Angst — in die Enge getrieben (fürs Team)

[failte-aoife.livejournal.com]

Team: The Machine
Challenge: Angst — in die Enge getrieben
Fandom: Endeavour (ich brauche einen Tag)
Charaktere: Morse, Peter Jakes
CN: Erwähnungen von Suizid, Alkoholismus, Kindesmissbrauch
Plot: Peter Jakes knows that there's something Morse isn't telling him. He's determined to find out what. (Spoilers for Exeunt and Neverland)
Notes: Ich kann auch andere Fandoms. Yay! (Und wie kamen die Serienautoren eigentlich auf die grandiose Idee mit den zwei Peters?).

Saying Morse was hard to read, was an understatement.  Peter had never known what was going on inside him. For God’s sake, the man had kept working as usual after his father had died, never giving any indication that anything was wrong. Which was why was worrying that now there seemed to be quite obviously wrong with Morse. Peter had tried to tell himself, that it was none of his bushiness. That it might be something private after all and that whatever their relationship was, he had no right to pry into Morse’s private life. Only Peter didn’t believe that it was something personal. Not with Morse. Not now. Not after everything that had happened in the last few weeks. He didn’t want to believe that Morse was keeping something from him. Not Morse. Not about Blenheim Vale. Not from Peter. He kept trying to tell himself that he was wrong, that it was ludicrous that Morse would keep anything about that case from him, but he couldn’t. One day before he was about to fly back, he went to Morse’s place, invited himself to a drink, and then another and another, and eventually he cornered Morse, grabbed him and asked, far calmer than he felt: „What is going on with you? What is wrong?”

At that point, he almost convinced himself, that he’d been wrong. That he could never be calm where Blenheim was concerned. But then he saw the panic in Morse’s eyes. It was just a brief flash, but Peter saw it. Morse said nothing.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Peter.”

He knew that Morse wasn’t talking to him. He didn’t mean him.

“Peter is dead”, he said for the first time in his life. Blenheim Vale had killed him. That’s how he thought of it. It had killed him, and then it had killed so many others. George, Eric, Wintergreen, Angela, Deare and eventually even Lott. Sure, people had wielded the weapons, but none of them would be dead if it hadn’t been for Blenheim Vale. Peter sometimes wondered if he’d truly escaped. If getting several thousand miles and an ocean between himself and that place was enough. If Hope and the children were enough. Or if one day he’d take that gun his father-in-law had given them for protection and end it all because there was no running away from those memories. Perhaps he’d also try to drown those memories in more and more alcohol, and end like so many people who’d tried the same. He’d met enough of them in his line of work.

Morse looked at him for a long time. Then he said: “Peter is dead.” He still looked at Peter. Straight at him. His eyes were pleading. Please don’t do this. Don’t make me do this.

“What are you keeping from me?” He needed to know.

“He … died later. Later than we thought.”

This didn’t make sense. “What do you mean?”

Please don’t do this.

Don’t make me do this.

Was it really important? Peter was dead. Blenheim had killed him. Did it matter when?

Yes it did. He repeated: “What do you mean?”

Morse’s answer was a whisper. “He died … recently.” For a long time, it seemed that this was all he was able to say, but finally he continued even quieter. Peter had to strain himself to understand what he was saying. That they hadn’t killed him back then. They had given him away. Peter. Big Pete had got away earlier than himself or George, but that hadn’t helped him. He hadn’t been able to run away from the memories, either. Or perhaps they’d all died when they entered that cursed place, and since then their bodies had just waited to catch up. Perhaps there would be no escape for Little Pete either.

And then he almost thought that that was it. That Morse hadn’t wanted to tell him, that Big Pete had been alive all that time. He’d been alive while Peter was still in Blenheim. When he left. When he became a copper. When he let Morse and Thursday go to that place alone and Blenheim almost took two more victims. When he met Hope. When he left Oxford. But then he remembered what kind of person Morse was. And that alone would not have been enough to explain Morse’s behaviour. And then he realized that there was something Morse hadn’t mentioned yet.

“So who killed him?”

If he’d thought, Morse had looked miserable at the thought of sharing what, he knew so far, he looked absolutely horrified at the thought of answering that question.

Please don’t do this.

“I thought at least you wouldn’t keep things from me.” The words were out before he could stop himself, but he also couldn’t bring himself to regret them. Because he hadn’t thought that Morse, of all people, would lie to him.

Don’t make me do this.

“I thought you wouldn’t be, like the rest of them.” He regretted those words, before he’d even finished them, but he couldn’t take them back either. Something seemed to click in Morse. The despair vanished from his face, and it became the neutral mask again. The one he’d had since Peter had known him, and the one he’d sometimes been jealous of. His voice was firm, when he explained to Peter, what had happened.  Peter listened without saying a word. Later he’d swear, he’d listened without even taking a breath. When Morse had finished, the Thank You died on Peter’s tongue. He couldn’t say that. He couldn’t say anything. Peter turned round, saw out the corner of his eye, how Morse reached for the Whiskey bottle they’d been sharing, before this conversation had started. He didn’t care. He just walked to the door, opened it and left. As the door closed behind him, he knew that he wouldn’t return. Not to Morse. Not to Oxford. Not to this country. He doubted that would be enough to escape Blenheim.