The Marrying Type: Endeavour Morse x Reader
Summary: The night before Morse's wedding day Joan Thursday turns up on his doorstep.
Set After:
Next Time - Morse doesn't expect to meet his soulmate on the lawn at Oxford.
La Petit Mort - Morse and you share your first kiss in the rain.
California Dreaming - Morse turns up at your classroom to discuss the night you spent together.
The Detective & The Professor - You and Morse turn heads at a university event.
What’s In A Name - Morse refuses to tell you his first name.
Equal Opportunities - Fred Thursday realises that Morse has a girl.
The Golden Notebook - Morse enjoys watching you work.
Bruises - You see to Morse's care after a beating.
Rarities - You and Morse discuss the fact your differences.
The Right One - Morse's bad trip leads Fred Thursday to question your intentions.
The End of Time - You support Morse in his recovery leading to a revelation between the two of you.
The Divine - Morse goes skinny dipping for the first time.
The Libertines - Morse makes a confession about a past relationship.
The Other Woman - You find another woman in Morse's bed.
Joan - You come face to face with with the other woman.
Song of the Evening Star - You and Morse finally discuss what happened with Joan.
Art Deco - Morse doesn't think about marriage... until he does.
Distance - Morse struggles with the distance.
Woodstock - Morse hates Woodstock but Woodstock loves you.
To Make A House A Home - Morse doesn’t want Woodstock to become home.
An Ungodly Mess - Morse discusses an important decision with you.
Poison Pen - Morse's investigations have dire consquences when Ronnie Box turns up at your door.
Fire - Morse is forced to face the consquences of his investigation after the fallout from Ronnie Box.
Home - Morse makes a realisation about the home you've built together.
A Country Wife - You and Morse make a decision about your future.
Set Before:
Paris (NSFW) - You and Morse honeymoon in Paris.
The night before Morse marries you, Joan Thursday turns up on the doorstep of the house the two of you share. She stands there with her handbag clasped between her palms, her expression forlorn as the rain patters against the eaves of the porch above her head.
“They say it’ll clear up by tomorrow.” She tells Morse, tipping her face towards the traditional British weather, when he opens the door half dressed in his wedding suit. He’d picked it up from the tailors an hour ago and is now going through the rudimentary checks to make sure it fits just so before the big day.
“It wouldn’t matter even if it didn’t.” He tells her, adjusting the blazer of his charcoal grey suit jacket so it sits properly over the shirt. The polite thing to do would be to invite her in, put the kettle on but you’re currently sitting at your desk, wearing nothing but one of his shirts as you type out your lecture notes for the professor covering your honeymoon in Paris. “It’s supposed to be good luck for it to rain on your wedding day.”
“You’re still going through with it then?” She questions, her shoulders sagging underneath her jacket. “No second thoughts?”
“You sound as if you don’t think I’m the marrying type.” Morse responds sharply. “I wouldn’t be here in this suit if I-
“What if you’re marrying the wrong woman?” Joan cuts in and Morse sighs because he thought this had been resolved last year when she’d clambered into his lap and kissed him after he’d taken her in. He’d been blunt about where his affections lay, that his heart belonged to a beautiful, brilliant professor who taught at the university, who advocated for women’s rights and had a wit just as sharp as his.
“And that’s what you think Cleo is?” His voice lowers so there’s no chance of you overhearing the conversation over the clacking of your typewriter keys. “The wrong woman?”
“I think that we never had a chance to find out what we could be.” Joan tells him, reaching out to straighten his lapels. Her fingertips trail along the stitching as she arranges them just so. “You don’t have to marry her just because you feel responsible for that happened with Ronnie Box-”
“Miss Thursday.” His tone is steeped with ire as he takes her hands in his, carefully removing them from his wedding suit. “There may have been a time when we could have had something but I’m afraid that ship has sailed. My heart is hers, and I’ll be very proud to make her my wife tomorrow morning-”
“Morse…” The words come out like a plea, the parting shot of a woman who understands she lost her chance a long time ago but would kick herself if she didn’t persist.
“Joan.” He says softly, his ferocious gaze meeting hers. “You don’t even know my name.”
“I…” Her eyes are woeful as she looks at him, that shimmering blue he once entertained the idea of falling in love staring back.
There’s only one woman that knows who he really is, who loves him so unconditionally that he can feel it in the depths of his bones when she kisses his lips.
“You should go.” His voice is firm, the policeman’s tone that he uses when someone is being belligerent. “Let me call you a taxi-”
“No.” She tears herself away from him, stepping off the porch and into the rain. The downpour soaks her hair, drenching it within seconds so that it hangs around her features. “I think I’d rather walk.”
He opens his mouth to protest but she’s already halfway down the driveway, her shoes crunching in the gravel. He closes the door behind her, catching sight of himself in the gold Baroque style mirror you liberated from a charity shop when you were both making a home. His shirt collar is turned up, but the cut of the suit fits him perfectly just like Fred Thursday said it would.
“Who was at the door?” You ask when he returns to kitchen. His cup of tea is lukewarm now, but he takes a sip anyway as you tilt you perch your chin upon the palm of your hand, giving him your full attention.
It’s supposed to be bad luck to see the bride before the wedding, but you aren’t much of a traditionalist. You’d rather spend your last night of freedom re-living your first night together, listening to Nino Rota as you make love to him in his favourite chair.
“No one, my love.” He murmurs, leaning in close, his lips capturing yours, drinking in the bliss that comes with making a life with the woman you love. “No one that matters anyway.”
Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here! Or be a sweetheart and drop me comment or reblog.
