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It takes three months of careful coaxing before Max makes the offer.
Three months of seedcake and ginger beer, of sitting in amongst his blooms, with Morse lifting his nose slightly to catch their perfumes. Three months of watching Morse unwind, inch by inch, in the warm twilights or cheerful mornings – whenever he can pop in, really.
This time, it’s just gone lunch; Morse has been working all night, but glows with the relieved righteous energy he always has after a big case has been solved well. He’ll crash in an hour or so – Max has already prepped the guest bedroom – but for now, he’s smiling into his sandwiches. He’s already finished a whole bowl of spinach soup, and Max makes a mental note to add this recipe to his growing list of ‘things Morse will willingly consume’. It will nestle itself alongside ‘copious amounts of alcohol’ and ‘chocolate digestives’. It was a relief to finally get something green into him.
“You know,” Max swills the dregs of his lemonade around in his glass, taking care not to look at Morse as he speaks. Keep it casual, Debryn , he warns himself. “You needn’t wear all that here. If you don’t want to.”
“Wear all what?” Max can’t help but look; it’s rare he catches Morse confused. At least, pleasantly confused, not work-related confused. Morse’s face is scrunched up. He’s no longer trussed up in that strange stiff uniform that Max always thought made him look like a toy soldier. In fact, he’s even loosened up enough to remove his tie, inches of his pretty pale throat finally catching some light. He can’t help but blush at the thought, and maybe that’s what makes Morse smirk back. “My shirt?”
“I was thinking more what’s underneath it.” Max tries to keep his tone jovial, but watches Morse’s eyes widen, and then dim. A muscle jumps in his jaw.
“How did you –“
“I’ve stitched you up enough times.” Does Morse take him for a fool? He knows when bandages are tied tightly around a chest to keep broken ribs intact, and when they are concealing something else entirely. “It’s not safe either.”
“It’s fine.” Morse snaps back, the warning in his voice rumbling like thunder. “It’s safer than not wearing them.”
He has a point there. How Morse has managed to remain undetected through the army and the police, and even prison, Max has never understood. All that communal living – communal showering, even. Morse's personality simply isn’t acerbic enough for people to keep that much distance. And what of all those women Morse had enchanted over the years with his soft, sensitive voice and waifish looks. A flash of worry skitters across Max’s brain. That better not be why Morse usually eats like a wren with a stomach complaint; to keep his figure lean and boyish…
“That as may be.” Max forces himself to speak, because otherwise, he’s certain Morse will flounce off, prima donna that he is. He’s getting twitchy now, and Max has to lay a hand over Morse’s wrist to keep him from bolting. “That as may be at work – or… elsewhere. But you are safe here.” Morse is looking at him, like he can hardly believe he’s real. “Always and whenever.”
“I – I’ve not –“ Morse swallows hard. “Not in front of anyone. Not for years.”
“Really?” Max can’t help but let surprise creep into his tone. In his younger and more flamboyant years (yes really), Max had once worn a corset for a university play, and he was begging to be unlaced by Act Three. How Morse copes with being bound so tightly, hour after hour, day after day, is anathema to him. No wonder he’s always so bloody grumpy.
“You see why I prefer my own company?” It’s another barb, but this with less venom in it, as Morse grapples with what he’s being offered. He’s like a stray cat, eyeing a saucer of milk. Nose twitching, leaning forward, but not yet accepting the gift.
“I see the appeal.” Max gives Morse’s wrist a squeeze, then turns his hand, and holds it gently in his own. “But this can be an alternative.”
“What if I’m seen?” There’s something hunted, something haunted, in his eyes, that speaks from experience rather than paranoia. Maybe he hasn’t flown quite so perfectly under the radar then. Max gestures to their surroundings, and watches Morse’s shoulders drop as he takes in the variety of blossoms.
“By whom?” Max asks. “This place is a veritable Eden. I often trim the begonias in a prelapsarian wardrobe, and I’ve yet to have any complaints.”
It takes Morse’s mind a moment to catch up, and then his cheeks are scarlet, and he’s rubbing at his neck and ear. Something in Max twists pleasantly. He hoped a bashful Morse would keep those sweet tells.
“Well, an Englishman’s home is his castle. Perhaps it’s a case of live and let live with the residents.”
“No-one will see you, Morse.” Max runs his thumb over Morse’s knuckles. “And if you are still concerned, I doubt you are so well-endowed that it’s not something one of my roomier jumpers couldn’t cover.” It’s a risk, but a calculated one, as Max raises their joined hands to his lips, and kisses Morse’s gently. The detective looks about him, as if waiting for his colleagues to leap from the hedgerows and arrest them, but their only company are bumblebees, floating lazily from flower to flower. “I want you to be comfortable here.”
“I am.” Morse’s eyes are shining softly, and Max wonders when the last time Morse had a place that felt so secure. “You make me comfortable, Max.”
“As I should.” He gives Morse’s hand one final squeeze and lets go, getting to his feet. “Now, can I tempt you to a spot of Bakewell tart? After you’ve finished those sarnies, of course.”
“Actually, do you mind if I use your bathroom first?” Morse asks, and Max smiles and nods. They saunter up the garden path together, and part ways once in the house; Morse knows his way around well enough to not need to ask for directions. Max busies himself in the kitchen, freshing the teapot and warming through some homemade custard, savouring the sound of Morse pottering around upstairs. Perhaps their lives shall be more like this, two souls inhabiting Max’s precious house. Anything to get Morse out of those grimy flats. Max glances around and tries to imagine his home with spatterings of Morse.
He's just mentally cataloguing how much mess they will be tripping over, when Morse trots down the stairs. Max is relieved to see that Morse has taken his suggestion; his whole posture has softened from his usually straight-backed stiffness, but he hadn’t been expecting Morse to take his other suggestion. Still, he looks rather lovely in one of Max’s jumpers, powder blue and large enough to billow off of Morse’s lithe frame. Max makes sure to cut him an extra large slice of tart, as he shoos Morse back to the little table. He’s happy to see naught but crumbs on the sandwich plate when he brings through dessert.
“Feeling better?” Max asks softly, and Morse nods. They share a smile, and then Morse turns his head to face the best of the garden.
And for the first time since Max has known him, Endeavour Morse takes a deep, full breath.