Chapter Text
Fred Thursday stared at the sombre reflection in the mirror wondering what force in the universe he had upset to wind up standing in this place once again, just as he did all those years ago in London.
It was the mirror set into the door of his and Win’s shared armoire, nothing special. Spots of rust flecked the edges in some places along with some enamel from a retouch of the whole set he’d been talked into doing a few years back as part of a short series of renovation projects. These interrupted the otherwise smooth, continuous sheet of reflective glass bounded by a somewhat elegant wood frame, making it harder to convince himself he was looking through a portal to the past and not a reflection of the present.
Thursday never looked in the mirror. Not like this. His outfits were sparse in variety and hardly changed from day to day, so nothing more than a quick glance was necessary to make sure his tie was on right- although Win would often catch it before him. Shaving was another matter entirely. The bathroom mirror was small. It would never show him what he looked like now.
His uniform was stiff and unyielding to his new size- he’d been considerably fitter upon receiving it- and absurdly formal. All shiny buttons and straight lines. Thursday couldn’t even call to mind the last time he’d put it on. All he saw was an unrecognizable version of himself wearing something similar as he watched them put Mickey Carter in the ground.
And now he was meant to wear it to the funeral of Endeavour Morse.
Another one of his men dead.
It was the cruelest form of deja vu imaginable.
The louder part of his mind was screaming that Morse would absolutely abhor the ridiculous ceremonial show of it all, that he’d rather everyone be standing in their shirt sleeves and slacks rather than the department uniforms that sat in the backs of closets until such occasions.
The lad often joked rather wryly about having one of the poorest funerals imaginable, with perhaps no one but his sister, Joyce, in attendance. There was a telltale hint of sadness in his eyes that Thursday saw beyond the smile, but Morse didn’t seem too put out by his prospects. He’d like it that way, he said. Joyce would know to read A.E. Housman, or Arthur Hugh Clough.
But not T.S. Eliot. Thursday could picture Morse throwing his head back and scoffing, calling him ‘too morbid’ for his tastes. But maybe that was just Thursday projecting his own distaste. Eliot’s “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons” was a bit too painful to swallow. Especially now.
Bright had taken it upon himself to call Joyce, not Thursday. He was slightly relieved, but not at the same time. Morse had been his bagman. His second son, in a way. His responsibility.
His fault.
Thursday should have been the one to tell her. But Bright was the superior officer, so it fell to him. He would inform Morse’s sister. No longer Joyce Morse, but Garrett. Joyce Garrett.
Thursday found the phone number in Morse’s personal notebook, a shabby, well-worn leather thing with a band tying it all together. It wasn’t a diary or journal of any sort, nothing intimate, just some place for his thoughts that wasn’t his head. Joyce had a recent change of address, Thursday recalled Morse telling him after conversation was practically pried from him during a grueling stakeout. New flat, new number. As Morse’s sole family contact, he should have updated his file accordingly. He never got around to it.
Never would, that voice in the back of Thursday’s head said.
As he flipped through the pages to find the number, something slipped out between the pages, fluttering to a halt when it reached the desk surface. Thursday frowned and picked up what appeared to be a small photograph, no bigger than a few stamps put together.
It was Joyce, he knew easily enough. At first glance it would be impossible to see her as Morse’s kin but their shared father’s traits were easy enough to pick out eventually. In her arms, sleeping soundly, was a newborn baby, swaddled in a blanket with flowers stitched along the edges. The father- Philip- was dark haired young man with kind eyes and had his arm around his wife’s shoulders, beaming down at the baby. Joyce’s smile was radiant, if a bit tired.
A new mother.
Thursday felt himself go utterly numb the longer he looked at it. Had it really only been two weeks ago that he walked into the station to see Morse at his desk, phone pressed to his ear, that same photo in his hand? He wore most brilliant smile that Thursday had ever seen on the young detective, his entire face lit up, eyes practically sparkling. A few minutes later, Thursday stepped back out from his office and asked what it was about. Half in a daze, Morse looked up at him, still smiling.
“I’m an uncle.” Morse said breathlessly, handing over the photograph.
“Congratulations, Morse,” Thursday clapped him on the shoulder and took a look at it. “Oh, she’s beautiful.”
“Her name is Marilyn. Marilyn Joyce Garrett.”
“That’s lovely.” Thursday said truthfully.
Morse, for all his eloquence, could only nod, struck speechless with joy.
Joyce had gained a daughter and lost a brother in a matter of days.
It wasn’t bloody right.
Bright got off the phone with Joyce and summoned Thursday to relay some news.
“She won’t be able to attend the funeral,” he said regrettably, hands trembling as he tried to light a cigarette. “Mrs. Garrett had a difficult pregnancy and she’s not fit to travel, doctor's orders. And of course there’s the matter of the little one.”
He had to ask her about Morse’s… arrangements. After all, Morse never really specified anything. Well of bloody course he didn’t! The lad had only just turned twenty-nine a few months ago in autumn. Who knew if his views had changed in the years since he indicated on a form that he trusted his family or the brass to handle things. There were papers now for him to have said how, when, where, even the damn music he wanted playing. But Morse was young. He didn’t know. The world hadn’t given him the chance to reach thirty. He shouldn’t have had to plan his own funeral before then.
Gael Edwards might have had some clue having lived with Morse, but the nurse had been scarce the past few days and Thursday couldn’t blame him in the slightest. Grief took people differently and Edwards- well, he’d lost something that very few knew about. Something closer than just a friend.
Bright said Joyce had been at a loss. She knew he wouldn’t want a Catholic burial like their father’s, and it wasn’t as if he still had any Quaker ties. His views on cremation were unknown. Apparently Bright had asked how she felt about a police burial. Nothing too extraordinary. They would handle everything for her, expenses and all. She agreed.
“Just do him right.”
So there Thursday stood, trying his damndest but cursing the sharp formality of it all. It didn’t seem right. Yes, Morse deserved a proper police burial. He couldn’t think of anyone more deserving. But something about it just felt… off. Not quite fitting for the man with the soul of a poet rather than a battle-hardened copper’s heart. No, Thursday thought. Morse would rather have a quiet affair. Something small, something peaceful. Something with poetry and music.
Or maybe Thursday didn’t know what Morse wanted. Maybe it was just all too much for him.
Eight days was not enough time to grieve. It was not enough time for all the chairs he wanted to throw, glasses he wanted to break, tears he wanted to shed. Not enough time to console his guilt into something slightly less suffocating.
He could still hear the shots. Thursday’s own voice sounding a million miles away as he shouted, too late to act. The hot, sick feeling of Morse’s blood on his hands, the way his eyes looked as he stared up at Thursday, wide with panic, fear, almost pleading to not let him die-
“I can’t do this.” Thursday finally said aloud, and Win’s hand appeared at his shoulder, the other messing fretfully with the stiff collar on the uniform.
“Then don’t,” she said softly, leaving the collar be. “I’ve got your suit downstairs, starched and pressed. Joan won’t be here for another half hour, you have time to change.”
He turned and kissed her on the cheek, unsure of how to express just how grateful he was that she seemed to understand everything so perfectly, even in such an awful and confusing time. “You’re a godsend, Win.”
“I know,” she agreed with as much of a smile as she could muster, smoothing the front of her prim black dress and touching the necklace at her throat. “Now go on, get yourself out of this uniform.”
Joan arrived on time for once, face flushed red from tears that she was wiping away on the sleeve of her peacoat. Like her mother, she wore a black dress, but also had on a band of pearls Thursday vaguely remembered gifting her for her twentieth birthday. He’d thought he’d see her wear them on her wedding day, if or when it came. Instead, she’d worn them to Win’s brother’s funeral not too long ago. And there they were again.
“Alright, dad?” she wrapped her arms around him and held him tight in a way she hadn’t done in years. Not since she stopped being a child too soon.
“Alright, Joanie,” he said hollowly, trying to convey some reassurance but failing. Win helped him into his coat as Strange pulled up with the car. He gave the inspector an odd look before straightening the sleeves of his own uniform, but he didn’t question the attire of his superior officer. Hardly a word was spoken as they climbed into the car and drove off.
To bury Endeavour Morse.