Author's Note: More fluff – I just can't help myself. It's the Thursdays – they're just so lovely! :)

Part of the Routine

Morse parks the car in front of the Thursday residence.

Some days he goes inside to wait for DI Thursday, to stand somewhat awkwardly in the hallway or to sit no less awkwardly at the kitchen table. But on days such as these with the rain hammering down hard on the car's roof and windscreen, Morse doesn't fancy the drowning he'd receive on the way to the front door.

He keeps the car ticking over, the heater only starting to warm up now that the engine's been running for a while. He waits with his hands buried in his coat's pockets, preserving what little heat he can.

After just a few minutes the front door opens and Morse waits for Thursday to reach the car. Even though he was expecting a noise the two taps on the passenger window startle him. He looks up to see Mrs Thursday holding a small package, the cardigan draped over her shoulders meagre protection from the driving rain.

He leans over the passenger seat to hastily roll down the window. "Mrs Thursday?" The surprise in his voice isn't hidden.

"Win, dear," she says automatically; even though she's said it many times before Morse can't seem to bring himself to call her by her first name. Her damp fringe falls into her eyes, her voice raised to be heard over the rain battering on the car's roof. "Fred's not very well today. He's got that stomach bug that's been going round."

Morse has heard about that bug – PC Strange had it earlier this week – and winces in sympathy.

"He'll be alright in a day or two," Mrs Thursday assures, and with the level of care she gives her family Morse doesn't doubt her. He has the sudden mental image of a sick, grumpy Thursday smoking his pipe in his pyjamas, tucked up in bed, and surrounded by trays of Mrs Thursday's medicinal tea. "Here, I've made you a sandwich. We can't have you going hungry on a day like this."

It started last week when Thursday got into the car one morning with two sandwiches instead of the one, and it hasn't really stopped since.

She's holding out the sandwich to him, standing in the cold and rain with only a cardigan covering her arms; his polite protest dies on his lips. "I, er, thank you," he says, taking the package and setting it on the passenger seat.

Mrs Thursday flashes him a warm smile and turns toward the house, before suddenly remembering something and turning back again. "Oh, are you still coming for dinner on Sunday, Morse? I'm making beef casserole."

"Yes, I think so, thank you..." Morse says, but she appears to have heard enough after the 'yes' as she dashes for the cover of the house. He watches as she gives him a little wave, which he awkwardly returns, before closing the door.

He hasn't much to look forward to today, only answering to Jakes' every beck and call, but at least there's a cheese and pickle sandwich waiting for him at lunch with his name on it – literally, he notices; scrawled onto the brown paper is 'Morse'.

Just for him.

THE END