
“Take your time”, he soothed. They made their way slowly to DeBryn’s car where he lowered him gingerly into the passenger seat and covered him over with his coat as his shivering increased.
“you know where I live?” Morse asked.
“No, but I know where I live.”
“I’ll be fine at home. Just need sleep”
“And rebandaging and antibiotics and bed rest, and as you blatantly disregarded my advice to rest before, I’m certainly not trusting you to do it this time.”
“But--” he protested weakly.
“Morse, concentrate less on arguing with me and more on not watering my upholstery with the contents of your stomach like you did the cobblestones back there.”
He heard a whispered, “I’ll ring you”, “Sorry about this”, and a hasty, “Good Night” outside the car. And drifted off before the car pulled out.
Morse & Max Hurt/Comfort 3/?
(Anonymous) 2016-03-27 03:22 am (UTC)(link)The passenger door opened and DeBryn’s hand was on his shoulder. “Let’s get you inside.”
Getting inside was easier said than done. They took frequent breaks for Morse to regain his equilibrium. He was becoming unnecessarily familiar with the pattern of the stones making up the walkway. It was taking all his concentration to keep his footing.
“I’m not drunk.” This was important.
“Morse, we’ve been over this. I know. You’re not drunk”, he gave a half sigh as he fumbled with one arm around Morse’s waist and the other unlocking the unassuming townhouse door. Just after stumbling over the threshold he felt DeBryn’s coat falling from his shoulders. Stooping to pick it up he felt the all too familiar white hot pain in his side and curled involuntarily hands held protectively around his middle. There was a ringing in his ears and a darkening tint to his vision as DeBryn hastily steered him sharply to the left depositing him into a chair and taking a firm hand to the back of his head to push it gently between his knees.
“Slow, deep breaths”, he instructed.
He gulped air greedily trying to move as little as possible. He closed his eyes but the room still pitched and swayed. He needed a steady point to focus on but upon opening his eyes all he saw were his own blood stained hands. His stomach lurched and seconds later found himself retching into the conveniently placed bin at his feet. Left shaking and shameful after this second round of sickness he couldn’t quite meet DeBryn’s eye as he murmured, “S-sorry...sorry. Thank you.”
“I went to Oxford too you know. Attended many a bacchanalian revel in my day. Gave me a certain knack for knowing when a chap was going to upchuck.” Morse winced at the word but DeBryn was unphased, nudging the bin aside, handed him a small towel to wipe his mouth. Then he gently pulled his hands one by one into his own and used a damp cloth to clean away the offending stains.
Peering at the floor rather than his hands he answered, “I’m not some drunken undergraduate, you know.”
“I do know”, DeBryn returned earnestly. “At this point I rather wish that you were. I could have brewed you some coffee and put you on the sofa to sleep it off. The whole evening would have played out as farce. Instead you and I are suffering through a bit of poorly written melodrama. Blood on your hands and your over-played apologetic refrain, it’s a bit much, you know.”
Strangely emotional Morse could do nothing but choke out, “Sorry” once again, feeling tears prick his eyes in frustration at his inability to do or say anything else. He blinked them away furiously and found that DeBryn’s hand was on his forehead now and he was standing over him all trace of sarcasm having left his face.
“You’re alright Morse, that’ll be the fever talking. Seems like it’s on the rise. Infection’ll do that.” Gently unbuttoning Morse’s shirt, he peered at the wound he had stitched up not but two days prior. Morse looked away but heard DeBryn clucking disapprovingly “You didn’t take care of this properly. I’ll pick you up some anti-biotics but you may be in for a rough few days. You’ll stay here.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I’m--”
“No, don’t apologize”, DeBryn snapped. “And don’t argue.” He sighed exasperated as he moved towards the sink. “I’m going to fix your stitches and then you need rest.”
DeBryn’s usual sarcastic cheer was abruptly gone. Morse realized slower than he should have that it was due to his concern for him. He should have been comforted by this but he only felt guilt. It was not something he had ever dealt with well: to be worried about, fussed over. As DeBryn cleaned the wound and repaired his stitches he allowed his eyes to roam the homey but fastidiously neat kitchen, hungry for anything to keep his mind off the sharp, dizzying pain. The room smelled vaguely of rosemary. He found himself surprisingly distracted by the memory of a similar situation.
He was home from Oxford the week following the letter he had received from Susan that had driven him into a cloud of depression so thick it had driven him home where he hadn’t emerged from his bed in three days. He had passively dealt with Gwen’s taunts and shouts from his doorway until she had finally given up. He remembered being woken from a haze by Joyce’s hand on his forehead and similarly concerned eyes. She’d said nearly the same thing.
“You’re alright, but you’ve a bit of a fever.” She smoothed the hair away from his eyes. “You’ll stay here.” It was a statement from Joyce too rather than a question. Even looking back through the years he didn’t know if she meant that he would wait out this particular bout of depression and illness at home, or if she somehow already could sense that the academic life was over for him. “You’ve had a rough few days. You need rest.” He hadn’t replied. Hadn’t grasped her hand or thanked her for her concern. Hadn’t tearfully told her she was the only reason he came home anymore. She had smiled, bent low to kiss him on the top of his hair, and bustled away to brew him some tea. As if he deserved any of that from Joyce. As if he weren’t lying there mourning an irreparable blot on her future as well as his. Not that she would have known it at the time.
After Debryn helped him into a tiny guest room at the bottom of the stairs, produced a somewhat musty quilt when his chills returned, and wished him a goodnight, being concerned enough to leave the door open so that he could hear should Morse need anything in the night, he felt himself slowly drift into a feverish sleep, mind singularly focused on Joycie.
Morse & Max hurt/comfort 1/?
(Anonymous) 2016-02-27 01:28 am (UTC)(link)“I know who you couldn’t save”
At 4:00 a.m. he’d played through nearly all his records. He began with his “best”, as Thursday directed, when he was pouring his first glass of scotch, and moved on through his least favorites as each subsequent drink dulled his discerning ear.
And yet..the broken record in his brain continued:
“I know who you couldn’t save”
Louder each time, more desperate, the oppressive presence of Gull growing larger and more looming, even as the room came in and out of focus. He should go to bed. There would be paperwork tomorrow, debriefings, statements to be made. Christ, he’d probably have to give Frazil an interview. Thursday had been insistent he take the day tomorrow. Morse had insisted otherwise. While he had once again caught the responsible party, this time around he had been the cause. The whole macabre spectacle had been a game he had no choice but to play. “One bloody misfit talking to another”. He didn’t take Jakes’s taunting to heart. Not usually. Now, however he couldn’t help worrying how the whole thing would look to Superintendent Bright. Back to general duties where he belongs? Where he can’t incite more psychotic near impossible puzzles?
No, he would be back at work on time tomorrow with his head down. He would play the model policeman for a time. Best not to attract notice at least for a while. He didn’t need to be home tomorrow having nothing to distract him from his cycling brain and aching body, while the other officers discussed the whole affair (and no doubt his part in it) freely in his absence.
He hadn’t planned on still being awake at this hour. But the pain in his side would have kept him up if Gull’s voice hadn’t. As it stood now he could get maybe an hour’s sleep, two if he skipped a shower, before he had to dress and fetch Thursday. He tried to slow his breathing and surrender to the alcohol numbing of his senses.
Gull didn’t know, he repeated, like a mantra. It wasn’t possible.
“I know who you couldn’t save.”
No. It was the bluff of a madman, he told himself as he mercifully drifted towards sleep.
It had happened long ago. There was a mark on his conscience alone. Gull was trying to rile him even after he had won, to continue terrorizing him even after he was behind bars.
He was stronger than that. He wouldn’t let him.
Re: Morse & Max hurt/comfort 1/?
(Anonymous) 2016-02-28 06:35 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Morse & Max hurt/comfort 1/?
(Anonymous) 2016-03-27 03:24 am (UTC)(link)