Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Just before he went home on Tuesday evening Thursday called the number Morse had given him for the family home. The funeral for the lad’s father had been earlier that day, Thursday knew, and he wanted to check on him and tell him to take the next few days as leave.

From what the lad had briefly said on the drive up there, he assumed the woman who answered as Mrs Morse was his stepmother. They got no further than introductions, however, before she rather irritably snapped that Morse wasn’t there - had left on the train that afternoon. Taken aback by her apparent animosity, Thursday muttered his condolences and hung up.

He stared at the phone for a minute. He’d not considered that Morse might be back in Oxford already. Flicking to a different page in his notebook, he found the number for Morse’s flat.

The phone rang four, five times, and just as Thursday was about to give up there was a click and a breathless “Hello?”

“Morse?”

“Sir?” Morse sounded more than surprised to have his DI ring him at home. Thursday reflected that he might not have personally done as much, for his previous bagman. “What – is everything alright?”

“Yes, sorry, I thought I’d catch you at your sister’s, but they said you’d already left.”

There was the sound of a muffled thud, probably a case being dropped to the ground. Best guess was Morse had literally just walked through the door. “Yes. Yes, there wasn’t – wasn’t much more I could do there. Thought I’d best be back, get back to work.”

Thursday closed his eyes and winced. Resting his forehead on his hand he said, “About that. I thought you should take a couple of days. Because of your father, and the gunshot – how is it?”

“It’s fine. I can come in tomorrow, I’m fine.” His tone was defensive. Determined, too.

“The thing is, lad,” Thursday began carefully, “you’ll need to be on light duties because of your injury. And… CS Bright has suggested it might be good for you to spend a month or two out at County while you recover.”

Silence, then a slight rustling. “Suggested?” Morse asked, sounding nettled. “Well, if it’s just a suggestion then I’d rather stay here. And I don’t need to be on light duties, I can-“

“Ordered, then,” interrupted Thursday wearily. “Until you’re cleared for full duties by the police physician. You did get checked out properly, didn’t you, Morse?”

“Yes.” The slightest hesitation beforehand, but said firmly; could mean either way.

“Alright, look, take the day tomorrow, come in on Thursday, and we’ll organise it.”

“But-“

“Got no ground to stand on for this one, I’m afraid, lad,” Thursday said grimly. “You’re hurt, and County will make best use of you.” His chest ached a little at saying it, at being left with no choice by Bright. And by God he’d fought with the man over it.

“Best use of me?” This incredulously. “Having me filing parking tickets? Here I could at least help with cases. You know I’m right, why won’t Bright-“

“Enough,” barked Thursday, because however much he might privately agree he wouldn’t encourage insubordination.

“But that’s not-“ Fair, Thursday heard in an unsaid echo, though Morse would never have said such a thing. He listened to Morse swallow and calm his breathing. “Sorry, sir, that wasn’t… I didn’t mean…”

“Alright,” said Thursday, “We’ll forget it; I know you’re hurting.” More silence from the other end of the phone. “I’ll see you the day after next, then.”

----------------

He’d expected to see Morse the following day anyway, orders or no, but there was no sign of him at the station. Sulking, perhaps. The lad could get a mite petulant at times, and with the wound and the loss of his father he had more than enough to worry about. It was better that he was taking the time to actually think things through, cool off, rather than come storming into the station. It made Thursday uneasy though.

He was more than uneasy the day after, when Morse hadn’t turned up by lunchtime. Thursday had thought he’d be waiting when Thursday got in, or sitting typing at his desk pretending everything was fine. But twelve noon, and nothing?

Something was wrong.

He picked up the keys to the Jag, telling Jakes he was going out for lunch, and drove the route to Morse’s block of flats. He’d only been here a couple of times, but he remembered the way well enough. At the front entrance he paused, not remembering the number, but luckily handwritten nameplates had been slotted in next to the doorbells. Morse’s was in a slanted, untidy scrawl.

Thursday rang, and got no reply. Rang again.

It was possible the lad was out, of course. For all Thursday knew, he was on the way to the station now.

Thursday tried the bell one last time, then stood back with his hands in his coat pockets, tilting his head back to look up at the grey side of the building. Before he had to make a decision as to what to do next, the door was pushed open from the other side – a young woman carrying such a large box that she could barely see in front of her. Thursday grabbed the door and held it open for her; she thanked him absently and didn’t notice him slip inside the building once she was past.

This was the door he remembered, white paint peeling off and number hanging slightly crooked. He banged on it, shouted “Morse?”

Something just wasn’t sitting right in his gut about this.

He pounded on the door again, huffed, and glanced around as he stepped back, wondering who might have the master keys for the building – did one of these doors belong to the landlord? It was sheer chance that he glanced down and saw a sliver key protruding half under the door.

Now how had that got there?

Heart suddenly racing, he bent and fished it out. Who had dropped it? Morse? He wouldn’t be so careless.

Painstakingly slowly, he turned the key in the lock, heard it click. He opened the door a crack, just a couple of centimetres, wondering if he was being paranoid. Nothing. The inside of the studio flat was dark; as he opened the door further he could see only a few cracks of light coming through the curtains.

Why would Morse have the curtains closed in the middle of the day? Was he sleeping? Sick?

As he stepped inside, a wave of unpleasant odour assaulted Thursday’s nose. God, it smelled like there was an animal in here, possibly a dead one. He closed the door behind him, and flicked the light switch to the side of it.

Chaos, utter chaos, met his eyes. Chairs upended, a ransacked suitcase, papers scattered and bedding tangled all over the floor. The fridge door stood wide open with puddles of yellowing milk oozing their way across the small section of linoleum; shards of glass everywhere from broken bottles and jars.

And no Morse.

Thursday scanned the room again, moved swiftly to the bathroom but no, not there either. The smell was worse though.

“Bloody hell,” he sighed as he came back out to the main room. Something bad had happened here – a struggle, a fight. Burglars? Or something more sinister? Thursday could see smears of red on the bed covers, there were more on the floor.

He moved to the window, threw the curtains open and unlatched it. Opened it wide, thrusting his face into the fresh air to chase away the stink of spoiled milk and damp and piss.  

Where the hell was Morse?

There was the slightest stir somewhere in the room behind him, barely a whisper of noise, and he whipped around instantly, eyes desperately seeking.

Nothing.

The dried blood stains on the bedding stood out more starkly in the natural light, and Thursday knew he was going to have to call this in. Morse had been attacked; possibly taken.

The rustle came again, and Thursday was sure this time. He had heard something.

Ever so slowly he crept forward, knees bent and feet soft, and listened with all his might.

The sheet hanging half-off the bed twitched, ever so slightly. Another step, another. It moved again. Could just be mice, Thursday told himself, could be nothing. Could be an injured Morse. Could be a dead one. Could be one of his attackers, hiding when he heard Thursday coming…

With a roar Thursday surged forwards and ripped the sheet off the bed, sinking into a crouch to see underneath. His face froze mid-yell, and he bent with his mouth gaping comically for a moment before he let out a muffled laugh. He hadn’t been that far wrong about the mice.

Since he was more than halfway down already, Thursday sank to sit on the floor, stretching his legs out in front of him heedless of the evidence he might be disturbing.

“What are you doing here, then?” he asked softly, catching his breath. “I must have frightened the life out of you.”

In the space under the bed he could just make out a pair of dark eyes which shone green when they caught the light, and a delicate feline face. The rest of the animal was half buried in a nest made out of a blanket – a nest in which the bottom of the sheet had presumably previously been incorporated.

“Come on, come out?” He held out a hand, held it steady. The animal eyed it warily, and didn’t move. “No, I suppose not, eh?” Thursday sighed, and looked around the flat again. “Couldn’t tell me what happened here, could you? Where Morse is, for starters? Who else was here? Who do you belong to, anyway?” He ducked his head slightly to try and get a closer look, and the cat shrank back.

“Well, Morse doesn’t have a cat,” Thursday said consideringly after a moment. He pulled his hand back, and looked around again. There was certainly nothing here which indicated suitability for keeping an animal – no litter tray or access to the outside for one, which explained the smell. “So either he brought you back – are you his sister’s? – and didn’t have time to take care of you before something happened to him… or you belong to one of the people that hurt him.”

Thursday hauled himself back to his feet, groaned. “You stay here,” he muttered. “I’m going to call this in.”

The phone was hanging off the hook, receiver dangling off the table on its long, curly cord. It didn’t look like the phone had been knocked though – still perfectly square to the edge – more like it had never been put back. Making a call, and disturbed?

Thursday clicked the receiver back into place and looked around thoughtfully. The damage didn’t look fresh, at least not all of it. The fridge had been open and the bottles smashed for at least a day. His gaze darted back to the bed – there was another possible explanation for that, now that he thought about it, if the cat had been trapped in here and starving. Actually…

He surveyed the room again, taking in the destruction with a different eye.

“Did you do all this?” he said wonderingly. He bent over, and saw the huddled lump still under the bed; it hadn’t moved. “What the hell was Morse doing, leaving you here?” he grumbled, and then felt a tug of fear in his gut in response. Morse wasn’t thoughtlessly cruel enough to leave an animal to starve - if he’d left it here it was because he couldn’t return. He might be hurt somewhere; in hospital maybe, without identification. Christ.

He rang the station, said that there was evidence that Morse had been injured either at home or while out, and could they check the hospital for anyone matching his description. Then he rang Morse’s family – luckily he was still carrying the number.

This time he got the sister, Joyce, home for lunch. “This is Inspector Thursday, I work with Morse. Endeavour, that is. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. I remember – you brought him.” Her voice sounded fragile, and he wasn’t sure if he should tell her that he suspected Morse was missing. He didn’t even have any concrete proof yet. “He thinks very highly of you; he spoke of you often.”

“He’s got the makings of a great detective,” Thursday said honestly. “I’m proud to work with him.”

“Thank you. How can I help you, Inspector? I’m afraid my brother left the day before yesterday.”

“Yes, I know. This is – well, this is going to seem a bit of an odd question, but did your brother recently acquire a cat? Or was he looking after one for you, or someone you know?”

There was a lengthy pause on the other end. “A cat?” she asked finally.

“That’s right, miss. I take it it’s not yours?”

“No,” she said slowly, “Although I may know whose it is. What colour is it?”

“I’m not sure; it’s under the bed – won’t come out.”

“Where’s my brother, Inspector, surely he could answer you better than I?”

Thursday frowned, and debated. “He’s just stepped out for a bit,” he said finally, “and I think he forgot about it. I’m just checking if it’s his, or if it’s wandered in from the neighbours.”

“I can’t think of any reason he’d have a cat there,” and curiously her voice was equally as cautious as his own had been. “But if it’s the one I’m thinking of, it’s a family friend’s. Ginger, with light blue eyes. I’m sure he’ll find his own way home, if you leave him be,” she added.

“Morse?” Thursday asked unthinkingly, and there was another long pause.

“I meant the cat,” she replied. “Is my brother lost, Inspector?”

“No, I’m sure he’s fine. I’m sorry to have troubled you,” he spoke over her as she started to enquire further. He hung up hurriedly, and shook his head. Great job there at not worrying her.

He checked the clock – he’d give the station another fifteen minutes before ringing back.

“Here, puss puss,” he muttered as he walked back to the kitchenette. “Here, girl. Boy. She said he, didn’t she? Boy, then.” He fished the smallest bowl he could find out of the cupboard, awkwardly positioning his feet to avoid broken glass and spilled produce, and filled it with water from the tap.

He placed it at the edge of the bed, and sat back down again a couple of feet away. “Well, I feel ridiculous,” he murmured in a conversational tone, “but I suppose if it gets you out of there… Here, puss.”

Leaning sideways on one hand to peer under the bed, he saw the same bright eyes watching him guardedly. “Not sure what you’re so busy hiding from, it’s not like you were having a grand time in here on your own.” The eyes blinked at him. “Come on, you must be thirsty. How long’s it been since that milk, eh?” Another blink. Thursday sighed, and straightened up again, staring at the top of the bed instead.

It wasn’t enough blood to have been from anything fatal. Could it have been from the gunshot wound – had Morse torn it open in the night after he got back? Gone to hospital with it? Plausible.

There was a tiny movement at the corner of his vision, and he deliberately didn’t move. His family had had cats, growing up, he knew that the best way to get them to come closer was to ignore them.

Another movement, and he allowed his eyes to tilt downwards. A small white paw was just showing under the bed, trying to hook around the edge of the bowl and drag it under. The bowl tipped slightly, rocked back, tipped again.

“You’re just going to knock it over,” Thursday murmured quietly. “Then where will you be? Soaked and still thirsty.” The paw froze in mid-air at the sound of his voice, and then withdrew. Thursday half-fancied the animal had understood him.

A dainty face peeked out a moment later, looking up at him rather than down at the bowl. “Hello, there.” Thursday kept his voice muted, calm, and the eyes blinked at him again. They were blue, a cool shade of forget-me-not set in a mottled ginger face. Looked like the sister had been right. “Go on then, I don’t bite.”

The cat looked between him and the bowl a couple of times, and then stretched its nose slightly further forward. A paw dipped lightning fast into the bowl, withdrew, and the cat retreated. Thursday blew out a great breath. “Honestly.”

A few seconds later the cat was back though, sleek head and shoulders emerging from under the bed to stick its head into the bowl and lap greedily at the water. Thursday found himself smiling quite irrationally. “That’s it, have as much as you like. Plenty more where that came from.” Ears swivelled forward attentively as he spoke and then gradually relaxed again; pricking anew at every small sound.

They sat there for a few minutes, the man and the cat, until all the water was gone.

“Would you like some more?” Thursday reached out his hand, slowly, slowly… and the cat ducked backwards under the bed. He refilled the dish, setting it down slightly further out from the bed this time, and then went to call the station back.

No one had been admitted to hospital meeting Morse’s description, no one under his name, no unidentified bodies in the morgues under the age of fifty. “Keep looking,” he told the constable on the other end irritably, and slammed the phone down. There was a whisk of movement across the room at the sound, and he sighed as he realised he’d just managed to scare the bloody cat again.

Well, if it belonged to a friend of the family it wasn’t likely to be a clue to Morse’s disappearance. Perhaps he was ill, and staying with a friend? Thursday knew Morse still had acquaintances here from his time at university, but no idea how close he was to them. In fact, when it came to personal matters, he didn’t really know much about Morse at all.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got an address book hidden amongst this rubbish, Morse?” Thursday gazed round the room.

Right, well if it wasn’t a crime scene, then Thursday wasn’t going to leave it like this – he’d do himself an injury on that glass for one. He found a dustpan and brush in the cupboard, and began sweeping up the mess.

“If you’ve just gone off on a jaunt somewhere, Morse, I’ll kill you,” muttered Thursday as he used a mop to wipe up the worst of the mess in the small kitchen area of the room. Luckily the cat seemed to have chosen to do its business in the bathroom, and the tiling would be a hell of a lot easier to clean than carpet. For the moment he’d just shut the door. “Then I’ll make you come and do my whole house; I’ll even smear some jam on the carpets, just for you.”

The cat had slunk its way out from under the bed at some point once he started working, and come to sit in the middle of the carpet to watch. “Don’t know what you’re looking so smug about,” grumbled Thursday, “I thought cats were supposed to be clean animals.” It was probably just his imagination, but he thought it looked affronted; a moment later it began to wash itself in the manner of all offended felines.

Once the glass was piled in the sink and all of the rubbish in a bag outside the door, Thursday started to rummage through the paperwork. Nothing on the desk, nothing on the floor, nothing on his shelves. “What, you just memorized all the numbers?” Or didn’t have anybody to call.

Thursday gave it up for a bad job, and sat down in one of the chairs at the small table. “I don’t know what to do,” he told the cat, which hadn’t moved from its spot in the middle of the carpet. “File a missing persons? Based on the fact that he didn’t show up for work after I told him not to?” He rubbed his eyes wearily with a hand. “Not like him though. Not like him at all.”

He rang the station again, talked to the same constable as before, talked to Jakes. There was nothing urgent on his desk, so he told Jakes that Morse was missing and Thursday was pursuing lines of inquiry. Told the sergeant to look through Morse’s desk, see if he could find anything.

“Could be lots of things, of course,” he said after he hung up. “That boy seems to get into trouble every few seconds. I don’t know, maybe I’m overreacting. What do you think?” This to the cat, who unsurprisingly made no reply.

“Well, there’s nothing more I can do here.” He wrote a note, and left it on the table in case Morse did turn up. “And what’s to be done with you then?” The cat stared up at him disinterestedly. “Well, I can’t leave you here! Morse’s sister said you’d find your own way home - take it that means you live nearby? Maybe you could show me where this family friend is - he must have seen Morse after he got back, if he gave you to him?”

Thursday moved to the door of the flat and opened it. “Go on then. Go.” No sign of movement. Thursday stepped away from the door, and made a shooing motion. “I need to lock up, and you can’t be inside while that happens, understand?”

He crossed to close the window, keeping one eye on the animal, but it stayed exactly where it was.

“Go on,” he said again, and this time came up behind it, so that he wasn’t between it and the door. It watched him warily. “Go!” He clapped his hands; it flinched, but didn’t budge. “Go, you stupid cat,” and he lunged forward threateningly.

That did the trick; the animal lurched away from him. Too late, Thursday saw the way the cat struggled to move, the limp it pathetically tried to conceal as it edged away from him. Still not towards the door.

Thursday drew back immediately, softening his body language. “Ah, lad, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were hurt.” He hadn’t seen the cat come out from under the bed – he’d been clearing the mess off the floor. And the animal hadn’t moved the whole time since then.

Now it awkwardly slunk across the room, favouring one of its hind legs enough that Thursday winced in sympathy. “Alright, alright, stop.” But the cat kept going – back towards the bed, and God, if Thursday lost him under there again... He moved forwards, and the cat shied sideways in response, diverted from its path. Thursday held his hands in front of him, palms out, and very carefully advanced. “Come on, you’ll have to come with me if you’re hurt.”

The animal backed itself into a corner and hunched in on itself, thick fur fluffing up as Thursday got closer. He stopped when the cat started to hiss, maybe a meter away, putting his hands down and sighing. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Call a vet? Animal control? Try and lunge at it with a towel?

Instead he crouched down, draping his coat over his knees. “I really need to go and find Morse,” he told the cat honestly. “I don’t have time for this. He could be hurt.”

He supposed he could leave the door to Morse’s flat open – but no, all the lad’s things. His precious records.

“You could come home with me, for the moment?” he suggested. “We could get you checked over? All the tuna you can eat. We’ll take care of you until Morse gets back, what do you say?”

The cat gradually unpuffed itself, and slowly lowered its belly to the carpet. “Right, right. I’ll need something to take you in.” He didn’t want to try carrying it, not when he didn’t know how badly it was wounded, and not when it might scratch him half to pieces.

He found an old cardboard box in the cupboard, and lined it with the blanket he dragged out from under the bed – it didn’t smell too bad and the familiarity might help. He edged close to where the cat was huddled in its corner, and, though it watched him intently, it didn’t hiss again as he carefully put the box down beside it.

He stood back, and waited.

After a minute, the cat eased up onto its haunches and sniffed interestedly at the corner of the box. Rubbed the corner of its mouth against it, once, twice. Sniffed it again. Carefully got up onto all fours, and tried to peer inside. Put a paw up on the edge, tapped it lightly, once, twice. Removed the paw, then brought it back up to bat at it again.

“Oh, I see,” Thursday murmured. “Too high, is it?” He picked up a couple of books lying askew by the bedside table, and brought them over. This time the cat didn’t retreat at all at his approach. “Here.” He made a half-step up to the box. Before he had a chance to move back again the cat did an awkward half-hop onto the books, and then another into the box - missing the landing and landing with a flop and a pained mewl.

“Well done,” Thursday told it, and carefully folded the flaps down so that it wouldn’t try and leap out as they moved. The cat obviously didn’t like that though, pushing upwards desperately at the gap with its head, and letting out a disapproving yowl.

“Alright then,” Thursday grunted, and opened the top again. “On your own head be it.” He draped his coat over his arm, put his hat on his head, and gathered up the box in his arms.

Chapter Text

Driving the Jag with a cardboard box full of cat on the passenger seat was a rather surreal experience. The cat had tried standing up at first, then lain back down with a low moan at the first bump and jolt. After that, small forlorn sounds and pained panting were a constant accompaniment, and Thursday felt incredible guilt every time he went over a sleeping policeman or had to break behind another car.

“Alright,” he mumbled to it every minute or so. “Alright, we’ll be there soon. Not much longer.” The drive felt interminable though, time warping cruelly to extend it for as long as possible. The surge of relief Thursday felt when he turned onto his street was immeasurable. He should have taken it straight to the vet, he thought now, it was obviously badly injured, but he didn’t even know where the nearest one was!

He hesitated over leaving the cat in the car for a minute, reassuring it he’d be right back, and glancing back at the passenger window as he sped his walk up the drive. Win met him in the hall as he shed his hat and coat.

“Fred?” she asked in concerned voice. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s a long story. I’ve got a cat in the car, badly hurt I think, needs looking after. I thought maybe it could stay with us for a bit?”

“Stay with us?” he heard behind him as he went back out the door, and he couldn’t say her astonishment was unjustified.

He returned a minute later, box in hands, cat quiet and supine in the bottom of it.

“Fred, love, why have you brought it home? Did you run it over?” She followed him as he walked through to the sitting room, and set the box down on the table. “Oh, poor thing,” she whispered as she peeked inside.

“No,” he answered her earlier question. “It’s Morse’s. Sort of.”

“Morse?” She looked over his shoulder as though expecting the lad to appear.

“He’s, ah, he’s missing,” Thursday admitted in a rough voice. “Found the cat at his place, locked in. We’re searching for him at the moment, I don’t know…” Win put her hand on his shoulder, and squeezed gently.

Thursday cleared his throat. “Well, I couldn’t leave it locked in, and I think it must have cut itself on some broken glass. Maybe that’s where the blood came from,” he said suddenly.

“You’d better sit down, love, and I’ll make you a cup of tea. And maybe something for this one, hmmm, does she have a name?”

“He, I think,” Thursday muttered. Then, “No, I didn’t ask.”

She disappeared next door, and Thursday and the cat stared at each other. “Not such a good trip, hmm? Over now though; let me see if I can find the number for the vet.”

He went to retrieve the yellow pages from the shelf next to the phone. “V. V, v, v, Vehicle Repair, Voc – no, wait, too far - Veterinarians!” Sinking into the cushions on the couch, he ran a finger down the short list of names, eliminating the ones which were more farm based. Two in the city centre then, and only one which did call outs. He took a pen from the coffee table, and circled the number.

When he looked up, he found the cat watching him interestedly.

“Here, now, drink this.” Win came through and set a cup down in front of him, and a small saucer full of milk.

Thursday considered. “I’m not sure if he can get out of the box on his own, and I don’t know if we should move him just yet. Here, I’ll call the vet, and then I really must go back in to work. Would you mind watching him for the rest of the day? I don’t think he’ll cause you any problems.”

“Of course not,” she said immediately, and carefully moved the saucer to rest flat on the blanket inside the box. The cat tracked the movement of her hand, but made no move away from her, or to hurt her, even though her fingers passed within a hairs-breadth its fur. It sniffed the milk inquisitively, whiskers twitching, then darted out its tongue to taste. Win gave a pleased sigh, and Thursday glanced up to see her looking quite taken with it.

“Now don’t go getting attached,” he cautioned. “It’ll have to go back to its owner. Once I figure out who that is.” He’d have to ring Joyce again.

“I know, I know,” she waved him off, but the look in her eyes didn’t go away. “He’s beautiful, though, isn’t he? Look at that fur. He must be so soft.” Despite her words, she didn’t reach out to touch, and Thursday smiled at her.

----------

At the station no one had had any luck in finding Morse. Jakes had done a better job at tracking down friends and acquaintances round Oxford, but few of them had seen Morse recently – many not for years. His singing group seemed to be the ones he kept most in touch with for drinks and the like, but nothing of the sort since the funeral.

“It was definitely Morse I talked to, Tuesday evening,” Thursday thought aloud. “On the phone number for his flat. So he made it back to Oxford, picked up a cat from a friend of the family, or it was dropped round, and then either that night or the following morning he left. Dropped his key,” Thursday suddenly remembered. “And never came back.”

“Maybe he’s just done a runner,” Jakes suggested. “Got into some kind of trouble, decided it wasn’t worth sticking around for.” Thursday gave him a dark look under his eyebrows. Jakes snorted, but said nothing further.

“We’ve checked all the hospitals, all the morgues. Unless he’s not in Oxford.” Thursday glanced at the clock. “Too late to start ringing around now. In the morning-“

“Maybe he’ll have turned up,” Jakes said, obviously trying to sooth his DI but coming across as condescending. Thursday scowled at him again.

“Come on then. Drop me home.”

Win met him at the door with a kiss on the cheek. “Hello, love. How did it go?” Thursday held her tight for a moment, just inhaling the smell of her.

“No luck,” he said finally, and he couldn’t keep the worry out of his voice. “How about you, how was the vet?” he asked as he come in and hung up his coat.

“Oh, alright – very nice man. Mr Wintergreen. That cat was ever so well behaved while he looked him over; it is a he, by the way. He patched the poor thing up a bit - says it’ll be fine, just needs rest. It was the oddest thing, he couldn’t work out what had done it – definitely not glass, he said. A pellet of some kind, maybe - someone out hunting? Stitched up strangely too, and come undone through some kind of overexertion.”

“A pellet? Like from an air rifle?”

Win shrugged, and led the way through to the sitting room. Both of the kids were there, crouched on the floor in the corner. Thursday could guess what was so interesting there. “Come on now, don’t crowd him, especially if he’s hurt.”

They looked round, but neither of them got up. “He’s fine, dad,” Sam said exasperatedly. “And we’re being gentle!” Joan nodded.

“Alright, alright.” Thursday held up his hands in surrender. “Not too much, mind,” he added seriously, and they both promised.  

The whole evening was spent fussing over the cat. Sam and Joan wouldn’t move more than a few feet from him, except to bolt their dinner and beg to be allowed to leave the table, and Win went every few minutes to find some new treat for him to eat. “I wonder that he can still move at all,” Thursday said, only half joking, “with all you’ve been feeding him.”

The worst came when he was forbidden from lighting his pipe, because it might disturb the cat. He eyed the creature balefully from across the room, but decided not to test Win’s resolve and tucked his pipe away again.

Finally he sent the children off upstairs – both begging for the cat to sleep in their room that night – and Win went to rattle away in the kitchen for a bit. Thursday covertly drew the pipe out of his pocket again, rolled it between thumb and forefinger, and contemplated the cat. It was half curled in its box, head resting contentedly on a front leg. One eye was lazily fixed on him, but it seemed half asleep. Certainly it wouldn’t care if he smoked.

An ear flicked. Guiltily, he put the pipe away again.

---------

The next morning Jakes picked him up with a shake of the head – no news then. He rang Morse’s sister when he got to the station – he’d meant to do it the night before, but he’d got… distracted.

She’d already left for the day, so he asked for her work number and tried there. Eventually, after he explained five times that it was about a missing person’s case, he managed to get her on the other end.

“Inspector?” she asked uncertainly; he could tell there were other people in the room with her.

“Miss Morse. I wasn’t entirely straight with you yesterday, because we weren’t sure of the situation. It seems Morse is missing, and we’ve had no luck so far finding him. He must have seen your family friend after he got back to get the cat from him; could you give me the name and address so that I can follow up our enquiries?”

“I’m sorry, Inspector, I’m afraid I don’t have the address. Morse is the only one who kept in touch with him; I haven’t seen him for years.”

Thursday sighed. “Well, what’s his name; I’ll run him down.”

“Mr Black.” He squinted suspiciously at the way she’d said it.

“What does he look like, this Mr Black? Who else might know how to get in touch with him?”

“Oh, well, it was a long time ago now. Sort of tall. Darkish hair. I’m afraid I don’t who else would know him.”

“Sort of tall with darkish hair,” he repeated dryly. “That narrows it down then. Well, I’ve got his cat, so he’ll need to-“

“You’ve still got the cat?” she interrupted, sounding surprised. “I’d have thought it would have gone home by now.”

Thursday felt as though the conversation were derailing slightly. “It’s hurt. Can’t really walk. I had a vet come and stitch it up yesterday, but it needs a while to mend.”

“Hurt?” she sounded a little choked up. “Oh, of course. I’m happy to look after it, and save you the inconvenience. I could come down tomorrow?”

“Hopefully I’ll have found your Mr Black by then.” If he existed. “And it’s no trouble, the wife and kids love having him.”

He heard her take a breath, then another. “I’d really feel happier taking care of him myself. I think-“

“I’ll give you a call back this evening, miss, with any news about Morse,” he said firmly.

“Yes, yes of course.” She hung up. Thursday stared at the receiver in bemusement for a moment before doing the same.

Unfortunately his other paperwork hadn’t stopped because his bagman had gone missing, nor because he’d acquired an injured animal. He thought idly of how soft the cat’s fur had been when he’d dared to rub his thumb between its ears this morning; how it had struggled to its feet and limped out into the hallway after him when it had heard him getting ready to leave.

He entertained a brief fantasy of bringing it to the office today, letting it sit on the desk silently judging people as they walked in. The looks on their faces. He chuckled to himself.

Jakes knocked on his door just after eleven. “Just off to the Radcliffe, sir, to get the report on that accidental from last night.

“Hmm,” Thursday said in agreement, then looked up. “Actually I could do with stretching my legs, I’ll go.” Jakes nodded, and waited for him. After a moment, Thursday added, “Could do with a drive too.” Finally getting the message, the sergeant handed over the keys and went back to his desk.

---------------

Going to the Radcliffe was always a double edged sword – got you out of the office for a bit, but then you had to deal with what was at the other end.

“Definitely natural causes,” Max DeBryn announced as Thursday let the double doors to the mortuary swing shut behind him. “Not even Morse could find anything suspicious about this one.” The doctor glanced up for a moment, and seemed surprised to find Thursday alone. “He not back yet?”

“No. Well, yes, but no,” Thursday said with a sigh. “He’s missing.”

DeBryn’s look was sharper this time, and he put what he was working on to the side. “Missing?”

Thursday stopped beside the body laid out on the table without looking at it, put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Give me the report first,” he said after a moment.

White man, late forties, keeled over at work from suspected heart attack. Due to recent threatening messages and the relatively young age of the victim, they’d wanted to confirm no foul play. Apparently it definitely had been a heart attack, and no traces or foreign substances in his blood. Just unhealthy living.

“Now, Morse?” DeBryn stripped off his gloves, moving round to Thursday’s side of the table.

Thursday finally brought himself to look down, to see the dark hair, hooked nose and strong forehead in front of him. Nothing like Morse.

“I talked to him on the phone on Tuesday evening, right after he came back. He was insistent on coming in the next day, but I told him to take it easy – at least until yesterday. Then we were going to meet at the station to discuss things. He never showed, I got worried.” Thursday shrugged, and glanced the doctor’s way. “No sign of hide nor hair of him though. I don’t know if he’s been taken, or if he’s injured somewhere, unable to get help.”

DeBryn seemed concerned – he’d always had a bit of a soft spot for Morse. “I see. Anything I can do to help?”

“I hope not,” Thursday said honestly.

“Yes, quite. Well, I was about to take a break for lunch. Fancy joining me in the pub – you could tell me more about it?”

“I, uh, I was actually planning on going home for lunch.” Thursday felt bad the moment he said it, but detective inspectors from the police didn’t usually invite pathologists from the home office back with them.

“Of course,” DeBryn demurred smoothly after a moment, “Another time, perhaps.”

Thursday hesitated. DeBryn was a friend, of a sort. “There’s this cat, see,” he found himself explaining, slightly defensively. “Found it at Morse’s. I want to check on it.”

“A cat? I didn’t know Morse was much for the way of pets?”

“I don’t think it’s his. Anyway-“ Thursday hesitated for a moment, and rethought his original decision, “-you’re welcome to join me, if you’d like. Mrs Thursday would be pleased to see you again.” It must have been Christmas the last time they’d all met, at the station do for the ranking officers.

“If you’re sure I wouldn’t be intruding?”

“Not at all,” Thursday said, and surprisingly found it was true.

-----------------

Win came out of the kitchen as he and DeBryn were in the hall. “Hello, love. And – doctor, isn’t it?”

“Max, Max DeBryn,” he said, going to shake her hand. “I’d not expect you to remember.”

“Not at all, Fred’s talked of you – it’s just been a while since I’ve seen the face to put to the name.”

“Thought I’d come back and uh-“ Check on the cat suddenly sounded silly. This whole way back, in fact ever since he’d taken the keys to the Jag with the intention of doing exactly this, he’d never stopped to think about it. Not even when he told DeBryn.

“Oh, he’s fine, love,” she said easily, knowing instantly what Thursday was about. “I’ve moved his box near the radiator, and he’s fast asleep. You go have a look. Are you boys here for lunch?” Thursday nodded, and barely heard DeBryn’s answer as he was already halfway to the sitting room.

He could see the reddish lump from across the room, curled into an awkward ball on top of what looked suspiciously like... "Did you give him my jumper?” he called out indignantly. His wife and DeBryn appeared in the doorway a moment later.

“Well, that blanket needed a wash, and he needed something. Better if it smelled of something familiar, you said.”

Thursday eyed her for a moment, trying to work out if he was being punished for something. “He’ll get hair all over it,” he grumbled as he crouched down next to the beast.

Very carefully he reached out and trailed his forefinger over the cat’s side. His fingertip sank into soft, fleecy fur, and he could feel the ridges of delicate ribs under his touch. The cat stirred slightly, slitting an eye open in his direction. Then it gave a great yawn, tongue flashing, and proceeded to go straight back to sleep. Thursday felt strangely transfixed; it was like watching Sam or Joan when they’d been little – every small thing they did was fascinating.

Lunch was sandwiches and soup from a tin; Win obviously embarrassed to serve such to a guest but with nothing else on hand that wouldn’t take too long to cook. “It’s perfect, love,” Thursday said with a kiss to her cheek, and DeBryn reassured her that homemade sandwiches were far better than hospital fare.

Thursday filled DeBryn in on everything he’d found out about Morse, or the lack thereof, and how he’d found the cat at Morse’s place. And the blood on the sheets, which he didn’t know the owner of. “When the vet came to look at him yesterday apparently he said it was an odd wound – made by a pellet of some kind, maybe.” He sighed. “I can’t help thinking Morse has got into trouble…”

DeBryn had gone quiet, and appeared to think things through for a minute. “I’m curious. I wonder if I might have a look at this wound,” he asked slowly.

Thursday cleared the plates to one side, and went to the living room to fetch the cat. When he lifted the box the cat raised its head, blinking muzzily, and yawned again. It was a much more trusting version of the creature than he’d found yesterday, that much was for sure. Probably all the food.

He set it down on the table just as Win came in. “Not on the dining table, Fred!” Seeing as how the damage was already done Thursday chose to selectively ignore her frown.

“Hello there,” said DeBryn quietly to the cat. “I hear you’ve been through the wars.” The cat settled onto its stomach, legs tucked tidily underneath except for the one on the back left.

“It’s that one,” Thursday said rather needlessly, pointing.

“Hmm.” DeBryn glanced at him, then at the cat. “I’d like to take a look, if you wouldn’t mind. Check the work they did yesterday.” Thursday nodded, but then he’d already agreed. “It would probably be easiest on your side - I don’t want to disturb you any more than necessary.”

Thursday had no room to judge of course, he’d talked to the cat enough himself yesterday, but he couldn’t help but smile at the way DeBryn addressed it. “Here,” he said, and reached out to give the cat a nudge, but he didn’t need to; it moved into a graceful sideways sprawl before his fingers got anywhere near. “Now you’re obedient,” he grumbled, thinking of the trial he’d had with it at Morse’s flat.

DeBryn reached out and gently feathered his fingers over the cat’s side and the top of its hind leg, parting the fur and leaning over to peer through his glasses. After a moment he tapped very lightly on the animal’s leg and it raised it slightly, the limb trembling with effort. DeBryn supported it with a finger underneath the joint, and continued his careful probing. Thursday couldn’t really see much under the thick layer of fur, but caught a quick glimpse of what might have been stitches and blood encrusted skin.

“Yes, I see. Well, you certainly could have taken better care of this. Still, the vet did a good job of it yesterday. I’d like to have another check in a day or two.” The doctor gently released the leg, and the cat tucked it close to its side.

“On the plus side,” DeBryn said, turning to Thursday, “I can help with at least one of your problems. I believe I’ve found your missing constable.”

Chapter Text

“On the plus side,” DeBryn said, turning to Thursday, “I can help with at least one of your problems. I believe I’ve found your missing constable.”

Thursday waited, expecting the details of some clue that the pathologist had discovered which might lead them to Morse. After a few seconds, DeBryn tipped his head towards the cat. Thursday glanced at it, then back at DeBryn. The doctor tilted his head again, more significantly.

When he looked at the cat again, icy blue eyes were watching him warily and the animal was absolutely still.  “You can’t mean…”

“I’m afraid so, based on the wound – it’s in an identical position to the one I saw on Morse early last week, relatively speaking, anyway. The colouring’s right. And his responses, too.” DeBryn turned back to the cat. “Morse, could you indicate your understanding in some way, please?”

The cat considered them both with absolute gravity for a moment, then reached out and tapped the nearest side of the box twice with his front paw. The motion seemed deliberate.

Thursday’s mouth went dry. “Impossible,” he breathed, and the doctor’s eyebrows rose.

“Surely you know better than that, Inspector.”

“Well, but – bears and wolves. I knew a bloke, in the army,” he added at DeBryn’s quick glance. “But a cat? Why?”

“Why not?” DeBryn asked with infuriating calmness. “Do you presume to understand the reason for such transformations, when they have baffled scientists and philosophers alike for thousands of years?”

“What, are there people who turn into pigeons, then? Grasshoppers?” Thursday snapped.

“Perhaps. Either way, this is definitely your wayward DC.”

Thursday turned his gaze to the cat, who had been quietly observing them. “Morse?” he asked doubtfully. The cat sneezed. “If it is him, why doesn’t he change back?” Thursday asked DeBryn. “You didn’t see the state he was in, locked in Morse’s flat!”

“And that would be the minus side,” DeBryn sighed. “I have no idea, especially if he’s been like this for a few days. I think I’ve heard mention of people becoming trapped in their other form, but you’d need an expert. It could be due to the injury, perhaps?”

“Where are we going to find an expert on this?” Thursday asked testily.

“Well, you are in Oxford,” DeBryn replied wryly. “I’ll look into it for you. I really should be getting back, however.”

“Yes,” Thursday muttered. “Yes.” He got up from the table, and vacillated for a minute. Finally he picked up the box with a muttered apology, and carried it back through to the living room.

DeBryn followed him through, and said that he’d see Morse again soon, and to look after the wound. The cat stared at them both impassively, then ducked its head down - seeming to all intents and purposes to be asleep in seconds. Thursday watched him for a moment, and wondered whether or not to say anything to Win.

The thing was, he wasn’t sure he believed it.

------------------

His Friday afternoon was taken up with a suspected arson case over on Baker Street and there was no development on Morse. He rang DeBryn just before five.

“I’ve been rather busy,” the doctor reported. “I may have found someone, but he won’t be available to talk to until Monday morning.”

“Monday?”

“Is really not that long, Inspector. I’ll take Morse if he’s too much trouble…”

“No,” Thursday said instantly, with the same visceral reaction he’d had when Morse’s sister suggested it. Oh, and so many things about his conversations with her made more sense if this was true. “We’ll keep him. The kids like having him at home, anyway.”

A moment’s strained silence on the other end. “You do know he’s not a pet, Inspector? There’s every possibility that he will object strenuously if they try to treat him like one.”

Thursday thought about that for a moment, what it would be like to have people trying to pull your tail and touch you all the time. He’d been guilty of it himself just hours ago. “I’ll warn them.”

“Alright. Don’t hesitate to give me a call if you need me. Otherwise I’ll let you know about Monday.”

Thursday left the call to Morse’s sister until after he was home, assuming she wouldn’t get off work earlier. The cat was still asleep in the living room; Win said he’d stayed like that all afternoon. Sam had gone to work, and Joan was out for a drink with the girls from the bank.

“Miss Morse, I wondered if I might ask you something about your brother. Actually, about the cat.” He paused for a moment, hoping she’d fill in the gap, but she stayed quiet. “The cat has a wound in the exact same spot as your brother was shot.” Still nothing. “And you knew exactly what he’d look like; ginger with blue eyes.”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking, Inspector?”

He sighed, rubbing a hand tiredly across his eyes. “I just want to know if I should call off the manhunt for him. Endeavour, that is. I can always make up some excuse for the paperwork. If your brother’s still out there, I want to pour every resource I have into finding him. But if he’s right under my nose, then I’m just wasting my time.”

There was nothing but the sound of her breathing for a moment, then, “I’m not sure. I mean, it’s just a guess.” Her voice was quiet – slightly unsteady. “I used to see a cat, sometimes, sneaking in and out of his window. Once, I caught him in the garden, and he let me pet him. Somehow I just… But I never asked.”

“I see.” He let out the breath he’d been holding, and scrubbed a hand through his hair. That wasn’t as clear cut as he’d wanted, but it was something. “Thank you, miss. There’s no need for you to come down, we’re happy looking after him here, and we’re finding someone that can help.”

“I appreciate that, Inspector. It’s probably better this way – my mother doesn’t care for cats. Please let me know how he does.”

Afterwards, Thursday obtained a quick kiss and a dish of milk from Win in the kitchen, and then made his way through to the living room.

His knees protested as he went down onto them; he hated the reminder that he was getting older. It seemed like only yesterday he was chasing Sam around the garden.

“Morse?” he tried, and felt ridiculous just saying it. “Christ. I’m making an utter fool of myself.”

The cat was curled on its side, the white fluff of its belly half-exposed, the tip of the tail caught between its front paws. The face was delicate, sweet. He’d heard the kids call it adorable this morning, and couldn’t disagree, though the idea of fitting that appellation to his bagman was deeply jarring.

The uppermost ear twitched occasionally, and Thursday wondered if it was dreaming.

Surely it wasn’t Morse, surely.

“Morse?” He tapped the side of the box gently. “Morse?” A slightly bigger tap.

The cat came awake with a violent flinch, head darting up as it rolled to the side. The movement was awkward – started automatically and then crimped due to pain. It adjusted into a tense crouch for a moment, then looked up at Thursday.

“Christ,” Thursday said again, and sat back on his knees. After a moment he sighed. No one else here to see him make an idiot of himself, talking to the cat as though it was a person. “Let’s have a look at you, then.” He gestured to the floor of the room.

The cat’s eyes flicked between Thursday’s face, hand, and the rest of the room. After a moment it stood in a stretch, and contemplated the edge of the box. Win had cut a panel out of it, last night, so that the cat could get in and out as it pleased. It sounded like it hadn’t done much moving around though, barring an obligatory trip to the emergency litter box she’d put together.

“Come on,” Thursday coaxed, and then immediately felt foolish for the opposite reason. God, if this was Morse, what must he be thinking of Thursday?

Finally the cat moved to the edge of the box, sniffed the side, sniffed the carpet, and then came right out as though it had never hesitated at all. It was using its back leg, but barely putting any pressure on it, and Thursday could see how much it was still hurting.  

It was long, Thursday thought, long and skinny; mostly fur. The reddish colour was darkest on the head and along the spine, fading in a mottled tabby pattern to a duller orange down the flanks, with a shock of white on the belly, throat and paws. He realised after a moment that it was waiting for him to complete his inspection, tail twitching ever so slightly.

“Alright, if you’re Morse then tell me, so as I can stop searching for him.”

The cat sat on its haunches and blinked at him, before wetting a paw to wash industriously behind its ear. Thursday sighed. “You know what I meant. Tap six times or something.”

It paused in its grooming to regard him. Then, looking much put upon, it slunk in his direction until it was close enough to touch. Thursday held his breath. Very deliberately, it reached out a paw, and laid it on his knee. Lifted it off again. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Six it was.

“Well I’ll be blowed,” he breathed. “Morse?” Because dammit, he really hadn’t believed it, no matter what DeBryn had said. The cat, Morse, just looked at him calmly. “Why didn’t you find some way of telling me?”

After a moment, the cat turned away and started towards its box again, every movement careful and controlled. “Well, I can see that you’re hurt,” Thursday said defensively. “But you’re a clever lad, you could have found a way! Scratched it on the floor, or torn out a newspaper clipping or something?” The cat’s head turned to give him a brief, scathing glance.

“Right,” he mumbled. “Oh, I brought you some milk. If you like milk? I mean, obviously you like milk. Christ.” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “I’m going to talk to Win.“ He didn’t move though.

“You’re, uh, welcome to stay here of course, although DeBryn and your sister both offered if you’d prefer that. We’re getting in touch with an expert who might be able to tell us more about,” he waved a hand at the cat, “why this has happened. Unless you know?”

The cat, Morse, Morse, had resettled in his box, and gave Thursday an unamused flat stare.

“Right,” Thursday said again, and pulled himself stiffly to his feet. He paused for a moment. “You’ve had a lot longer to get used to this idea than I have,” he said slightly reproachfully, and then went back in the kitchen.

The conversation with Win went about as well as expected. ‘You know that cat I brought home – actually, it turns out it’s the bagman I thought had been kidnapped or was lying in a ditch somewhere.’ She was disbelieving at first, but when he told her he knew it to be true she didn’t doubt him.

“Oh, the poor dear. And to think I’ve been-“ She suddenly blushed bright red, but despite all his efforts Thursday couldn’t get her to say what she’d done. He highly suspected there were some embarrassing pet names in there, and doubtless she’d spoken to the cat in the same tone that most people tended to use with animals.

“Is there some way for him to tell us what he wants?” she asked after a minute of busily ignoring him.

“I don’t know, pet. He doesn’t seem too interested in trying. He’s pretty badly hurt though – I think it’s all a bit much for him. He seems happy enough sleeping at the moment, and that’s what the vet and DeBryn said he needed.”

He had to close his eyes for a moment at the thought that he’d organised a vet to see to his bagman.

“We’ve got him sleeping in a cardboard box!” she fussed. “We can do better than that. Perhaps the sofa bed in the spare room? Or-“

“Love,” he interrupted her, “I don’t think he needs that much at the moment; just to be warm and safe and given time to heal. Certainly, upstairs might not be a good idea with his leg. Anyway, he’s got my jumper! How much more could he possibly want?” She smiled at that.

Both of the kids were back for a late dinner, and Thursday sat down with them and explained. He said that Morse was to be treated as a person, not as a pet, or at least as a person that was currently a cat, and was that understood? They both nodded earnestly, but didn’t last five minutes in the sitting room afterwards before they were both sitting on the rug beside the radiator.

“Even if he wasn’t a detective constable, he’s also hurt,” Thursday said severely. “Manhandle him at both my and his displeasure.”

“Yes, Dad,” Joan said dutifully, and then held out her fingers for Morse to sniff. Thursday figured Morse could fend for himself after that, but he kept a wary eye on them as he watched television in case Morse started looking too harassed. Soon their favourite programs drew the attention of the kids, and Morse was left in peace to doze off again.

Thursday gently squeezed Win’s hand. “It’s nice, having him here,” he admitted quietly, and she leaned over to give him a peck on the cheek.

Eventually the kids went upstairs, and Thursday kissed his wife and said he just wanted to sit down for a bit longer. She gave him a knowing look, and said goodnight.

He sat on the sofa, fondling the pipe he wasn’t going to smoke. After a few minutes, at the noise of a door shutting upstairs, he saw Morse’s ears twitch and his head slowly rise with a sleepy expression.

“Alright, Morse,” Thursday said in a low voice. “It’s just them upstairs.”

Morse’s head stayed up, but his eyes slowly drifted closed, struggling open again a moment later. He gave a little yawn and stood, stretching out in a long rolling movement which got abandoned with a flinch halfway through.

He carefully made his way out of the box and in Thursday’s direction. Once he reached the base of the sofa, he stopped, and gazed up at Thursday intently.

“Want up here, do you, lad?” Thursday asked quietly. “I’m not sure how we’ll manage that.”

He could try and pick him up, of course, but injury aside he wasn’t sure how he or Morse would feel about that. Making enough steps for the cat to walk up would take too long, and they might topple mid-way.

Finally, Thursday leaned back and stretched out his legs in front of him, and then casually looked away. After a moment he felt a tentative tap at his ankle, one he could barely feel through his socks. “Come on then,” he murmured, still studying the shelves. A firmer pressure, then. Two of them. A slight hop and a scrabble for recovery; Thursday pressed his ankles together to give the lad a broader surface. Weight which gradually and carefully crept up his legs, struggling a little over the knees, then two light steps on his thigh and off to the side.

Thursday looked down to find Morse washing himself. “That was alright, then. Well done.” He felt condescending the second he’d said it – congratulating a grown man for making it onto a sofa – but luckily Morse paid it no mind. “Hmm,” Thursday said, and went back to contemplating his pipe.

A few minutes later, Morse finished his bout of grooming and sat down, tucking his legs under him in a position which couldn’t have been comfortable. Sure enough, thirty seconds later he’d migrated into a sideways sprawl, one of his paws only a few centimetres away from Thursday’s side.

Chapter Text

Sam had been thinking of cancelling an outing with his friends, but Thursday very firmly told him that Morse needed to rest, so he went out anyway. Joan was visiting her grandmother. Just him and Win then. And Morse.

It was a warm Saturday, with blue cloudless skies and a mild, pleasant breeze. “I’m going to take you outside for a bit,” Thursday said to Morse. “Now would be the time to howl if you don’t like that idea.”

Morse made no comment, so Thursday picked up the box with him in it and carried it out the back door. He set it down at the edge of the patio, and sat himself down at the table with his pipe. Finally.

Morse lay dozing in the sun for a while, as Win came and went and then finally settled in to do some gardening. After half an hour, Thursday joined her, digging and weeding where she told him too. Always better to follow her direction, when it came to gardening; the one time he’d tried to show initiative he’d dug up some incredibly precious whatever-their-name-was. He’d have been in the doghouse, except she was reluctantly pacified by the fact that he’d been trying to do a nice thing.

At some point, a small orange body leant against his leg, and he glanced down to find Morse had made it over to them. He looked back across the garden; it was quite a ways, from his box, certainly further than the lad had walked in the last couple of days.

“You alright?” Thursday asked, unable to keep a worried note out of his tone– maybe Morse had needed something, and they’d not been paying attention. But Morse just sniffed the turned earth in front of them interestedly, and moved closer to Win to bat at her fingers occasionally as she planted. She laughed like she was a girl again, and smiled all the way through the rest of the patch.

Eventually Morse roamed on, and a few minutes after he disappeared out of sight behind a bush Thursday got restless. “What if he’s…” and then Win’s raised eyebrow made him feel foolish. “Oh. I didn’t think of that.”

“Let’s just say I think it would be best for all involved if I brought him out once or twice a day. Cats aren’t meant to be cooped up inside, anyway.”

Thursday thought of a range of responses to that, starting with ‘he’s not a bloody cat,’ and ending on ‘he hasn’t seemed to mind sleeping twenty hours a day so far,’ but in the end spoke none of them. Win clearly knew he was thinking something of the sort, because she leaned over to give his leg a quick pinch. “Oi!”

It wasn’t long before a now-familiar ginger form ambled on to the next flower bed, sniffing and inspecting as he went. He didn’t get much further before coming back out to the lawn and plonking himself down in an impressive sprawl, as though trying to cover as large a surface area as possible. Thursday couldn’t help smiling every time he glanced over at him.

“Right, I think I’m done,” Win announced as she peeled off her gloves. “Fancy a drink on the patio while I make a late lunch?”

“Morse,” he called, “I’m going back to the patio. You alright here?” The supine form didn’t stir, and with a shrug Thursday left him to it.

He was sipping a beer and reading the newspaper when movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. Morse had sat upright, and, on seeing Thursday, took one halting step towards him. Then he stopped.

“Alright, lad, I’m coming.” Thursday picked up the cardboard box in one hand – Win was probably right, they should at least make him another less shabby – and made his way to the other end of the garden.

“Hello, there,” he greeted Morse when he got closer. “Walked too far today, did we?” He set the box down in front of Morse, and waited for him to clamber in. He set off back towards the house. “Do you want to stay here, or go back inside? One tap for here, two for the house.” Thunk. “Right enough, it’s a lovely day.”

He set the box down several feet away on the patio, enough that the lad would feel like he had his own space, and went back to his newspaper. Morse went back to sleep.

---------

Sam and Joan were disappointed to have missed Morse walking round the garden, but since they’d both had fun they were easily placated. “What’s the fascination?” Thursday asked Win, bewildered, and she gave him a look.

At dinner Morse got a plate with shredded pork, rice and gravy. Win had wanted to give him some vegetables, too, but Thursday convinced her that probably wouldn’t fly.

It wasn’t long past nine when Win told Sam and Joan to go and read in their rooms, and told Thursday she was going to go and do some knitting upstairs for a bit.

“Why can’t you do it here?” he asked, bemused. Certainly, the spare room was also her craft room, but unless she needed to use the sewing machine she did most things down here with them.

“Sweetheart.” She reached out a hand, and tugged him to his feet. Her smile was kind, and she leaned up to whispered in his ear. “I’ve no plans to go to bed alone tonight; I need you there so my feet don’t get cold. So you can have your quiet time with Morse now, and then come to bed with me in a bit, alright?”

He opened his mouth to say something – what, he had no idea – but she gave him a firm look. He closed it again. “Very good,” she said, and swept out of the room.

“Well, that’s me told,” he muttered to the room at large. A quick peek showed Morse was dead to the world though, and hadn’t heard any of it. Just as well, really, he might lose respect for his DI if he saw Win order him about enough. That much was probably done already, though.

He turned the wireless on low, a classical station he favoured in the evenings. Easy enough to close your eyes to, and let the cares slip away. He was hovering on the edge of dreams himself when he felt a ticklish sensation just above the top of his socks; blinking away sleep he glanced down to find Morse investigating his slippers – it must have been his whiskers. He uncrossed his legs and settled back, letting his eyes drift closed again. The slightly wavering procession up his legs barely disturbed him, and he let out a contented hum as a warm, solid weight came to rest against his right side. Without thinking about it, his right arm dropped to lie on his leg, and the back of it brushed against soft, sleek fur.

Seconds later a quiet, rumbling purr started up – stuttery at first, but smoothing into a steady, pleasing tone. Thursday hummed again, and was out like a light.

Win came to retrieve him at bedtime, and wouldn’t stop grinning at him after catching him and Morse asleep together on the couch. Morse had to be gently scooped into his box to be lowered down, refusing to wake fully, and Thursday’s heart had ached slightly at the trust Morse had shown him. The echo of Morse’s warmth against his side lingered, and he couldn’t bring himself to chastise Win for her tender smile.

---------

Sunday the kids were home – Sam had a friend round and they’d been playing cricket in the garden, and Joan was helping her mother with a few things.

Thursday was up in Sam’s room, putting up new shelves. He was just hammering in a nail when he heard the shout from downstairs, and he nearly fell sideways off the chair he was standing on in his haste to get down.

“What is it, what’s happened?” he asked, panicked, as he rushed into the living room. He took in the room in snapshots – Win standing just inside the doorway holding a kitchen cloth, Sam and Joan standing white faced, Sam’s friend clutching a bloody hand -

And Morse, compressed into the corner of his box, fur standing on end, hissing furiously.

“Alright,” Win said, taking change. “Billy, you come into the kitchen so we can run that under the tap. Joan dear, could you fetch the Dettol and plasters?”

Sam and Thursday were left standing there.

“But I touch him all the time, and he doesn’t mind” Sam said slightly guiltily. Then, more remorsefully, “Billy didn’t know. And Morse was asleep.” Sam hesitated. “He – he started rubbing his stomach. I didn’t see in time, I-“

Thursday’s vision went white hot, his fists clenching of their own volition, as though the violation, the indignity, had been visited upon him and not Morse.

“We’ll talk about this later,” and it was a struggle to keep his voice even. Sam nodded, eyes downcast, and swiftly left the room. Thursday closed the door behind him, and then went to sit on the couch. He wanted to be closer, to touch Morse, but that would have only been for his own reassurance and undoubtedly the last thing Morse needed.

“Alright, Morse?” he asked eventually, keeping a calm tone. Morse had stopped hissing as soon as the other lad had left the room, but he was still huddled in his corner looking miserable. Thursday sighed. “I’m sorry, I should have been firmer with the children.”

They’d all be taking liberties with him though – Win idly reaching out to run a hand over his back when he was on the move, Thursday’s own small touches of comfort. The kids had been the worst, petting his head and back all the time, but he hadn’t seemed overly fussed and they hadn’t pestered him beyond that.

Thursday forced himself to take a step back and think about that. If Morse, the human Morse, had been here, and Win had stroked down his back as he passed, if Thursday or Sam or Joan had reached out to ruffle his hair, or rub his forehead, or some complete stranger had started touching his stomach while he was sleeping…

Morse had been extending them a lot of trust the last few days, and a lot of leeway. For all Thursday knew, he was possibly so grateful not to be turned out on the streets while he still had a bullet hole in him that he felt he had to put up with it.

Thursday sighed again. “I meant what I said before, about you having other options, with your family, or at DeBryn’s place. Might be quieter there. Not that I want you to go,” he added hastily. “I just, I’m sorry. I know we slip up and treat you more cat than man sometimes.”

Morse’s posture seemed to gradually deflate, and he slid down to sit more comfortably. “I am sorry,” Thursday said again quietly. “Are you alright?”

Morse didn’t move further, but his posture seemed less guarded. He and Thursday watched each other for a minute. “Right. I’ll have a word with the others. If it gets too much, you let me know, alright?”

In the kitchen the scratch was covered up – “Not too deep,” Win whispered to him – and the boy’s good humour restored with a treat from the cupboard.

“Go on, then, outside with you,” Thursday said good naturedly, but he stopped Sam with a hand on his elbow when he moved to follow. “Sam, Joan, a word?”

They dutifully lined up in front of him.

“That in there is a man, my officer, my friend. He’s saved my life before, and the lives of many others. He deserves to be treated with respect, do you understand me?” They both nodded mutely. Win nodded too. “No more treating him like he’s your plaything. No more touching. If you have friends over, then they are supervised at all times – tell them he doesn’t like to be touched, tell them he’s injured, I don’t care! Don’t let this happen again!” They nodded, and shuffled out of the kitchen, subdued.

“It’s so easy to forget,” Win sighed. Thursday moved to take her into his arms.

“I know, love,” he murmured into her hair. “I know.”

--------------------

It was hard to stick to the new resolutions when Morse didn’t seem to agree with them. He wandered into the kitchen that afternoon and twined around Win’s ankles – Thursday was passing through the hall when he saw her reach down to give him a stroke, and the guilty look when she glanced up and saw him was enough to break Thursday’s heart. Sam and Joan sat neatly on the sofa that evening, and Morse hauled himself out of his box to come and sit on their feet, and play with half-off slippers.

It occurred to Thursday after a while of this, of Sam and Joan desperately trying to ignore the playful cat at their feet, that Morse was trying to tell them it was alright. That maybe he might miss the small touches, and it had only been the more invasive one from a stranger that had been the problem.

Thursday wasn’t sure though – everything he’d said earlier was true. They really shouldn’t be treating Morse like a cat.

Another few minutes, and he saw Joan’s fingers twitching.

“Alright then,” he groaned. “As you were. I meant what I said about the visitors, though.”

Though surely Morse would be returned to himself quickly enough, and it wouldn’t matter.

The kids were on the carpet in seconds, and Morse settled between them like royalty holding court. They weren’t even touching him that much anyway – mostly just admiring him and holding their fingers out to him, with the occasional stroke. Now that they’d been given permission, the novelty wore off quickly again, and they were soon back to watching the tv, with only the odd bit of fussing over him. At least Morse seemed to have shaken off what had happened, and wasn’t holding against them.

Chapter Text

It felt a bit of a wrench to leave Morse on Monday morning. He limped into the hallway to see Thursday off – Thursday thought he was looking a bit less pained, now – and Thursday got the very clear impression he wanted to come along.

“No,” Thursday said firmly. “We need to get you looked at first. DeBryn was looking it up – he’ll be in touch today. You get some more rest. No chasing criminals, you hear me?”

Morse looked slighted, and turned towards the kitchen instead.

The pathologist rang at around 10. “I’ve managed to get an appointment with Professor Tumlinson this afternoon,” he stated with no preamble. “He’s one of the leading experts in England.”

“Right, tell me when and where, and I’ll bring Morse,” Thursday said, reaching for pen and paper.

“I’m, ah, not so sure that’s a good idea, Inspector. Unfortunately I couldn’t get hold of him in person, and so I’d like to go by myself first. Ascertain his knowledge and credibility.”

“You just said-“

“Yes, well many stupid people manage to rise through the ranks regardless.” DeBryn’s tone was irritated. “I’ve no desire to expose Morse to an incompetent, or, worse, to someone whose ambitions might lead him to regard Morse as a lab rat.”

That stopped Thursday cold. “I’d not thought of that,” he said slowly; the notion of them taking Morse away to study didn’t bear thinking about.

“Quite. Let me talk to him, and if he seems sound then we can arrange something afterwards. I’ll call again this afternoon.”

Thursday said goodbye and hung up, feeling a little like he’d taken a step forward only to find the ground unstable. In his head he’d been assuming this would all be over by today – they would take Morse to an expert, he would get fixed, end of problem.

He rang home, and Win reassured him that Morse was napping in the garden – she’d been watching him through the kitchen window.

Trying to work out what to tell Jakes, and everyone else at the station, had been a thorny issue of its own. In the end he said that Morse had managed to get in touch, that his injury had worsened, and that he needed a few days extra recuperation.

Hopefully, that would be true enough.

Still, he was on tenterhooks all day waiting for DeBryn to report back, and he knew he took his mood out on Jakes, Strange and various other constables every time they came to interrupt him with something trivial. Jakes picked up on it quickly enough, staying out of his way, but everyone else was distressingly slow today. And there was no case to sink his teeth into – nothing but a backlog of burglaries and assault cases waiting to go to trial.

It was past four before DeBryn rang, and Thursday was on his second cup of coffee after lunch. “Ah, Inspector, I’d hoped to catch you.”

“Any luck?” Thursday asked hopefully.

“I tried to couch it as hypothetical, but Tumlinson wouldn’t commit without seeing the case in question. I haven’t told him anything about Morse yet. He did give me some general background though – people that have got stuck before.”

“And? How did they change back?”

The doctor hmmed. “Unfortunately that is what there isn’t much evidence about. And Tumlison suggested cases are probably underreported – people just disappear, and most of the time no one thinks to go looking for them in the woods.”

Thursday sat back in his chair, and found himself getting a headache. “You mean they don’t come back? They stay like that?”

“No, not all of them. That part was mostly supposition, excuse my ramblings. Some of them turn back – but there have only been four documented cases in the last hundred years.” DeBryn paused. “He said it might take weeks, Inspector, if it happens at all.”

“Weeks? But-“

“You’re best talking to him directly, I imagine. Would you prefer to meet at the college, or your house? If you want to keep Morse’s identity secret, I would suggest not the latter.”

“If I take him there, to meet this professor, there’s no chance they’ll just… well, take him?”

“I’d like to see them try, with you there,” DeBryn said dryly. More seriously he added, “He seemed a sympathetic sort, for an academic. I got the feeling he might have personal experience with the subject matter.”

“Oh? Oh!”

“Yes, exactly. I’ll tell him half past twelve tomorrow, shall I, and we’ll get it done over lunch?”

“Yes,” Thursday agreed absently, his thoughts miles away. “Sounds good. I’ll pick you up on the way.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow then, Inspector.”

---------

Professor Tumlinson was a short, squat man of forty-something, whose eyes creased in a smile behind his glasses as he ushered them into his office. It was, as Thursday had come to expect from academics, lined on all sides with books and clutter, but in the middle there was a table presumably meant for meetings which was mostly clear.

“This must be your friend,” the professor said, and held out his hand to Thursday. Thursday carefully lowered the cardboard box onto the table, and shook with a firm grip. The professor waited for an introduction, but DeBryn said nothing and the moment stretched longer than was strictly polite.

“Call me Fred,” Thursday said finally. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, professor.”

“Not at all, the pleasure is all mine. Please, sit.” He gestured them into seats, and Thursday drew the box along the table so that he could sit with it directly in front of him. Morse was being suspiciously quiet under the flaps – partially because Thursday had explained, and partially because Thursday suspected he was still feeling severely car sick.

The box was a new one, of course, less tatty and without a cut-away in the side.

DeBryn started off the conversation. “Professor, we spoke yesterday about cases where a shapeshifter seems unable to shift back.”

“Yes, that’s right. Very little known about it, of course, since shape changers are so rare, or rarely known, in the first place. I suppose the first question would be to ask if you are certain that the person involved has become, hmm, shall we say ‘stuck,’ and is not just choosing not to change back?”

Thursday glanced at DeBryn, startled, and shook his head. To be honest that had never occurred to him. “I don’t – I mean, no. This person wouldn’t do that. He’d – I mean they would never…”

The professor looked between them for a moment. “I see,” he said neutrally. “And you are sure this person is stuck; that is, you haven’t taken another animal for him by accident?”

“About that we are sure,” DeBryn said dryly.

Professor Tumlinson nodded, and his eyes fell to the box. “Well, then? Shall we?” He raised his eyebrows in enquiry, and Thursday reluctantly reached out to unfold the flaps.

Inside the box Morse was lying flat on his belly, looking groggy. He squinted up at the sudden influx of light, and immediately fixed on Thursday with a plaintive noise.

“I know, lad,” Thursday murmured. “But we need to get you looked at. This is Professor Tumlinson, he’s an expert.” Morse slowly raised himself on still-shaky legs, and peered out of the box in the professor’s direction, nose and whiskers twitching.

“Good afternoon,” the professor said pleasantly. He didn’t seem surprised that the animal in question was a cat, so it must have been more normal than Thursday thought. “I hear you’re having some problems?”

Morse seemed to consider him for a moment, took the room in in a brief glance, and then retreated back into the box.

“Come on, now, Mo- lad. You might as well come out for a bit.” Thursday slowly tilted the box, and Morse slid sideways a little, until the side was low enough for him to step out. “Stop being stubborn!”

Morse glared daggers at him, and then stepped casually out with a yawn as though it had been his intention all along. He was moving a bit better, Thursday noted, pleased.

DeBryn obviously thought so too, because he said, “Oh yes, that’s healing nicely.”

“Healing? He was injured?” The professor was watching Morse with sharp eyes. “Was this before or after he assumed his current form?”

Thursday glanced at the pathologist before answering. “Before. About a week or so before. I think he might have reinjured it, but I don’t know if that was just before or after.”

“I see. Leg, was it?” Morse curved his neck around to start washing his back.

“Hip, actually, on a human,” DeBryn corrected.

“May I ask how he was injured?” Thursday frowned, and looked across at DeBryn again, debating how much information to give. The professor seemed to become frustrated with his silence. “If you are trying to protect a friend with your reticence, that is admirable, but if you are unwilling to answer because you have been mistreating him, or keeping him captive…”

“What, no! Of course he’s a friend. I didn’t know, until this, about the… shape changing. I just – if he’s been keeping it a secret for this long…”

The professor relaxed and seemed to accept that as an answer. “I see. Well, that’s easily enough solved.” He turned to Morse. “Excuse me, would you mind if your friend told me your name and the circumstances surrounding your shift?”

Morse’s head had jerked up on being addressed directly; he stared unblinkingly at the professor for a moment before turning back to Thursday. He tapped his paw deliberately on the table twice. Thursday sighed – that had become their signal.

“Alright then. His name’s Morse. He’s a police officer – he was shot in the line of duty.”

“Hmm.” The professor reached behind him for a notepad on his desk. “Sorry, do you mind?” he asked Morse. “I tend to lose track.” Morse considered for a moment, then walked across the table to him and sat next to him. His next move was to reach out a paw and start batting at the professor’s pen. “I’ll take that as a no then,” the professor said wryly, retrieving another pen from his pocket to make a quick note. Thursday read ‘shot’ upside down.

“He didn’t receive proper care for the wound for a while afterwards, due to other circumstances,” DeBryn mentioned.

The professor considered them both for a minute. “The most likely explanation for his current state is some kind of trauma. A traumatic injury would certainly be capable of triggering it, especially if he felt unsafe afterwards, but I would have expected him to have shifted immediately, which you say he did not?” They both shook their heads.

The professor started dragging the tip of the pen lightly back and forth across the table. Morse watched with interest. After a few seconds the pen swiftly whipped sideways, and Morse pounced. Thursday tensed, expecting the lad to have hurt himself, but he seemed fine – a few inches were apparently not a problem. Morse carefully examined the pen tip he had caught between his front paws, and the professor casually ruffled a hand over his head, rubbing at his ears.

Thursday had scraped back his chair and was standing in seconds. “Don’t touch him,” he snapped.

The professor blinked up at him myopically, startled by his display of temper. “Why ever not,” he asked. “You said it was his leg that was hurt?”

“Morse?” Morse ignored Thursday, still far more interested in his prize. Thursday looked at Tumlinson again. “He’s a man, not a cat!”

“Ah,” and now the professor regarded him with a far kinder gaze. “I’m afraid you are operating under a misapprehension. He is, in fact, a cat and not a man.”

“What?” Thursday spat. His hands tightened on the edge of the table, but he saw DeBryn looking thoughtful out of the corner of his eye.

“Look at him.” The professor hooked a finger under Morse’s chin, and turned it towards Thursday. Morse half growled, and tried to nip at his fingers, but in the end turned his head to stare at Thursday. “He is a cat. He has a cat’s body, and a cat’s needs. He is, of course, still the person you know him to be, but he is not a man.”

Thursday slowly resumed his seat, trying to decide if this professor was a total loony. “What are you talking about? He’s still Morse!”

“I think I might understand,” DeBryn said quietly. “You mean to say that while he is still Morse,” with a quick glance at Thursday, “he has the cares and needs of an animal rather than a human being?”

“Yes, precisely,” the professor said in a pleased tone. He released Morse, and the cat immediately took two steps away from him with a disdainful look. “It is perhaps best described as a… different set of priorities. I do not know what Morse the man was like, but Morse the cat needs to eat, and sleep, and play – though he will perhaps need more mental stimulation than an actual feline.”

“He likes opera, and crosswords,” Thursday said after a minute, and the professor nodded.

“But you see, as a cat he is unable to read. And I am not entirely sure how his ears would perceive opera – probably not pleasantly. Whereas a good scratch behind the ears-“ he reached out and performed the action as he described it “-is something he does enjoy.”

“But doesn’t he mind?” Thursday asked, unable to get past that. “People treating him like that? Strangers?”

The professor’s gaze sharpened. “I imagine he would mind it from a stranger, very much. I only attempted it because his body language told me it would be acceptable, and it gave me a chance to ascertain his wellbeing. You really ought to feed him more, by the way.”

Thursday sighed. “He’s always been skinny,” he grumbled.

“And now I feel we have diverted too far from our previous topic. Are there any other circumstances which might have forced and fixed a transformation?”

Thursday looked down at the table. “His father died,” he said gruffly. “Lad missed making it up to be with him while he could still talk. He stayed to pull my bacon out of the fire – that’s when he got shot. He’d, uh, he’d just come back from the funeral last Tuesday – I know he made it back alright. Then on Thursday I got worried when I hadn’t seen him; found him like this in his flat.”

“And you say he aggravated the wound in that time? I suppose that could have done it, though I’d be surprised that the original shot didn’t in that case. Perhaps a cumulative effect, with the death of his father – again, I don’t think that would have caused it alone, as distressed changes tend to be immediate.”

DeBryn had been right, the professor was talking about this as though his knowledge about shape shifting was from more than just books.

“Well, how can he change back?” Thursday asked impatiently.

The professor looked from him to DeBryn, and then down at Morse. “I’m terribly sorry, I thought your friend must have told you – I don’t know. From previous accounts and my own dabbling in psychology, I would say that the trauma, whatever it is, needs to be resolved; that’s why I was trying to find out what it was. But I have no idea how long that might take.”

Thursday bit back unhelpful words and sat back with a huff. DeBryn sighed. Morse flopped on his side, and stared at the professor.

“It’s a great pity that Morse himself cannot communicate what happened,” the professor murmured. “Although of course he might not wish to anyway – anything that might cause this… The mind and body choose to retreat to this form because they believe it will keep them safe.”

Thursday was feeling numb and helpless. “His place was wrecked,” he said quietly. “But I think that was him, after he turned into a cat. Actually, given the amount of damage he did, he can’t have hurt himself before he changed. It must have been after. And he pushed the key under the door for someone to find. God, he must have thought he would die in there, if no one came to check on him.”

“I’m not sure how much advice I can offer you gentlemen then. If it is the wound, then he needs to be allowed to heal. If it is the passing of his father…” the professor exhaled slowly. “That only time will mend. Perhaps connecting with other family. Above all he needs to feel safe.” He glanced down at Morse. “I apologise for talking over your head like this.” Morse sneezed. “Yes, quite. If you can find another reason why he might have changed, or I can give you any further aid, then please do get in touch.”

It was a clear dismissal, and they rose from the table. Morse found his way back to the box, and stood beside it while Thursday tilted it.

“Unless-“ They all looked up at the professor. “I have just been assuming that you or his family are able to care for him, is that the case?”

Understanding that the professor was kind in offering, Thursday tamped down his gut-reaction of no way in hell. “We’re happy keeping him with us, and there’s several others would be delighted to have him too.” Thursday forced himself to look down at Morse, to ask, “Unless you’d rather?” But Morse lashed his tail and tucked back into the box, which Thursday then carefully righted.

“Well then,” said DeBryn. “Thank you for your time, professor.”

“I’m only sorry I couldn’t be more help. Good luck to you, Morse. Please let me know how it goes.”

Chapter Text

Thursday didn’t say anything to the kids, but he quietly filled Win in on the day’s events. That they didn’t know how long it would last, what had caused it, and that Morse should perhaps be treated differently after all.

“Well, that makes sense,” she said approvingly. On his uncertain look, she added, “Well, all these ones you’ve heard of – the bears and wolves in the army – what do they do when they’re bears and wolves? Sit down and play cards?”

“I suppose not,” he said wryly. “Actually, now that I think about, it, the one bloke used to go off for long runs in the woods. Hunt rabbits. I never thought anything of it at the time.”

A ball of rolled up newspaper had made it into Morse’s cardboard box after dinner – Thursday was guessing Sam from his sideways glances – and Morse occasionally reached out to toy with it and enjoy the rustling noises it made. Joan was out for the evening, and Sam made his way upstairs to his room before too long. Win fished her knitting out, and the two of them sat quietly talking on the couch. At some point, her ball of wool rolled off the edge of the sofa when she pulled at the strand – it happened all the time.

“What – no!” Win grabbed at the loops of her knitting, holding them on the needle as the loose end was suddenly given a sharp tug.

Thursday didn’t realise what had happened at first, thinking she’d just lost her grip, but then as he saw her starting to fight back against a force on the other end things became clear.

“Morse!” He got off the couch and leaned down to look underneath. Sure enough an orange ball of fluff was wrapped around Win’s yarn, holding it securely. Thursday sighed. “Let go, Morse, that’s my wife’s.”

Bright eyes glared at him balefully, and Morse’s back legs kicked at the ball of wool while his front paws held it close. There was another startled exclamation from above him. “Morse,” Thursday said sternly, but he couldn’t keep his lips from twitching slightly. “If you don’t let go I’ll…” What did one punish a cat with? “Decide you need a bath.”

Morse eyed him for a few seconds, trying to gauge his sincerity. Eventually he obviously decided it wasn’t worth the risk, and pushed the yarn away from him with a quick thrust of his paws. Thursday carefully fished under the couch and drew it out – only a little mangled.

“Sorry, love.”

Win took the ball and rewrapped it a little. “It’ll be fine.” She put her knitting down and sighed. “Morse?” A ginger head poked tentatively out from the couch next to Thursday, then Morse slunk slowly out. Thursday thought he might have been emphasizing his limp a bit to avoid punishment. “I’m not angry with you, love. I know you just wanted to play. But this is for my nephew, and I’d like to get it right. Maybe we can find you something else next time?”

Obviously feeling appropriately reprimanded, Morse reached out and patted a paw meekly against her slippers. She reached down with her free hand to glide gentle fingers across his head. Then he turned to make his way back to his box. “No, you don’t have to go back – it’s nice that you’re out and about a bit more.”

Thursday moved to sit next to her again, and she gave him a quick smile. Maybe twenty minutes later she bundled up her knitting and said she needed some things from her craft room. He squeezed her hand, and said he liked having her here. She smiled softly at him for that, kissed him on the cheek and said she knew he liked his quiet time too.

It wasn’t long before Morse came to join Thursday in the warm spot Win had left behind. He moved with confidence up the gangplank of Thursday’s legs this time, and immediately tucked in along Thursday’s thigh. Thursday kept reading the newspaper, pretending he hadn’t noticed. When he reached the crossword, he read each clue slowly out loud, just in case Morse could solve them in his head. Based on what the professor had said, Thursday didn’t know if he’d been interested.

Once that was done, he looked down at the reddish lump by his side. As though sensing the focus of his gaze, Morse glanced up and met Thursday’s eyes. He held them with his own for a moment, and then stretched out a bit more, his head moving to rest partially against Thursday’s leg.

What was that the professor had said, about body language?

“If you don’t want me to stroke you,” Thursday murmured, cautiously reaching out a hand, “please tell me before you scratch my fingers off.” He touched his forefinger very lightly behind Morse’s ear, which flicked, and then ran it down the scruff of Morse’s neck to the blades of his shoulders. Morse closed his eyes, pushed his head a little further into the couch and Thursday’s thigh, and let out a low purr.

“Well, alright then.” Thursday watched carefully for any sign of discontent as he drew fingers gently over the top of Morse’s head, around his ears, and then, greatly daring, down his cheek. Morse purred consistently throughout, and stretched out his head at the last, leaning it back to expose the soft white fur under his chin. Holding his breath, Thursday carefully dipped a finger to stroke along Morse’s bared throat, and he could feel the vibration even more strongly there as he smoothed his other fingers over silky fur to join it.

He rubbed and stroked and scratched gently – fingers moving on automatic now from years of having cats when he was younger. Very good at letting you know when they approved, cats were. The purring rhythm under his fingers was soothing, and the newspaper was soon dropped to the side as he dozed.

---------------

Those quiet moments in the evening quickly grew to be Thursday’s favourite part of the day. He would sit and tell Morse about his day at the station – any cases he had – and Morse would listen with ears pricked intently, occasionally looking up at Thursday as though to assure him he still had his full attention. Then Thursday would pick up the newspaper, or put the radio on, and Morse would lower his head and start to purr as Thursday ran deft fingers through his fur.

Over the course of just a week they’d all gotten incredibly attached to having Morse around, enough that they fretted about leaving him behind for their trip to the seaside the coming weekend. They’d been planning it for a while – they were to go up to Holkam Bay in Norfolk. They’d arranged a small cottage nearby overnight as a treat, so that they’d get two full days at the beach, and the weather was due to be perfect.

“Maybe we should cancel?” Win said quietly as they stood in the kitchen early on Thursday evening, watching Joan walking slowly around the garden with Morse. He was still limping, but he could make it almost the whole way round now, even if he still needed a rest afterwards.

“No, we’ve been looking forward to this for ages. Besides, he’ll be fine.” Thursday said this with somewhat false conviction, as secretly he’d been worrying more than any of them. “DeBryn’s happy to take him. Morse will probably prefer the quiet there anyhow.”

“We could cut it down to a day trip?”

“Win, love, he’ll be fine. Look at me – fine. He’s a grown lad, and an independent one at that. DeBryn and he get along well, and the doctor will take good care of him.”

“I know that,” she said, sounding completely unconvinced. “Of course he’ll be fine. But – oh Fred, what if something happens? What if he thinks we’ve left him? What if he doesn’t want to come back?” It was a perfect mirror of his own fears.

“He didn’t have to stay in the first place,” he chose to say in the end. “He wouldn’t have, if he wasn’t happy here. We’ll go and have a lovely couple of days in the sun, and he’ll be here when we get back.”

The children were far worse. All excitement over the trip was lost in guilt over abandoning Morse. They wanted to take him with them, one or both of them wanted to stay behind, they wanted to rearrange for another weekend when he was doing better. Thursday put his foot down, firmly.

It wasn’t until later that he got a moment alone with Morse. “What do you think of all this, then? Are you alright going to stay with DeBryn?” Morse blinked sleepily at him from his spot over by the radiator.

Morse still favoured the old cardboard box he’d come in, and had got very upset when Win had tried to take it away to exchange it. Although he was now at home sprawled in a number of spots all over the living room, he’d still retreat to his box on a regular basis. Thursday’s jumper had started looking rather the worse for wear too – one of the sleeves had started unravelling – and Thursday had given up on the idea of getting it back. Still, he owed Morse a lot more than a jumper for coming back to pull his arse out of the fire at The Moonlight Rooms.

“I mean it, Morse,” Thursday added when there was no further movement. “The kids and Win are driving me half barmy not wanting to leave you, and I…” He cleared his throat. “Well, I’d be happy to stay too, if you’d rather.”

After appearing to consider Thursday gravely for a moment, Morse stretched his way out of his box and picked his way across the carpet. It had become routine, now, Thursday extending his legs, Morse’s slightly awkward hop. Instead of jumping off onto the sofa though, Morse maintained a precarious standing position on Thursday’s thigh. Careful not to dislodge him, Thursday slid his legs up to right angles again to give him a better platform.

Morse hovered from paw to paw for a moment, as though a little unsure what to do with himself, and then lowered his weight back on his haunches and wrapped his tail around his legs.

“Does this mean you want us to stay?” Thursday asked uncertainly. It had been so much easier when Morse could talk. They’d yet to figure out a better system for communication than one tap for no, two for yes – and Morse only used that when he felt like it.

Morse stared at him for a minute. It was something you had to get used to, being regarded so intently by someone. Still, the human Morse had sometimes given him long, uncanny looks as well, so it wasn’t particularly out of character.

“It’s alright if you do.”

Morse got up, a little unsteadily, and Thursday put a hand out to the side as he wobbled. He righted himself quickly though, and stepped forward to tentatively place a paw on Thursday’s stomach. He pressed down a little, retreated, pressed down again. At first Thursday thought he was trying to tap, to say something, but then Morse leaned forward and put his weight on it properly.

“This had better not be a comment on me eating too much pudding,” Thursday commented dryly, and then Morse used his new leverage to push upwards and reach out his other front paw to pat Thursday firmly on the nose. Thursday froze – one hand still in the air in case Morse lost his balance – and went near cross eyed looking down at the small white paw which was swiftly withdrawing.

Morse backed up, down into his previous position sitting on Thursday’s lap, and waited.

Thursday closed his mouth, which had at some point fallen open. “I’m going to assume that was you telling me not to be ridiculous, rather than feeling a sudden urge to hit me on the nose?” The paw had been incredibly gentle though, a friendly tap which had very easily conveyed a message. Morse held his gaze a moment longer, before bringing up his paw to start washing it. Thursday’s lips twitched in a smile. “Alright then, message received.”

He waited for to Morse to move, but the cat stayed firmly planted where he was, and Thursday didn’t want to accidentally dislodge him by shifting. After a minute, Morse finished his washing, and turned in a tight circle. Thursday started to reach for his newspaper, expecting the weight to alight at any second, but Morse turned again, and this time at the end of the circle he sunk down into a loose curl on Thursday’s lap.

Thursday paused, mid-reach. He stared down at the top of Morse’s head, which stayed stubbornly turned away from him. Clearly they weren’t going to discuss this development.

There were two ways of looking at this. One was that his bagman was on his lap. The other was that a cat was on his lap. One of those was perfectly natural, and the other deeply disturbing.

A third view, which Thursday felt a hasty need to fine tune, was that Morse, who was currently a cat, was doing what he needed to as a cat. Different priorities, the professor had said. A different set of needs.

Morse was patient with Sam and Joan, and seemed to enjoy being spoiled by Win, but he didn’t usually seek them out. He didn’t come and sit next to them, or encourage them to pet him – barring that one time Thursday thought he’d been trying to reassure them. It was Thursday he did that with – Thursday he’d chosen as the one he could trust.

“Well then,” Thursday murmured, throat feeling a little tight. He cautiously lowered his hand until it rested lightly on Morse’s back, feeling a fast heartbeat under his fingertips as they draped over the lad’s side. Morse half swallowed a quiet purring noise, but as Thursday gently moved his fingers it emerged again and grew louder. “Alright, Morse. Alright.”

Chapter Text

Thursday dropped Morse off on the Friday night, since they were to make an early start on the Saturday. He had a list of Morse’s favourite foods from Win, a small rubber ball which Sam had donated a couple of days before, and, of course, Thursday’s jumper.

“He seems much more relaxed,” DeBryn commented as Morse clambered out of his box to investigate the doctor’s living room. He still wasn’t putting much weight on his back leg, but his movements were a lot smoother. “And in less pain. You’ve been taking good care of him.” It was absurd, but Thursday’s chest swelled a little with the compliment.

Morse wandered his way past various items of furniture, leaning against them as he passed by and sometimes returning to rub his cheek against them.

“Would you mind taking a look at the wound, while he’s here?”

“Of course not, I’d planned to. Any progress on the other front?”

Thursday shook his head, and set the rest of Morse’s things down. “No. I had another chat with his sister – she doesn’t know much about the whole thing. Anyway, she said nothing particular happened on the Tuesday; they had the funeral but Morse didn’t seem… She said he was more upset after his father passed. Morse was the one who found him.”

DeBryn sighed. “It’s never an easy thing, to lose a family member. Were they close?”

Thursday paused, and picked his words with care, aware than Morse was listening. “I’m not sure I know enough to say. I don’t think Morse had visited in some time. His sister was certainly glad to see him. He, uh, he went up a few days before his father died,” and here he paused to see if Morse would object, but the cat paid him no mind. “I got the impression he felt less than welcome, but he didn’t say anything.”

“I see. So we’re still working on it being something cumulative, with a trigger we don’t know.”

Morse had gone behind an armchair, and Thursday shifted slightly to see if he could keep him in view. “Yes. Hopefully as his injury heals that will do it. Will he heal quicker, as a cat?”

“I’m honestly not sure – you’d have to consult the veterinary surgeon. The wound has reduced in size, but proportionally so. He’s getting a lot more rest than he would if he was a human, though, and that’s to his benefit. I believe there is also some evidence that purring helps significantly with the healing process.”

“Purring?” Thursday asked. He thought of Morse coming to sit with him, of the rumbling purr that went on and on. Perhaps Morse really did know what he needed.

DeBryn almost seemed to know what he was thinking, because he said firmly, “Is to be encouraged at every opportunity, I would have said.”

“Hmm.” They chatted for another few minutes, and then Thursday gathered his coat and hat and prepared to leave. “Morse, I’m going,” he called, but Morse had disappeared somewhere. That was what cats did, Thursday told himself sternly, but it stung a little nonetheless. DeBryn gave him a sympathetic smile, and wished him a good weekend.

-------------

They did have a good weekend, a fantastic one, even. Sam and Joan acted like they were properly kids again, running in and out of the waves and trying to outcompete each other at building sandcastles. They ate ice-cream, read and played cards. There was a beautiful sandy floored forested area just behind the dunes, and they went for a walk pretending they were explorers – Thursday was labelled chief of the expedition, and they had to report their findings to him.

Win seemed more carefree, out by the seaside, and Thursday told himself he should find the time to take her out more often.

He worried about Morse – completely irrationally, he knew. The kids had practically forgotten his existence the moment they arrived, and, after Thursday had told her how dropping him off had gone, Win seemed confident he’d be fine. “You’ll see him tomorrow, love,” she said on the Saturday, able to read his expression far too well. He’d given her a smile, and handed her the orange he’d just peeled.

He worried anyway.

They collected Morse all together on the way back, so as to save another trip. Everyone piled out of the car while Thursday rang the bell, and suddenly it was all Morse, Morse, Morse again. Thursday couldn’t help a fond smile at that – the kids were grown up, really, but they certainly didn’t always act it.

When he opened the door DeBryn invited them in, but Thursday said they shouldn’t stay. DeBryn glanced over his shoulder into the house. “He’s been waiting by the door all afternoon, but of course he disappeared when he heard the car.” He sighed. “He’s probably in the sitting room, behind the armchair – he likes it there. I’ll get him.”

“I’ll come,” Thursday found himself saying, and told the others to get back in the car with everything except Morse’s box, which they left by the door. They all set off down the drive again, and Thursday followed DeBryn inside.

In the living room, DeBryn indicated a large brown leather chair. Going around to the side of it, Thursday saw Morse’s hindquarters and twitching tail sticking out into the air. His head was safely ensconced underneath – clearly the lad was having some spatial awareness issues.

“I can see you, you know,” Thursday informed him once he was standing next to the chair. “And if this is your idea of stealth I’m never taking you on an undercover op.”

The legs and tail were drawn under the chair at a glacial pace. Thursday pinched the bridge of his nose. DeBryn was standing over in the doorway, looking as though he were finding a great deal of amusement in the situation.

“If you don’t want to come back with us, Morse, you can just say so. I’ve told you before it’s your choice.”

A delicate pink nose and whiskers dipped out from the edge of the chair, and then he could make out Morse’s eyes. It was a scene strikingly reminiscent of the first time he’d seen this version of Morse, peering out from under the bed at the lad’s flat, and Thursday smiled at the memory.

“What do you want to do, Morse?”

Morse didn’t move, observing him steadily for a while. Thursday heard DeBryn draw breath to speak, but held up a hand to forestall him. It was important for Thursday to know that Morse actually wanted this.

Appearing to come to some decision, Morse sidled out from under the chair and came to sit by Thursday’s feet. “Come on then,” Thursday said, quietly pleased. He started to move, but Morse didn’t follow, and he retraced his last two steps. “Morse?”

Morse continued to look up at him patiently. It was like dealing with a baby, you never knew what they wanted. Except that Morse, irritatingly, had the capacity to think and communicate if he wanted to, and chose not to most of the time.

Thursday crouched down beside him. “What do you want then, hmm?” As soon as he was more ground-level, Morse stepped closer and sniffed at his fingers. “I’ve not got anything for you. Well, not here anyway. I’ve no doubt Win has a stockpile.” Morse ignored his words though, and gently butted his head against the back of Thursday’s hand.

His fingers curved automatically around Morse’s cheek, and the lad rubbed his face happily against them, eyes closing in pleasure. Thursday felt something inside himself ease which he hadn’t even realised had been wound tight.

“Will I hurt him if I pick him up?” he asked DeBryn, and even saying the words aloud didn’t make them sound as wrong as Thursday thought they probably should have.

DeBryn’s smile softened. “As long as you don’t put pressure on the wound he’ll be fine. Just make sure you support his hind legs.”

Thursday carefully manoeuvred his hands behind Morse’s front shoulders, curving his fingers under Morse’s ribs. It was a strange feeling, to be able to encompass Morse with two hands.

“Alright?” he asked quietly, and then carefully lifted, scooping Morse up and into his arms as he stood. Morse didn’t wriggle, didn’t bolt, didn’t seem distressed. He moved easily with Thursday’s motion, settling against his chest and the arm which Thursday tucked under his body for support. Thursday stood there for a moment, Morse in his arms, and felt his heart beat a quick tattoo of relief in his chest. Morse began a quiet, appreciative purr as Thursday carefully stroked over his head with a thumb. “You were much missed, lad,” he murmured to Morse softly, and then headed towards the door.

Chapter Text

“Morse is a what?” CS Bright eased back in his chair looking stunned.

“A shapeshifter, sir. The wound from the Norris shooting became aggravated while he was in his other form, and he can’t change back until it heals – happened almost two weeks ago. DeBryn was the attending physician; he’s signed Morse off on official medical leave, sir.” After another few moments of uncomfortable silence, “Mainly because Morse is currently unable to serve in any capacity, sir, though I’m sure he’s not unwilling.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Bright mumbled. He glanced up sharply. “Not too badly wounded, I hope?”

“No, sir, the reinjury hasn’t put him back more than a week – it’s just that he’s stuck in his other form for the duration.”

“A cat,” murmured Bright pensively. “Not a lion? Leopard?”

“No, sir.” Thursday stamped down hard on the note of defensiveness entering his tone. “Perfectly ordinary housecat.”

“Hmm, that has potential, of course. It’s always a coup to get a shape changer, and this one might even be useful.” Thursday held his tongue. “I’d like to see him.”

------------

The new box was carted out for the trip to the station, and garnered several curious looks as Thursday crossed the CID room with it. Inside Bright’s office, he set it down on the floor, and started to open it.

“No, no, let’s have him on the desk,” Bright interrupted.

Thursday lifted the box again, Morse already nosing at the covering flaps. They repeated the careful tilting procedure which allowed Morse to get out, and he lightly hobbled a couple of steps out onto the desk.

“Oh, yes,” breathed the chief super. “Morse?”

Morse looked up at him more attentively than he ever had as a human, and let out an enquiring noise.

“Excellent. How do you communicate?”

“Mostly though questions with yes or no answers, sir – he taps to let you know which.” Morse dashed his paw twice against the table in demonstration.

“Good, very good.” Bright seemed to become distracted for a moment before refocusing. “Can you read, Morse? Write?” Morse tapped once against the table.

“No, sir. Although we could work out another way to leave messages.”

“Hmm, and how long is his recovery predicted to take?”

Thursday felt himself break into a light sweat. Morse glanced up at him in curiosity. “Another one to two months, sir,” he said as smoothly as possible. “Once he’s fully physically fit, Dr DeBryn and the specialist said.”

“Excellent, well, I suppose we wouldn’t have been able to have made use of you before then anyway, so this will all work out very nicely.” Something seemed to occur to Bright. “Where’s he staying?”

Thursday swallowed. “With my family at the moment, sir, and with Dr DeBryn. He’s likely to spend some time with his own family, of course, but we thought it better to keep him close to hand. So that we can monitor his progress.”

“Yes, quite. Well, as long as proper discipline is maintained!”

Thursday’s fingers twitched at the memory of soft fur beneath his fingers and the sound of a contented purr. “Of course, sir,” he said smoothly. He hesitated for a moment, and then asked, “I wonder if it would be alright for him to stay for the afternoon, sir. Save me running him home, now.”

Bright looked up in surprise. “Well, yes, why not. After all, we’d better get everyone used to him. You’d like to be his handler, I suppose?” the CS added shrewdly.

“I think he’d be most comfortable with that, sir.” Not to mention Thursday suspected he was the only person Morse, particularly Morse as a cat, might listen to.

-------------

So Morse spent the rest of the day in his office. Far from sitting on Thursday’s desk glaring at everyone who came in, he sprawled himself in one of the chairs on the far side  – after demanding Thursday lift him up to it – and proceeded to sleep the majority of the time.

Fat lot of good he’d be fighting crime, Thursday thought, a little uncharitably.

After the first person to visit his office had been informed that the lightly snoring ball of fur was indeed DC Morse, half the station seemed to invent excuses to come in. After the fifth, Thursday was getting irritated; he had actual work to do. And they kept waking Morse – for all of his jibes about how much the lad slept he knew it was necessary for him to heal.

He’d just written ‘DO NOT INTRUDE UNLESS ON URGENT BUSINESS’ on a piece of paper, and hooked it over the slat of one of his blinds so it showed through the glass, when Jakes dashed a knock and nearly bowled him over on his way in.

“Is it true?” Jakes asked with an incredulous look at Thursday. “Is that stuck-up brat actually a shifter?” He cast almost wildly around the office just as Morse raised his head drowsily. “Jesus,” whispered Jakes, on catching sight of him. Morse yawned, and blinked disdainfully in his direction.

“Explain yourself, sergeant,” Thursday said, voice and posture forbidding. Jakes’ brain obviously caught up with his mouth, and he straightened up.

“Sir. I heard about Morse.” He didn’t attempt any further excuses, which was perhaps just as well.

“I can see that.” Thursday moved to stand so that he was on Morse’s side of the office, just in case. Morse could give a nasty scratch if provoked. “And that gave you the right to barge into my office, did it? And disrespect my bagman?” He kept his voice carefully neutral, but he saw Jakes tense up anyway. Good.

“No, sir,” he said sharply, as though he were in the army. “I-“ He glanced past Thursday at Morse, then dragged his eyes back to his DI. “I had a question for you about the Richardson case, sir.”

“Well, go on then,” Thursday prompted him after he made no move to speak further.

It was like that for the rest of the afternoon. People came in, despite the sign, and even if they had legitimate business they were easily distracted by the somnolent feline in the office. All of them maintained a respectful distance at Thursday’s glare, but frowning that much had given him something of a headache by the end of the day.

He looked up at just before five, after a blessed half hour of peace and quiet, and Morse was gone.

It felt like his heart stopped. Icy claws gripped at his stomach, and the breath went out of him. A quick look around the room showed no sign of a small orange cat.

Morse.

Had someone taken him? No, Thursday would have seen. When had the last person come in? Morse must have slipped out of the door with them – how had he even got down from the chair by himself?

Thursday was up and slamming out of the door in seconds, bending down to see if he could see Morse walking anywhere in the office. God, what if he’d made it outside?

He whirled around at the sound of a throat clearing, and saw Jakes sitting at his desk. Jakes glanced very deliberately downwards. Thursday’s hands clenched into fists, and he forced himself to slow his breathing. In, and out, in, and-

There Morse lay, quiet and peaceful under Jakes’ desk. His eyes were open though – he’d probably been startled by the door banging – and he darted a quick, guilty look up at Thursday before glancing away again.

“Morse,” Thursday growled on a shaky exhale. Morse tilted his head slightly, and Thursday knew he was listening. “My office, now.”

He regretted it almost immediately. It was never a wise thing, to give a cat orders. Especially in front of other people. The cat was almost obliged to disobey you, just to show that it could.

Morse gazed up at him, then quickly glanced at Jakes. Perhaps he realised that his potential career at the station relied on him putting on a good show now, because he swiftly got to his feet and carefully limped towards the door of Thursday’s office.

Thursday’s anger and fear had been significantly subdued by the time he followed Morse through the door – it was hard to feel anything but sympathy with Morse in the state he was in. And it wasn’t surprising that the lad had wanted to move for a bit after being cooped up in the office half the day. Damn, Thursday should have checked with him sooner – offered him some water at least.

The door to the office thudded shut behind them, and in seconds Thursday had lifted Morse to his chest, holding him close. Morse remained tense and unresponsive in his arms, and Thursday got a very definite put-me-down vibe.

He moved immediately to sink down on the nearest chair, and carefully released Morse onto his lap. Within seconds Morse had moved to the edge of his knees, and was clearly contemplating whether to risk the jump or not.

“You scared the life out of me, lad,” Thursday said hoarsely, trying so hard to keep his voice down that it came out practically a whisper. Morse paused, and glanced back at him. “I thought someone had you, or you’d been hurt.”

After a moment’s contemplation, Morse lowered his front paw to Thursday’s leg, and extended his claws just enough to make Thursday wince. Morse had never used his claws before, not on any of the family – not even in the happy kneading motion most cats favoured.

Then he retracted them, and sat on his haunches with his back to Thursday.

“I overreacted. You’re right, I wasn’t thinking. I just – your injury’s still pretty bad, Morse. I know that you’re starting to feel better, but it would be so easy for you to put your recovery back. Please be careful?”

They sat there in heavy silence for a few minutes. Thursday sighed. “Home time, then. Can I lift you down?” Morse ignored him for another ten seconds, just to make a point, before turning to give him access. Thursday carefully lifted him just enough to help him down to the floor, and then let go.

That night Morse didn’t come to sit with him on the sofa, he sat in his box and watchfully maintained his distance. Thursday stayed down with him anyway, to keep him company, and missed the warm presence on his lap more than he would have ever expected to.

Chapter Text

At some point Win had bought Morse a brush, and spent ten minutes brushing him every morning which she thought Thursday didn’t know about.

At some point Joan had made a small stuffed toy mouse.

At some point it had become normal for Sam to dangle a piece of string in front of Morse as soon as he got home every day; for the two of them to engage in a tug of war once Morse caught it.

And Thursday, Thursday got used to this version of Morse who could be touched and loved. Whenever they were alone, Morse responded by butting his head against Thursday’s hands, his chest, seeming to crave his affection. Thursday sometimes thought of the painfully lonely lad he’d known, all burning edges and ferocious drive, and wondered if he’d ever had this – as man or cat. It seemed little enough to give it to him now, and Thursday treasured each touch and sign of trust. It startled him sometimes, to realise that he knew Morse as a cat far better than as a man – his likes and dislikes and needs and tells. But then, cats were far simpler creatures than men.

-----------------------

They’d had Morse at the house for just over three weeks when DeBryn came to visit at the weekend. They were out in the garden again – this Saturday was the last sunny day before a week’s forecast of rain, so they were making the most of it.

Morse was chasing insects in the grass.

“Look at him move,” DeBryn marvelled. “I’d never expected him to heal so well.”

It was true. Morse was able to hop, to jump, and to attempt a somewhat awkward lope. He was properly putting weight on his bad leg when he moved, although the limp was still discernible.

“Think it means he’ll change back soon?” Thursday asked idly. It had come to be a distant concept, now, the idea of Morse being Morse again. This was somehow far more real.

“I’m not sure.” DeBryn sipped his tea, and then said, more definitely, “No.”

Thursday turned to him in surprise, not so much at the answer but how certain he sounded. “No?”

“I don’t think it was due to that at all. Perhaps being in a significant amount of pain made him less able to handle other difficulties, but beyond that… No, in terms of what will help him now, I’m afraid we must look beyond it.” The doctor contemplated the garden for a moment. “You said his sister came to visit?”

“Yes, last weekend. She came down for the day. Poor girl didn’t really know what to make of him though – whether to talk to him as Morse or as a cat. Morse was a bit awkward around her too.”

“Hmm, the professor did say about reconnecting with family though.”

“I know, I invited her back. I almost feel like it did more harm than good though, like he was reminded that-“

“That what’s happening isn’t normal,” DeBryn finished gently, and Thursday nodded. “Well, it certainly isn’t ideal if she cannot accept who he really is, but, Inspector, the situation is not normal. Morse should return to himself, to having the ability to switch freely.”

Thursday nodded, because wasn’t that what they’d been aiming for all along? “Although he’ll always have a place here.”

DeBryn eyed him thoughtfully. “I’m not sure that wouldn’t detract from his motivation to change back.”

“You think he needs motivation?”

“I think after this long he may be forgetting why he wanted to spend his life as a human in the first place.”

Thursday huffed, and decided to talk it through again. “Alright. He was on a case with me. He got a call his father was in a bad way, and went up to visit. He came back far sooner than I thought he would, indicating that the visit didn’t go well. The case carried on, I thought he was carrying on with Joan – but I reckon I was wrong about that – and he got word about his father again. Left. Came back, when he realised the key to the case, and that I was about to do something stupid. Got shot. Saw his father, was there when he died. Stayed with the family for a few days, went to the funeral. Came back, talked to me on the phone, then somehow-“

“What did you talk about?” DeBryn cut in.

“What?”

“Why, exactly, did you call Morse, and what did you two discuss?” He pulled out his own pipe, and tapped it lightly against the table. “We keep leaping to the next step, that of you finding Morse, without ever looking at that one.”

“The phone call?” And now Thursday remembered again the receiver hanging from the phone, as though there was some reason Morse hadn’t been able to hang up. A reason like suddenly turning into a cat. Thursday had hung up on Morse after the lad had gone silent – Morse might have already changed and Thursday would have had no idea.

Thursday found it suddenly hard to swallow. “Oh,” he said quietly. DeBryn watched him patiently, and after a moment he marshalled his thoughts. “It was – he wanted to come back to work. I told him Bright said he would have to be on light duties.” He stopped talking, but his mind raced ahead.

“Yes?”

“Bright wanted to move him out to county for the duration. Morse objected to the idea, rather strongly.” Thursday cleared his throat. “I told him there was no choice. Told him to come in in a couple of days so that we could organise it.”

They sat in mutual silence for a moment, contemplating this.

“You don’t think…“ Thursday started, but trailed off.

“I think it’s more of a lead than we had before,” DeBryn said carefully, his eyes focused inwards.

“You mean to say he’s stuck as a cat because he couldn’t handle the thought of a couple of months of light work at another police station?” Thursday couldn’t keep the scorn from his voice, but it was partially self-directed. Why had he never thought of the telephone call before now?

DeBryn’s level gaze chastised him for his words, and Thursday nodded a silent acknowledgement. “What exactly did he say?”

“Morse? He wanted to start work again immediately, said he didn’t need to be on light duties.” Thursday cast his mind back those few weeks, and struggled to remember more exactly. “Said he’d feel useless filing parking tickets, that at least here he’d be able to work cases.”

“Did you tell him that you wanted him to stay?”

Thursday sighed. “No. He was questioning Bright again; I hate it when he does that, because then I always have to stick up for the man.”

“I see.” DeBryn took out his tobacco pouch. “So we have established that after being seriously injured, and losing his father, whom he likely had some unresolved issues with, he found out that he was being sent away and abandoned, to a place where he would feel useless.”

DeBryn had said it all very factually, and Thursday couldn’t help thinking that abandoned might be a little overstated, but, “Well, when you put it like that,” he muttered weakly.

“Hmm. Obviously we don’t actually know what happened, since Morse cannot – where is Morse?”

Thursday looked up at that, but a quick survey of the garden showed no tell-tale orange shape. “I’m sure he’s just behind a bush. Maybe he went inside – he knows Win will give him treats if he stares at her long enough.”

DeBryn nodded, and started to fill the bowl of his pipe, but Thursday felt uneasy now. He got up, and did a casual turn around the garden, eyes searching every crevice. No Morse.

“I’m just going inside for a minute, can I get you anything?” he asked DeBryn politely when he got back. The doctor shook his head, and Thursday headed in. He checked the kitchen first, and then the living room. The kitchen again.

“Have you seen Morse, love?” he asked Win.

“No, he was in the garden with you. He’s not been back in that I’ve seen. Why?” But Thursday was already moving on, checking the dining room, the living room again – under all the chairs and the sofa this time. Finally he contemplated the stairs – Morse hadn’t attempted them yet, although he’d probably be able to. There was nothing up there for him though – Thursday knew he’d never enter any of their bedrooms.

He went upstairs anyway, checked the craft room. Checked his and Win’s bedroom, the bathroom. Knocked on Sam’s door, and asked him. Joan’s door was closed, and she was out.

The simplest explanation, of course, was that Morse was still in the garden, and Thursday had just missed him.

He trooped downstairs again, and out of the back door. His eyes expected to find Morse sunning himself on the patio, sprawled on the grass, shamelessly digging up the flower beds.

DeBryn looked up at his exit. “Did you find him then?” And Thursday felt ice trickle down his spine.

“No,” he said slowly. “I thought I must have missed him out here.”

DeBryn stood, and checked the door to the shed. Turned and shook his head. A new certainty was twisting in Thursday’s gut.

His own voice mocked him, harshly echoing in his head: ‘he’s stuck as a cat because he couldn’t handle the thought of a couple of months of light work at another police station?’

What if Morse had heard him?

-----------------------

They found the gap in the fence quickly enough, and Thursday went around to the neighbours to say yes, what lovely weather and really, your marrow grew that big, and would you mind if I had a look in your garden for my cat?

Since they didn’t find him the neighbours were easily placated, but Thursday still had to waste a good few minutes reassuring them that Morse was very well behaved and had no interest in going after their prize-winning vegetables.

“He’s not there,” he announced, harried, as he returned to Win and DeBryn in the hall. “He must have carried on through. I don’t know where he would have gone.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine, Inspector, he’s an intelligent lad. He probably just needed a bit of space. Cats roam, and now he’s well enough to get out there and try it again.”

Thursday nodded, and didn’t know how to convey the overwhelming sense of dread that Morse had left because of Thursday, that he didn’t think he’d come back. Where would he have gone?

Chapter Text

Morse didn’t come back before nightfall, and, although Win left the back door open until the last minute, not before bed either.

The next day it poured, and Thursday spent hours driving slowly up and down streets in the neighbourhood, running around local parks and getting soaked through, and staking out Morse’s flat in case the lad returned there. He sat in the car, dripping and shivering, heating turned up full blast, and cursed his stupid mouth.

He’d held out hope at first that Morse might have gone to DeBryn’s, but calls late last night and this morning had proved fruitless. Would Morse even know how to get to DeBryn from Thursday’s house? He’d only even been by car before, and been terribly carsick. What if he’d got lost somewhere on the way? What if his leg had worsened again?

Thursday sat there until it got dark, occasionally getting out and letting himself in with Morse’s key – just to check. The flat was just as he’d left it; partially cleaned but still wrecked. Definitely no Morse.

When he got home Win clucked and fussed over him, and told him he was terribly silly for going out in the rain and sitting around in wet clothes for half the day. He nodded numbly along with her scolding, and then blindly pressed his face into her hair when she wrapped her arms around him.

He was responsible for Morse. How could he have lost him?

The thought nagged at him all night; he slept in fits and starts. Hour after hour he heard the rain pounding at the window, the wind lashing at the trees, and thought of Morse out in that.

He was being ridiculous, he told himself. Morse was sensible enough, he’d not have put his pride above being out in this kind of weather.

As soon as it got light enough to see he made his way downstairs. He could see almost the whole garden standing at the kitchen window, and he drank coffee and tea while his heart leapt at the movement of every sparrow.

Eight o’ clock brought Jakes and the Jag, and Thursday didn’t have the heart to say anything to him. Jakes had been subtly badgering him to bring Morse back into the station again since the last time - somewhat perversely he seemed to have taken a shine to the cat.

At nine on the dot he closed his office door and rang the number for the shapeshifting specialist, Professor Tumlinson. He managed to get through directly rather than having to leave a message with the college secretary – it helped to be able to say police business – and told him that he had new information about Morse. “Would you have time to talk today?” he asked, heart in his mouth.

“Yes, of course, I’ve got a tutorial until noon but then I’m free until three – come whenever is convenient.”

Thursday rushed out his thanks, and called DeBryn, who said he would unfortunately be unable to join him due to a meeting.

The hours seemed to drag terribly until lunch, but Thursday focused on his work to the exclusion of all other thoughts. The gnawing feeling in his stomach retreated slightly as he ploughed through case files and updates from the weekend, and he’d almost cleared his desk by noon. Just as well really, he thought, rubbing sweat from his brow, he seemed to have a terrible headache coming on.

He drove the Jag to Wolsey College, and parked on a double yellow line.

“Inspector,” the professor greeted him as he knocked on door to his office, left slightly ajar. “Please, come in.”

Thursday didn’t sit when the man offered, and tried haphazardly to frame his throughts. Seeing that Thursday didn’t know where to start, the professor obligingly asked, “You said on the phone that you might have more information about your friend’s problem?”

“Yes,” and then in a rush he added, “He’s missing. Morse. I think he heard me say something – something I said without thinking. And he left. I don’t know where he could have gone; I don’t know if he’s alright.”

He must have sounded frantic, because the professor fished out a bottle from a cabinet and poured him a glass.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” Tumlinson suggested.

“I…” Thursday took a gulp of the liquid – brandy – and felt warmth spread through his stomach. He drew in a deep breath, and then sat down. “I was talking with Doctor DeBryn, and it occurred to us that one thing that definitely did happen right before Morse turned into a cat was that I talked to him on the phone.” He stared at his hands around the glass. “I was telling him that he wouldn’t be able to come back to work yet, and that he’d need to go away to another station for a bit while his leg mended.”

The professor stirred, but said nothing.

“I, ah, might have said it was stupid if that was what caused the lad to get stuck. DeBryn and I talked it through then, how it might have made him feel, on top of everything else. That he might have thought he was unwanted. Useless. Which isn’t true at all,” Thursday said fiercely. “But… I don’t know if he knew that, at the time. And I’m worried that Morse overheard the bit where I said – where I said…”

“When you implied that his troubles were trivial? Hmm. I don’t know if you recall, but I did tell you that to cause such a prolonged transformation the distress must have been acute indeed.”

“Yes,” Thursday muttered, guilt soaking through every pore of him.

“So regardless of your personal opinion of the matter, whatever caused it was obviously very important to your friend Morse.”

“I understand,” Thursday snapped. “I understood seconds after I said it! I was angry at myself, for not realising earlier that it might have been my bloody words that triggered in the first place, that anything I might have said…”

“Your own fear and guilt caused you to lash out?”

“And now I don’t know where he would go, in the city. I checked all the streets, all the parks – but with this weather? And he didn’t go to his flat, or DeBryn’s. I’ll have to start phoning round his friends again. I, ah, don’t suppose you have any idea where a shape shifter might go, in Oxford?” This was his secret hope, that Tumlinson might have inside knowledge on gathering places, or even just what a cat might do.

“I might be able to help you,” the professor said after a moment. “Though you understand it’s a delicate situation. But I’m sure your friend would return, were he inclined to.”

“Of course. I just, I need to talk to him – tell him. And I worry, with his injury. I just need to know he’s safe, that he’s alright.”

“And what is it that you need to tell him?” The professor moved aside from his desk as he spoke, and laid his first two fingers down on the top just so.

The words which Thursday had been about to utter deserted him, and he stared at Tumlinson’s impassive face before glancing at the desk again. Did he mean…? Thursday felt like all the blood rushed to his head, and he was dizzy with possibility. He cleared his suddenly rusty throat, and tried to gather his thoughts.

“I’d tell him I was sorry for ever saying such a thing – for ever thinking it. It must have been hard for him – hurt and losing his father, and being told he couldn’t come back, that he was being carted out to nowhere.” Thursday’s voice dipped lower. “I’m sorry for not telling him on the phone that I fought with Bright for days over it beforehand, that I’d have kept him here if I possibly could.

“I just need to know he’s alright. If he doesn’t want to stay with us anymore I’d understand, but I just need to know. I can’t stop thinking about him – fearing for him. I just want him to be alright,” he finished softly. Then he waited, barely breathing, eyes fixed on the desk on the other side of the room.

Nothing, for what felt like the longest minute of Thursday life, and he began to think he must have been mistaken. Disappointment crashed through his stomach, and he exhaled in a long sigh. Morse wasn’t here, after all.

Only seconds later, however, a small, reddish-orange head peeked around the corner. Cool blue eyes uncertainly met his, then immediately glanced away again.

“Morse,” Thursday breathed. The eyes flickered back to gaze at him piercingly. “I’m so sorry, lad, I’m so sorry.”

Morse hesitated before padding silently out from behind the furniture, and Thursday ran quick, keen eyes over him. He looked alright – a little more ragged than usual but not moving much worse. He stopped in the middle of the room, and sat in a stiff pose.

“I found him outside my office this morning, not long before your call,” Tumlison said at this point, and Thursday heard him as though he were very far away. “Somewhat wet and bedraggled, but otherwise none the worse for wear. He did seem very hungry though.” His tone was disapproving. “When did he leave – last night?”

“No,” Thursday mumbled, not looking away from Morse. “No, Saturday afternoon.”

“Ah, two days then. Well, cats are resourceful creatures, and your friend seems like he’s an intelligent fellow. I’m sure he took care of himself.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Thursday agreed by rote, but he was unconvinced. Morse wasn’t known for taking care of himself at the best of times.

When he’d first seen Morse, his first thought had been: thank God, he’s been here, he’s been looked after. But now it sounded like Morse had been out on the streets all weekend after all – two nights in the driving rain and frightful wind. But no, the professor was right – Morse surely would have found somewhere.

“Morse, are you alright?”

Morse regarded him critically. After a moment, a dainty white paw stretched forward and tapped once. No. Christ.

“Are you hurt?”

A slight pause, then another single tap.

“Can I help?”

Morse took a step forward, then reconsidered and sat back again. He began to wash himself, as though covering for the movement.

Thursday eased himself off the chair, one hand on the table for support as he lowered himself to sit on the ground. His back wouldn’t thank him for this. He let Morse have a minute, then murmured, “What can I do, lad? What do you need?”

Morse stopped his motions as soon as Thursday started speaking, paying attention to every word. When Thursday had finished, he resumed licking himself. Thursday sat quietly and watched. In the background, the professor slipped behind his desk and started doing some paperwork.

Eventually Morse looked up again, scanning around the room thoroughly before deigning to look at Thursday. Thursday waited. Morse stood on all fours, arched his back in a high stretch, and then took two steps towards Thursday. Stopped. He was only a couple of feet away now. Thursday’s hands itched with the need to reach out and grab him, feel him, reassure himself that Morse was here and safe, but he didn’t move.

Morse took another two steps, three, slowing, four, and he was near enough to touch but Thursday kept his hands by his sides.

“Alright, lad?” he said quietly. Morse took one more step, the warmth of his body just brushing the back of Thursday’s right hand, and then he sat on his haunches facing away. Thursday’s fingers twitched, just the tiniest amount, and he made an effort to focus on anything else. Patience, patience.

Morse leaned, ever so slightly, so that his weight fell against Thursday’s hand. With utmost care, Thursday allowed the backs of his fingers to shift slightly in a half-stroke. Morse leaned away again, and Thursday went still.

The image of what he must look like – a grown man sat on the floor in an academic’s office, legs stretched half out in front of him, pandering to a cat – struck him forcibly. His own pride was taking a knock here. He wasn’t even sure that what he’d said in the garden had been so terrible – it did seem a little silly to him that Morse was so unwilling to spend a couple of months at county that he’d got stuck as a cat. Far worse things had happened to the lad, after all. But Thursday could see the effect his words had had on Morse, and that was more than enough to make him regret them; he could also admit now that they’d been unsympathetic and unhelpful.

He’d do a hell of a lot more than sit on his arse making a fool of himself to regain Morse’s trust.

Finally, Morse’s head swung round, and he regarded Thursday curiously. “Hello, there,” Thursday murmured, and carefully moved his hand out from behind Morse to offer it to him. Morse’s gaze transferred to Thursday’s hand, and he studied it intently. Cautiously, as though it could bite him any minute, he extended his neck and sniffed at Thursday.

“Next time,” Thursday muttered, wondering if he was pushing his luck by speaking before Morse had forgiven him, “I’d appreciate it if you let me know you thought I was being an arse, rather than running off.”

Morse paused, whiskers twitching. He pulled back slightly, and considered Thursday. “I mean it, Morse. We were all of us worried for you, no matter how capable you are of looking after yourself. If there’s a problem, or you’re feeling… Well. Let us know, that’s all I’m asking. Whatever it is, we can work through it. You just have to let me know.” He’d kept his voice low and soothing, and could see Morse’s posture soften in response.

Morse stretched out again, but this time ducked his head to bump the top of it gently against Thursday’s outstretched hand. “Oh, lad,” Thursday said, and his voice was shakier than he would ever admit to. He glided the tips of his fingers over Morse’s head, tracing the backs of his ears and smoothing down his sleek neck. Morse leaned into his touch, but almost reluctantly, so Thursday didn’t push any further and instead repeated the same motion again.

“Will you come home with me?” he asked after a minute of quiet touches. “We all want you there.” He thought for a moment; it had been his words that had compelled Morse to leave. “I want you there,” he said heavily.

Morse pulled back to look at him, eyes bright and clear. He yawned, blinked, and then darted out a quick paw to tap twice at Thursday’s leg. Relief swept through Thursday in a wave, and he swallowed hard. “Good, he said, voice slightly choked. “I’m glad.”

As they left, Tumlinson stopped him for a moment. “About the other matter – the potential cause? It sounds like you’ve already thought about some of the feelings that might have triggered the transformation – those are what he’ll need to deal with in order to reverse the change. Talk with Morse, as well, about your thoughts – it will help. If you do need to talk things through further, give me a call.”

“Thank you.” Thursday reached out and shook his hand, and then held the door open so that Morse could slip out with him.

Chapter Text

Thursday’s cold had properly set in by that afternoon. He tried to hide it, at first, when he got home after work, but Win eyed him knowingly and made him tea with honey for his throat.

“It was all that gallivanting around in the rain,” she said mildly. “I told you.” He sneezed, and went upstairs for an extra jumper.

Sam and Joan were only around for long enough to find out he was sick, and then both developed pressing reasons to be elsewhere. Thursday collapsed on the couch in the living room and grunted a delayed response.

“Well, you are a proper nightmare while you’re ill,” his wife informed him as she brought him through some warm broth. “Morse, keep an eye on him for a bit, will you?”

Morse shifted just enough to be able to see Thursday through the opening in his box, and then stared at him unblinkingly.

“I’m fine,” Thursday growled, and his throat felt like it was shredding itself from the inside out.

“Oh yes, I can see that,” Win said placidly. “I’ll just get the thermometer. Drink your Bovril, love.”

It was still too hot to drink, but he cupped his hands around it and held his face over it to inhale the steam. “She didn’t mean literally, you know,” he said after a minute, slightly hoarse. Morse still hadn’t blinked. “Fine,” Thursday muttered grouchily, and took a sip which burned his tongue.

“Well, your temperatures up a couple of degrees, but not too serious,” Win announced a few minutes later. She swept his hair away from his forehead, and gave it a kiss.

“I could have told you that,” he grumbled.

“Maybe I misheard, but I thought you said you were fine?” He hmphed, and she gave him a soft smile. “I’ll get you a blanket if you want to stay down here.”

“It’s just a head-cold,” he called after her. “Well, it is,” he added to Morse after he turned back. “I don’t know why she fusses.”

Once he was comfortably wrapped in a blanket she turned to leave again. He stole her hand, holding it tight for a moment. “Do you want me to stay, love?” she asked, looking concerned. He knew she had baking to do for her church bake sale tomorrow though, so he gave her hand a quick squeeze and shook his head.

“As long as there’s an extra cake for me,” he said cheekily, and she gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

“I’ll be just next door, mind.” She left with a last, lingering look.

Thursday tried the radio, but it gave him a headache. The television would be even worse, he knew, so he didn’t attempt it. And the newspaper was halfway across the room. He sighed.

Heaving himself off the sofa seemed to take more effort than he should have, and he was shivering by the time he’d retrieved the paper. His throat felt like hedgehogs were marching up and down in it, and his head felt hot and stuffy. He hated being sick.

He sat down again, draped the blanket over himself, and tried to read. Every time he turned a page the blanket dipped or gaped somewhere, and he ended up sneezing at the change in temperature. And his eyes felt too tired anyway. He gave the paper up as a bad job, and, as he folded it down, found Morse still watching him.

“Damn creepy having you stare at me like that,” Thursday rumbled. Morse blinked, but didn’t look away. “Sorry,” Thursday muttered after a moment. “My head-“ He stopped, surprised at himself. He wasn’t normally one to complain. Started again, slowly, “My head feels a bit like it’s going to fall off. I’m always a bit useless when I’ve got a cold; don’t know what to do with myself. Win puts up with me, and the kids retreat to a safe distance.”

“You alright in there, Fred?” His wife’s voice came faintly from the kitchen.

“Fine,” he said, but couldn’t raise his voice loud enough for her to hear it, and she appeared in the doorway a moment later, apron covered in flour. “I’m fine,” he said again. “Just talking to Morse.”

She glanced across at the cat in his box. “That’s alright then. Do you need anything? No? Morse, how about you?” Apparently satisfied, she left again.

Thursday tried to clear his throat. “Morse…” He shifted awkwardly under the blanket. “It’s a bit cold up here,” he settled on. “I don’t suppose you…?” He felt bad asking, with the way things were between them, but the thought of having a warm cat up here with him was a tremendously appealing one.

Morse could get up on the sofa on his own now – using a small, upended plant pot that Win tucked away during the day and pulled out in the evening with a smile. It wasn’t in position at the moment though, and Thursday’s legs were tucked firmly out of the way under the blanket.

“Here,” he said with a wet cough as Morse approached the couch.  He started to unwrap himself again, but Morse ignored him, crouching with a slight wiggle and then launching himself up to the edge of the sofa. Thursday froze. So did Morse, who’d made the landing but now stood in a low crouch, panting lightly.

“That was foolish,” Thursday said, making a deliberate attempt to keep his tone neutral. Morse didn’t look at him, still focused entirely inwards. “Alright, lad?” Thursday asked with concern.

Morse swallowed loudly, and gradually sunk down onto his belly. Almost immediately he was up again, tail twitching and paws restless. “Alright,” Thursday said soothingly. “Alright, let’s have a look at you.”

He fumbled his hands free, and shuffled over on the couch a bit in Morse’s direction. Morse flinched as the first hand landed on his back, and resisted being turned. “Come on,” coaxed Thursday. “Let me have a look.”

Reluctantly Morse shifted one leg, and then another, until his bad side was facing Thursday. He’d stopped panting, but his whole body was filled with wiry tension.

“Alright,” Thursday crooned, running his fingers gently down Morse’s spine, diverting to the base of his bad leg. “Just hold still now.” He ruffled through the fur the way he’d seen DeBryn do weeks ago, carefully parting it, and got a good look at the wound for the first time. It looked pretty much completely healed over, although the flesh was reddened and puckered where the bullet had gone in. DeBryn had taken the stitches out a week ago. That was just the outside, though, Thursday had no idea how things were healing inside.

“It looks fine,” he said cautiously. “You’ve not torn anything I can see.”  He didn’t touch the knitted flesh, for fear of causing pain. “Is it easing?”

Morse glanced up at him, and then moved out from under his hand. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Thursday said dryly, and then sneezed twice. “Damn cold. In summer too!” he grumbled, and shrugged the blanket back up around himself.

Morse crawled straight into his lap, curling into a slightly more awkward shape than usual. He didn’t relax, still holding himself taut, and his head stayed raised and guarded. Thursday let out a weary sigh. “What am I going to do with you then, hmm? I was worried enough about you over the weekend; I don’t need you to actually injure yourself. Not to mention DeBryn would do me harm.”

He’d phoned the doctor from work to let him know Morse was found. DeBryn’s relief hadn’t been far behind his own.

Morse darted a swift, uncertain glance at him, and then went back to watching the room. Thursday untangled an arm again, pulling his jumper as far down his arm as possible for warmth, and lowered his hand a finger at a time onto the lad’s back. “Relax, now. It will hurt less if you relax.” He rubbed his fingers in a light circular motion. “That was a big jump, wasn’t it?” Morse slowly let his head come to rest down on Thursday’s leg. “That’s it,” Thursday encouraged. “You just rest for a bit, I’ll keep an eye out.” He started stroking; long, smooth strokes all the way down Morse’s back. He felt the tension ease, just a fraction.

Then Thursday sneezed again, bringing his hand up to cover his nose and mouth. He groped for his handkerchief, and found Morse had sprung back into an awkward half-crouch. “I’m not that terrifying,” he mumbled as he blew his nose. “Settle down, settle down.”

Back into an awkward curl, but slightly more sprawled this time, and Thursday resumed his long strokes. “Honestly, the pair of us, eh?” Morse let out a long sigh under his fingers. “I know, lad, I know. Where have you been, the last couple of days? I hope you found somewhere warm and dry. I couldn’t stop thinking about you being out there in the rain. I know, you’re a grown man; perfectly capable of taking care of yourself.” He stopped himself before saying anything else. He wasn’t sure how Morse would take it, the idea that Thursday felt he had a duty of care.

As Morse unwound a little, Thursday moved to scratch gently at his head and ears, dragging his fingernails in light lines which made Morse’s eyes close and his head turn happily into Thursday’s hand.

“I meant what I said, earlier, Morse,” Thursday said quietly. This wasn’t the time to broach the subject properly, but he couldn’t let it sit idle either. “I wanted you kept at the station; even if it had been on light duties I wanted you here. Wasn’t right – shipping you off like you were… And especially after you came back and saved my neck. But Bright had his teeth set into it, and I couldn’t tell you that I thought he was being a complete prick. You have little enough respect for him as it is, and I have to take my share of the weight of his decisions.  Same for you being demoted from my bagman.” And Morse’s eyes slitted open to gaze curiously at him. “You were right, of course, it came from Bright. But I couldn’t have you blaming him, because then you’d have ignored the important point – that you needed to brush up your police work. But don’t ever think I didn’t want you working with me, lad, not now, not then.”

The eyes slid closed again, and as Thursday’s searching fingers moved under his chin a low, rumbling purr issued forth. A small smile crept across Thursday’s face.

Win came in ten minutes later with another cup of tea and some medicine. It wasn’t the first time she’d caught them with Morse sitting on his lap, and the same delighted grin split her face every time.

The tea and pills went on the coffee table, and then she sat down beside him. “Do you think he’d mind?” she asked quietly, hand hovering over Morse.

“Don’t reckon so,” Thursday said, and ran his fingertips across Morse’s cheek again. Morse purred loudly, and pushed his face against them. She hesitantly brought her hand to rest on Morse’s back, and began stroking gently. If anything, Morse’s purring increased, the vibrations seeming to fill the room. He did rock his head back slightly and drowsily blink his eyes open to check who the new hand belonged to, but immediately ignored her in favour of focusing on the spot just between his eyes being rubbed.

“He’s so beautiful,” she said admiringly, her voice hushed as though in church.

“Don’t swell his head, love,” Thursday mock-admonished, smiling.

“Well, he is though.” Her hand skated further up orange fur until she was gently stroking the back of Morse’s head and neck. Her smaller fingers bumped against Thursday’s occasionally, and that made him smile too. “How are you feeling, anyway?”

Thursday thought of telling her he was fine again, but there was no hiding from his wife. “Bit miserable,” he admitted. “Sore head, sore throat.”

“Well, I hate to say I told you so. You should have come home, and changed out of those wet clothes! He was out looking all over for you,” she added to Morse, who looked up with startled blue eyes, purr rattling to a halt. “Yes you. Poor Fred, I don’t think he slept the whole weekend!”

“Alright, love, enough,” Thursday murmured, and Morse’s gaze transferred to him. After a moment he turned to sniff inquiringly at Thursday’s fingers, which had paused in their movements. Thursday reached to give Win’s hand a quick squeeze where it lay on Morse’s fur, then resumed his stroking a little more firmly. Morse kept his eyes open for ten seconds, twenty, and then they drifted shut millimetre by millimetre, and a steady vibration resumed under Thursday’s fingertips.

--------------

The following day, Win very firmly instructed Thursday to stay in bed, and said she’d call into the station for him. “Your temperature’s up higher, you’ll just infect everyone else if you go in,” she said firmly. It was just as well, as he couldn’t speak in more than a rusty croak anyway. He felt bad, though, thinking of the files doubtlessly accumulating on his desk, and gave her a list of instructions for Jakes.

She returned half an hour later. “Are you sure you’re alright if I go?” she fretted.

“It’s just a cold, love. I’ll be fine. You’ve got me everything I could possibly need.”

She gave him a worried smile, and disappeared downstairs again to pack up her offerings for the cake fair. He laid his head back against the pillow and sighed. He was tired, bone tired, but he’d woken early in the morning and been unable to get back to sleep. Maybe he’d haul himself downstairs in a bit, when she was gone, and sit in the living room.

Her tread up the stairs a few minutes later was much slower.

She was preceded into the room by a cardboard box, which she balanced carefully in her arms. “This is just for today, mind,” she said as she set it down on the bed briefly for Morse to climb out. His orange fur almost glowed against the plain white of the duvet covers.

Thursday found himself blinking away unexpected tears – how had he ever managed to find such a wonderful wife. “Thank you, love,” he said, his voice was rough with more than the cold.

“Well, I thought you could use some company. Him as well, after being off all weekend. This way you can take care of each other.” She smiled fondly at the two of them, and came to kiss Thursday’s forehead. “I’ll leave a…” she went digging in the cupboard for the moment. “Hmm, shoe box. Just in case he needs to get down. I’ll be back in a few hours. Are you sure-“

“Very sure,” he said, and she gave him a slight scowl.

“Alright. Goodbye, boys!”

Morse seemed to find the way that he sunk into the duvet cover fascinating. He laid down a careful paw, picked it up, put it down again. Took two steps, and then stopped to look at the indentations he’d left and the way the covers had puffed up around them.

Thursday was left with a sharp, aching longing to see him in snow.

Having gradually picked his way over the bed to Thursday’s side, Morse contemplated him for a moment. He lifted a tentative paw to Thursday’s chest. “Probably best not, lad,” Thursday said regretfully. “Breathing’s a mite difficult as it is.”

Morse drew the paw back, and considered again. Thursday reached to the nightstand for the book he was reading before bed, and cracked it open at the marked page. “Where was I?”

A warm weight settled gradually against the outside of his arm, but it felt temporary, as though Morse was poised to move again any moment. Thursday tried to read, but his eyes found it hard to focus. Eventually he laid the book down on his chest and rubbed at his eyes, trying to relax.

An inquiring chirp came from his side. “Just a headache, lad.” Seconds later there was a sudden shift in warmth, and then the tickle of whiskers brushing against his ear. “Oi! That tickles,” he grumbled, and reached up a hand to gently nudge Morse aside. “Nothing you can do to help. And Win will have your ears if she finds you’ve been on the pillows,” he added, glancing at a stray paw. It was quickly withdrawn, and Morse moved lower again.

Thursday closed his eyes, and tried to think of nothing.

He could feel Morse sitting off to the side a bit, hovering. The house was quiet, no sounds of movement or voices downstairs, Outside, rain was falling with a steady drumming noise on the roof, strangely soothing. Morse twitched slightly; Thursday felt the pull of it on the covers. He hummed in response, but didn’t open his eyes.

There was a hot water bottle by his feet, spreading wonderful warmth up his legs, but he felt sporadic chills sweep over his upper body. He pulled the covers up a bit higher with a grumble of discomfort, and Morse shifted off them to allow the movement. He didn’t realise where the lad had gone until there was an odd tunnelling movement, and a sudden draft of cold. He brought his arm down to close a gap in the covers, and found a lump underneath them.

His eyes snapped open, and turning his head to the side he saw a cat-shaped mound off to his side. “Won’t you suffocate under there?” he asked mildly, in lieu of something more along the lines of ‘what the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Morse shuffled forward slightly in answer, completely cut off now by Thursday’s arm behind him. He continued tunnelling an inch at a time, Thursday monitoring his progress with a distant sense of disbelief. “What are you doing?” he said, seconds before Morse hit his chest.

Then the cat carefully arranged himself so that the entirety of Thursday’s left hand side was lined with soft warm fur. It felt amazing, and he let out a murmur of approval. Morse seemed to be radiating heat, which Thursday could easily feel through the cotton of his vest, and it somehow relaxed all the tight muscles in his chest. He let out a sigh, and even breathing felt easier.

Carefully he moved his arm across so that his hand could rest lightly on Morse’s back through the covers. Instantly he started to purr, and Thursday sighed again. He made sure that Morse wasn’t trapped by his hand, and then let his eyes fall closed again. “You just let me know if you need to get out,” he slurred, and then sleep found him at last.

Thankfully the lad scrambled his way out before Win came up, or Thursday would have never heard the end of letting him get cat hair on the sheets.

Chapter Text

They’d had Morse with them for a month and half on the day when Thursday gathered up all of his case files and photographs, and stormed home in a huff.

“Idiots!” he complained to Win as she greeted him with a quizzical look. “I work with idiots! Not a one of them could find the nose on their faces.”

Morse was in the garden, chasing butterflies. Thursday paused to watch him from the doorway for a moment, feeling a sense of peace settle over his irritation. “Morse?” Morse ignored him, wriggling his hindquarters as he stalked his latest prey. “Morse?”

Morse’s head turned while the rest of him stayed in a perfectly poised position, but after a moment he seemed to decide Thursday was important enough to abandon his previous occupation. He trotted over, and Thursday took pleasure in the grace of his easy movements.

“Hello, lad,” he murmured, and stooped to caress Morse’s ears as he butted his head against Thursday’s leg in greeting. “I, ah…” Thursday cleared his throat. “I wondered if you’d mind taking a look at something with me?”

Morse followed him inside, tail flicking from side to side in curiosity. “I’ve set up in here for the moment.” Thursday led the way into the sitting room, where he’d piled his case files on the new, low coffee table they’d got.

As soon as he saw Thursday start to spread the files out on the table, Morse came to a dead halt and stared uncertainly at Thursday.

Certainly, it was the first time that Thursday had done more than talk through his day with him. He frequently told Morse about the cases he was working on, but usually they were well on the way to being solved – to be honest they’d had nothing that wasn’t fairly clear cut since the Norris case. He’d never brought anything home to show Morse, not like this.

“I was getting so irritated with the lads at the station that I’d have fired the lot of them, were it up to me,” he admitted. “I could use a fresh point of view.”

Morse sat back on his haunches, and his look became more wary. Ignoring him for a moment, Thursday finished laying out the crime scene photos, the ones of the girl’s room, and the pictures of everyone connected to the case. He put the rest of the file off to the side. “Come up here then,” he said, and tapped the space he’d left at the bottom of the table. Only to find Morse had turned his back to him, sitting facing firmly away.

“What is it?” Thursday asked, surprised. He’d have thought the lad would be eager to get stuck in. “Not interested?” Maybe murders didn’t figure into cat priorities? Still, Morse had always taken pains to show interest in station business before.

Thursday sat back on the couch for a moment, and considered. “To be honest,” he said slowly, “even if you could just humour me and listen while I talk through it, that would be a help.” Morse’s ear flicked in his direction. “I don’t know how much you can see these photographs, but come and have a look at them with me, and let me read you some of the report. Maybe together we can come up with something I’ve missed.”

After a moment Morse glanced quickly over his shoulder, his eyes checking Thursday’s face. Evidently he was satisfied with what he found, because he did a quick turn and padded over to the table. It was still a bit high for him to reach by himself, so Thursday hooked his hands gently under Morse’s shoulders and gave him a short lift. Morse’s back paws scrabbled at the table for a moment, nearly upsetting the nearest photos, before he found his footing and more gracefully lowered himself down.

“Right,” Thursday said, and pointed at the picture in the centre. “This is Laura McMillan. She was eighteen, and…”

He filled Morse in, pointing at each photo in turn and referring to the reports as he went along. He ended up reading through each one in excruciating detail, since he knew Morse was always best at pointing out things nobody else had noticed. Morse followed every word and gesture keenly, reminding Thursday more of the lanky lad he’d been than he had in weeks.

The thing was, Morse as a cat was still Morse, just somehow more contented and comfortable in his own skin than regular Morse. Here, with a small orange head dipping to stare intently at the details of photos Thursday didn’t even know if he could see properly, Thursday could see again that raw, ferocious urge to solve that he remembered Morse having.

At several points he could literally see Morse having an idea, see the way he stilled, the way he shook out his fur as he stood on all fours, tail pointing straight up. There was no attempt to communicate though, and Thursday wasn’t sure if Morse didn’t know how to try, or if he was waiting to hear more. So Thursday kept going, talking himself hoarse and having to stop for a glass of water.

Eventually he reached the end of all of the accounts, and their theories, and started rehashing some of his own ideas. A photo went flying from the table as Morse’s tail lashed, and Thursday glanced up to find the lad glowering at him. “What?”

It became quickly apparent that now Morse was trying to tell him something, and didn’t appreciate being ignored. With careful, deliberate steps he made his way across the table, stepping in between the photos, and patted a paw against one face in particular.

“The uncle?” Thursday said dubiously. “You think he did it? He had a pretty solid alibi, lad, and-“ But Morse was on the move again, first to the edge of the table and then, with a slightly awkward hop, to the couch. He patted the pile of papers next to Thursday. “What? Oh, you want to hear that bit again, do you? His statement?” Morse tapped twice. “Alright.”

Thursday reread the uncle’s statement, and tried to figure out what had interested Morse about it. Once he’d finished, Morse tapped the file again. “What? Oh, again? Really?”

Morse hesitated, then reached his paw to draw it excruciatingly slowly down Thursday’s arm. ”What  - oh! Go slowly, you mean? Alright.” He started again, a stir of excitement in his gut. About three sentences in, when the uncle was talking about what he’d done earlier in the day, Morse’s paw whipped out lightning fast and batted the paper Thursday was holding.

“The car?” Morse tapped twice against his leg. “Because when he was at the garage…” Thursday breathed. “Oh, brilliant, Morse.” He glanced at his watch, half past four. “Enough time to have a chat with the garage owner, and see who else might have been there at the same time.”

He hastily gathered up the papers, cramming them haphazardly into the folder, and gave Morse a quick scruff over the head as he left.

------------

Later that evening, with a suspect in the cells and a warm meal in his belly, Thursday relaxed on the sofa with Morse.

“I can’t wait to tell Bright you solved this one,” he murmured proudly. “Actually I think I’ll take you in tomorrow, so that you can be insufferably smug in front of all of them. I already told Jakes; the look on his face when he found out he’d been outsmarted by a cat was a thing of beauty!”

Morse’s purr sounded particularly content that evening, and Thursday left him dreaming on the couch.

Chapter Text

Win shook him awake in the morning ten minutes before he usually got up. “Fred, love,” she whispered, and he groaned and tried to roll over. “I need you for something!”

Grumbling a bit, he got up, shuffled into his slippers and dressing gown, and traipsed down the stairs after her. She pointed at the door to the living room. “Would you mind grabbing my cup, I left it in there.”

Brain still more than half asleep, Thursday moved sluggishly through the door and flicked the light switch.

Slightly dazed blue eyes flew around to meet his. Blue eyes in a freckled face, with a mop of rather overgrown reddish hair, attached to long, gangly limbs clothed in Thursday’s somewhat ragged looking jumper and a blanket.

“Morse,” Thursday said, and his voice cracked embarrassingly.

Morse’s mouth opened and closed again, he licked his lips and then, “Sir?” His voice sounded strange to Thursday’s ears, for all that it had once been something he heard every day.

Thursday moved further into the room, feeling a bit like he was dreaming. “You’re…” You. Human. No longer a small orange cat.

Morse cleared his throat. “Yes,” he agreed. Thursday sunk down on the sofa next to him, unable to take his eyes from the lad’s face.

“When?” Was all he could think to ask.

“I, um, I woke up like this.” Morse paused for a moment, as though that many words at once had been too much for him. “And then Mrs Thursday came down.”

Thursday wondered with a slightly hysterical edge of amusement if she’d caught the lad in the nude, or if he’d already wrapped himself in something. “Did she?” he murmured, mind racing.

Solving the case, that must have done it, feeling useful again. Christ, Thursday could have kept Morse at work tracking down burglars and he’d have been fixed in a week. But then, no, he’d needed to heal.

“How’s the leg?” Thursday asked in sudden concern.

“Oh, it’s-“ Morse looked down, as though he’d forgotten all about it, “It’s fine. Aches a bit.”

“Good,” Thursday said automatically, “that’s good.” And then tears welled up behind his eyes, misting them, and he abruptly felt like he could barely breathe. “Oh, lad,” he said, and reached out and drew Morse into a hug.

Morse stiffened, tense as a board against him and clearly not knowing what to do with his own hands. If he’d been a cat, it would have been a very clear warning sign. Thursday pulled away, subtly swiping across one of his cheeks, and clearing his throat.  “Sorry,” he said stiffly, “I just, I-“

“No,” Morse mumbled, and looked away shyly. “I’m sorry.”

It was so odd, to look at the man and see echoes of the cat – in the way he moved his head, the way he held himself. The movements he made which Thursday had never noticed before when he’d known Morse, but which now flared bright with meaning. It actually reassured Thursday a little, and lessened the acute sense of loss that had tangled unexpectedly in his chest and stomach.

Morse glanced back at him for a moment, eyes wary, and Thursday thought: I know those eyes. If Morse was a cat, he’d have held out his fingers for him to sniff before rubbing just in front of his ears – reassuring the lad. As it was… “Cup of tea?” Thursday asked. “And let’s find you some trousers. I’ll have something upstairs. Actually, you’d better come up with me, or the kids will run in on you.”

Morse shuffled awkwardly up the stairs after him, and hovered inside the door of Thursday’s bedroom as Thursday dug in the cupboard.

“No,” Thursday said after a moment as he held up a pair. “No chance. Let me get you some of Sam’s – they’ll be too short but at least they won’t fall down.”

They were too short, well clear of Morse’s bare ankles. Thursday could barely contain his laugh once Morse came out of the bathroom, and instead turned to root through his sock drawer. Morse dutifully pulled the proffered pair of socks on, but didn’t last ten seconds before reaching down to tug them back off again, tucking them in his trouser pocket.

“I – ah…” Morse ground to a halt, as though he’d run out of words, and ducked his head. A thick sweep of fringe fell in front of his eyes, and Thursday wanted nothing so much as to brush it back. His fingers twitched, and he shoved them in his pockets.

“Maybe later,” Thursday offered, as his mind suddenly connected that wearing clothes after almost two months of nudity must be a very odd experience. Apparently Morse was drawing the line at socks. God knew how he’d feel about shoes.

--------------

Sam and Joan couldn’t stop staring wide-eyed at Morse over breakfast, forcibly reminded that the addition to their household was in fact a man; that this was the person they’d been petting and playing with every day. A blush seemed to have permanently stained Joan’s cheeks, which Thursday found highly amusing, but Sam rallied with good humour and was making an effort to include Morse in the conversation.

Morse was quiet, picking at the food on the plate in front of him. He raised his eyes whenever he was addressed, and the measuring way he looked at the speaker was so like his cat self that Thursday needed to pinch himself to believe this wasn’t a dream. Morse didn’t seem inclined to speak much, though, and his smiles were small and awkward.

What had it done to him, being stuck as an animal for so long? Did he still think the same way? Was there something wrong, or was he so horribly embarrassed by his time with them that he didn’t know how to behave.

Watching the lad tease at the fraying sleeve of Thursday’s jumper, it could have been either. Once everyone had finished, Thursday made eye contact with Win and tilted his head towards the hall. “Sam, Joan, give me a hand,” she said as she rose from the table, and after a brief clatter the chatter of conversation moved in the direction of the kitchen.

Thursday waited a moment, then asked, “Alright, Morse?”

Morse’s eyes darted sideways to him, and then away again. “Yes, sir.”

“Suppose we ought to get you checked out. A doctor, or that professor.”

“No. That is, I’m fine. I can come into work,” he said, voice tight and hoarse.

Thursday considered the image of Morse in a large, noisy station full of curious sergeants and constables. The lad was currently flinching at every noise from the kitchen. He reminded Thursday of the cat that first day Thursday had found him - scared out of his wits and not quite processing things right.

“I think it’s probably important to do everything by the books on this one, Morse,” Thursday said carefully. “We already know Bright’s keen to have you back, and I couldn’t half use your brain there, but he’ll want everything properly cleared. And, well… I wouldn’t want anything to set you back.”

Morse thought that through. Long, fine fingers reached out to play idly with the fork on his plate, and Thursday compared them to the graceful movements of a white paw. Impossible not to see reflections everywhere, now.

“What would I have to do?” Morse asked finally.

“Well, let me phone the station, see if they come up with some official procedure. They’ll want you certified by a medical examiner to come back, and then in a few weeks probably another to get you certified for full duties and change-work.” He hesitated. “Bright suggested that, and I didn’t think to… Would you be alright with that?”

An uncertain shrug. “I suppose,” Morse said noncommittally.

“And then I’ll give the professor we saw a call too, see if he has any suggestions. We’ve, ah, we’ve kept up with rent on your flat, so you’re all set to go there. Might still be a bit of a mess, but we can come round and give you a hand with it.”

Morse closed his eyes, brought one hand up to cover them. “God,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry to have put you to all this trouble. I don’t-“

“No trouble at all, lad,” Thursday said firmly. “It’s been a pleasure, having you here.”

Morse swallowed, and ducked his head. Thursday had grown adept at reading into his silences, when he’d been unable to speak, though of course he had no idea if he was reading them right.

“Come through to the living room for a bit, while I make some calls.”

Catching Win on the way, he whispered in her ear that the lad could use another cup of tea. He turned back to find Morse startling at the loud thud of Sam on the stairs; he took another jerky step back when Thursday moved closer. Deciding that the safest way to deal with such behaviour was to ignore it entirely, Thursday chivvied him into the living room, and directed him onto the sofa.

“Now, you just stay here for a moment,” Thursday murmured as he retrieved the blanket they’d brought back down. Morse had automatically hunched in on himself, and Thursday maintained a careful distance as he draped the blanket round his shoulders. Slender fingers came up to clutch at the edges of it and draw it close around thin shoulders – considering the amount Win had been feeding him, he really ought to have put on some weight! His wary blue eyes tracked Thursday until he was back out of the door.

The first thing Thursday did was call DeBryn, and let him know. The second thing he did was call the station. He updated Bright on the case, Morse’s solution, and the fact that the lad had recovered enough to transform back to a human. Bright agreed he needed to be checked over, and would be welcomed back at Cowley on immediate light duties if he wasn’t cleared for full. They’d discuss Morse’s ‘special’ talents once he was fully back.

Thursday managed to get an appointment with the Force medical examiner for that afternoon, given the special circumstances, and crossed his fingers.

--------------------

And then, for all of Thursday’s fears, Morse ended up fitting back in at the station as though he’d never left. Perhaps he was a little quieter at first, labouring over his typewriter and hovering in the background when a case came in. Less likely to push forward with an opinion, or look affronted that he was being excluded. But then, everyone else in the station was adjusting too, there was a slight ‘oh, yes,’ every time someone looked at Morse. Any sympathy or awkwardness over the lad being shot or losing his father seemed lost in the wave of ‘but he’s a shifter,’ which was still rippling around the station

So no, actually Morse didn’t fit back at the station as though he’d never left. He was still as much of a social pariah as ever, but now Jakes and even Bright were awkwardly considerate of him. Which seemed to be wrong footing Morse a bit – he didn’t seem to be grateful they were coming down on him less and instead reacted with thinly restrained belligerence. Thursday himself Morse treated with a confusing mixture of comfortable familiarity and red-eared muttering – at least the lad seemed to be on his game with cases though. He wasn’t cleared for full duties quite yet – next week probably – but he was back as Thursday’s bagman at least.

Every morning he stayed out in the car, waiting for Thursday, and every morning Thursday caught the same look of haunted longing on his face as he glanced at Thursday’s front door. Then a forced, neutral expression slammed into place and the vulnerability was gone as though it had never been. 

“You should come in for a cuppa tomorrow morning, Morse. Win’s been asking after you,” Thursday tried again after a few days of this.

Morse’s hands clenched white knuckled around the steering wheel, but when he spoke it was without inflection. “That’s very kind of her, sir, but I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Thursday thought of Win brushing Morse, of him twining around her ankles and playing with the ball of red yarn she’d bought specially for him. “It’s no intrusion, lad,” he rumbled, but Morse steadfastly refused to look in his direction. He sighed.

The first weekend came and went, and it was as though there was a hole in the family which they were all orbiting around. Morse’s cardboard box was still in the living room, because no one wanted to suggest removing it, and Thursday lost count of the number of times he’d glanced across to it to make a comment and then realised with a jerk that Morse wasn’t there.

No Morse lying out in the sun, and accompanying Win on her rounds of the garden. No warm lump on his lap in the evening. No tail held high trailing after Joan or Sam as they wandered around, teasing him with scraps of food from the cupboard.

The weekend felt different. Empty.

---------

He met Morse at the car on Monday morning with a feeling somewhere between relief and sorrow. All weekend he’d felt a nagging need to check Morse was alright, and that eased at the sight of pale, angled cheeks and tousled red hair. Every time Morse was Morse though, drawing back into his careful bubble of personal space, not knowing what to do with kindness or how to enjoy himself beyond retreating into his solitary little world of opera and his books….

Thursday just couldn’t help but think that he’d been happier as a cat.

So when Friday rolled around and Thursday dragged him out to the pub for lunch (corned beef sandwiches), he eyed the lad cautiously and took the plunge.

“Another quiet weekend for us,” he started conversationally. “The weather’s supposed to be lovely again. Win’ll be in the garden for a bit, the kids as well - they were having fun playing catch last weekend.”

When Morse had been there, he’d played piggy in the middle lazily as they rolled the ball along the grass.

“That sounds nice, sir,” Morse said after a moment.

“And I’ve got some work to do around the house – Win’s been on at me to fix up the garden shed. There’s that loose panel on the side, where the rain gets in.”

“Yes, I remember,” Morse said fondly, and then his face turned bright red and he pulled out his crossword.

Thursday didn’t really see what the lad had to be ashamed of. He’d not done anything wrong. But Thursday had tried that conversation in the first week, and Morse had grown more and more terse until he stopped speaking altogether for the rest of the day. Thursday had thought if he let it lie for a bit perhaps Morse would stop worrying about it. In hindsight, he knew Morse better than that.

“Win’s planning salmon, for Sunday lunch.” Morse didn’t move, but there was an air about him almost as though his ears had pricked up. “She said…” Thursday trailed off, and they sat in silence for a moment. “Morse, why don’t you come round, on Sunday?”

Morse seemed astonished to be asked, despite the fact that Thursday had been pressing him to come into the house almost every day.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly. Actually, I have plans,” Morse said awkwardly, and he was possibly the worst liar Thursday had ever known.

Thursday just looked at him for a moment, and Morse blushed red to the tips of his ears – Thursday hadn’t even thought he could have gone more red than he was before - and looked away.

“You can come whenever you like,” Thursday said carefully. “And leave whenever you like. And Morse? There’s no need for you to knock on the front door if you don’t want to.”

It was the most tactful way of phrasing the invitation he could think of. Not that he wouldn’t be happy to have Morse, this Morse, round for a proper lunch – and God knows Win would be delighted to have another one to mother. But unless he was reading the situation completely wrong, that wasn’t what Morse wanted, nor what he needed.

What had Morse been doing, for all the years before this? Transforming for a few hours in his dingy room or flat, all alone? Stripping off in the countryside for a quick roam, terrified that someone might find his things and leave him stranded? It sounded like even his family hadn’t known, that he hadn’t had a refuge there. He damn well had one open to him at the Thursdays, if he could just be convinced to accept it.

Morse gave the slightest tilt of his head – could have meant anything, really – and hope swirled in Thursday’s gut.

And on Sunday morning a small mottled ginger cat slipped under the hole in the garden fence, and planted itself down on the lawn as though it owned the place.    

The End