This was an entire accident, I swear.

I'd been watching Endeavour repeats on TV and I had a sudden inkling that a little Morse fic was well overdue.

(For those panicking that Strange Happenings is being sidelined, it's not. Life is busy, but chapter three soliders on.)

But yes. Endeavour's endearingly confused face was too hard to resist and the witty banter that Joan and him had in the earlier seasons is a real firestarter for a fic like this. And, yes, I'm ecstatic about the new series in February - I mean, I'm biting my nails, but in an excited way.

As any of you who read my work know, a Spotify playlist was inevitable:

user/ingenioussprite/playlist/37hbsO01iedH52FCD22ezS

There's a mix of modern and oldie stuff, just based upon what felt right when I considered the story. Hopefully anybody listening will like the choices. Any comments or suggestions anybody has for the playlist - feel free to share! That's what music was made for.

Anyways, hope you enjoy this little side piece I did while I'm wading through unending homework and fanfiction chapters and essays that should have been written over a week ago.

Reviews and kudos are much appreciated!

When Joan Thursday first met a policeman outside her house, she was seven years old.

She'd known her Dad was a policeman – and she'd been told that he was thumping good one, too. She'd had an unwavering pride in him, like a light that refused to dim, no matter the shade that tried to cover it. She'd hug him round his middle and barrage him with questions about work before he hung his coat up.

Always leave work at the door, he said.

She'd complied, but it had been reluctantly.

For all her naivety, Joan had been more than aware that policemen generally all followed the same trail – they all sauntered after each other, looking the same, smelling the same, talking the same. The slicked back hair, the cigarette smoke and cologne, the dark, trim suits, all to appear charming and law-abiding in a spontaneous and precarious way that only succeeded half the time. By the time she was 13, she'd already found herself a little infatuated with the idea of them – at that age, anybody could be infatuated with a grown up charm. They looked dark and mysterious, even when she would look back on that memory and rue the day she ever cast her eyes that way, knowing that she should have known better from the start.

Policemen were an allure, because she had no idea who they were. And Joan, in a very young state even then, was allowed to fantasize about the job without any repercussions, because she didn't for a moment think she'd ever feel anything genuine towards them anyway.

When she turned 17, the allure was different, but she still felt that it was a naïve pursuit.

She'd met boys, of course. She'd been out with them, and danced with them, and sometimes they were too eager, and sometimes they weren't eager enough. But having the new apprentice of her Dad turning up on the doorstep was still the most thrilling.

She had to begrudgingly admit that she was a little bit of an adrenaline junkie - to some degree, at least.

They always came with that plume of bitter smelling smoke hanging around them, a sly smirk on their face like they'd gotten themselves right where they needed to be. When she first met Sergeant Jakes, he'd had that cocky type of charm that meant he believed in his charisma, and knew that you did as well. He was handsome, to be sure – but a little ragged around the edges, every time a frown crossed his face. She'd been taken with him, to be sure.

But she hadn't been prepared for the next one.

At the age of 21, Joan Thursday had heard the doorbell ring out that morning, once again tightening her hairband around her wayward waves of hair, and trying to understand how she'd managed to reach this age before she'd ever had a thought about it. Likewise, she'd thought about it as much as her parents had, who reminded her daily that her age was baffling them – possibly even less so than her brother's age of 24. Time seemed to slip away before she'd realized it, and what had once been her daydreams as a girl were now her realities as a young adult.

The door had clicked open and she'd been prepared to be met with the wry face of Peter Jakes, only to be taken aback by the lithe shoulders and mop of sandy blond hair that greeted her on the porch, so unlike the usual look of the Sergeant before him.

He'd turned round at the door, smiling openly in an awkward sort of way, like he was still trying to tell himself that everything around him was actually real, and not a dream.

She'd taken a good look at him then, even when she'd been teasing him effortlessly, making him smile in an ineffectual way – the way many did when they didn't know what else to do. She'd thought him handsome, but nothing like Jakes. The sergeant had been unruly and rogue and little immoral, if not also deliberately charismatic and uncommonly funny, in a wry, sardonic sort of way. The man in front of her had, from the offset, looked like he belonged in the role of Galahad: innocent and youthful and not at all trying to be anything he wasn't.

There was no cigarette smoke. There were no cheap lines and coy smirks.

Even as she'd let him come in, his cologne had swept past her in a very different way to that of the ones before. A gentler scent – trying to brush her senses like a lover rather than punch them like an enemy. A light, musky scent that seemed to suit his gentle demeanour.

He'd looked uncomfortable. Or rather, more to the point, he was. Like he couldn't believe he'd had the audacity to stand outside the door, never mind sit at the kitchen table as he waited for his boss.

Her brother had made light of the situation of course – as always.

"I'm impressed," he'd said, and of course, Joan had prepared to denounce him publicly, but secretly agree with him. Lump of a brother or not, he still mattered to her more than most people did, normally because he didn't indulge in saying what he didn't mean. There were few like that out there, and having it being a common family trait meant that she'd picked it up like a flu.

"Do you want a cuppa?"

He had shaken his head, looking almost alarmed by the suggestion.

"No, I'm fine, thanks, Miss Thursday,"

"Miss Thursday?" Her mum had seemed absolutely aghast at the notion, as she came in with more toast on a rack, apron round her waist but a confident air in her walk. Although certainly kind, Winifred Thursday – as her Dad often lovingly called her when he thought her and Sam were out of earshot – was no fool, and could see exactly what had Joan hanging off the edge of the counter, feigning indifference to the striking but unassuming young man, backed up against the wall as if afraid they'd cave in if he didn't. Some bemused little smirk had been on her face as she had looked at him, she too drinking in his features the way Joan had, although in a distinctly less fascinated way – it had been more akin to approval.

"She gets enough of that down the bank. Start calling her it at home and she'll get airs,"

Joan, in contrast, had snapped her head round at his comment, staring wide eyed for half a second at the address. And there was that same shy smile, so afraid of offense and misconduct, but looking so old despite his young years. He looked a little washed out by the pale coat he wore, but his dark suit serving as a good pick-me-up to his pale complexion, smatterings of golden freckles across his nose and thin, bowed lips, sandy hair brushed to the side in soft waves attempting to be curls. But his eyes were something else – worn and tired looking, despite how young they still looked in a still relatively young face

Perhaps, Joan had thought, old souls made young eyes look wise.

"That's Joan, love," her mum had said in passing, as Joan smiled in bemused disbelief at the scene before her. He'd merely smiled at the notion – a shy sort of thing that made him look almost flushed by having ever said anything.

"He's one of Dad's, Mum," she had said witheringly, trying to avoid his rather solid gaze, as though intrigued by such a familial scene around him. Maybe he hadn't had a family like this, she wondered. Was it possible that somebody as young as him could manage to look so much older than his age?

"Well, I didn't think he was from the pools," her mum replied, and Joan had let loose a snigger that had perhaps sounded a little undignified, but she couldn't help it. This was much too strange for her to refuse to get giddy at it.

"So… what do they call you, then?" She'd been unable to help herself, studying his features with rapt attention, not so much attracted, but rather more intrigued. New, new, new, she thought. That's what the curiosity of it was. New always made her jump, and analyse to a fine detail. She hadn't a clue where she'd picked up that particular personality quirk – probably her dad, if she didn't hadn't already figured that out beforehand.

He'd paused to look at her, like he was looking for some trace of teasing beyond what she'd already stuck on him.

"Morse," he'd said with a polite smile, still as guarded as ever. All politeness, nothing much else. Skittish, even – but then he was a stranger to everybody here. Most of all her.

"Mmm, Morse. Morse what?" she said approvingly, tilting her head, just as Sam decided now was the time to make some stupid joke, stuffing toast into his mouth.

"Morse code. Dit dit da," he said, mocking an unbothered look as Morse continued to glance around in polite but confused silence.

It had only taken a moment for him to be on his feet again, just after he'd sat down – apparently, he wasn't one for hanging around places. Joan continued to look at him, just as she was shooed into order, her bus certainly not intending on waiting for her if she was late.

As he bid her mum goodbye, trailing after her father with his shoulders tucked in, Joan had stared after him with a quirked eyebrow, leaning round the banister on the stairs, to look back into the kitchen.

"He's a bit weird, isn't he?" she had said, tilting her head a little as the door clicked behind the swish of his beige coat.

"Weird, dear?" Win had seemed confused. "He's just a young man, Joan. Polite, quiet. Shy. Better than a lot of them, I'd say. They aren't all like that, are they?" The accompanying look of withering amusement had made Joan roll her eyes.

Her mother walked back into the kitchen, hiding her smile as Joan had continued to stare after the closed door, as if imagining for one moment that he might walk back in again, apologizing profusely for having forgotten the car keys.

Anything to just get another chance to look at that peculiarly angelic face, however wounded he might be behind the blue eyes and sandy hair.

"No, they're not," Joan muttered to herself, just as she raised her eyebrows in admission, and swung round the banister and made her way upstairs again.

She hadn't met a single young man like him before in her life.

It had only been a few days until she'd seen him again, coming home early from the bank after having had an earlier shift. These days, she'd found life to be rather exciting, but she thought that was perhaps she had little to worry about. She was having fun – but she often wondered how it might be for other people.

She had tried not to dwell on the fact that she was a good deal better off than others.

She'd traipsed into the sitting room, usually reserved for special occasions, trying to remember where she'd left her magazine – only to find something else sprawled across the sofa, that strangely resembled the young man she'd seen earlier in the week.

Until, of course, she had realized that it actually was him, eyes closed, lying at an odd angle that probably would kill his neck when he woke up.

She'd stopped to take sight of him, a wry smile making its way up onto her face without her realizing. He'd looked peaceful then – like he'd finally gotten some quiet from a life that constantly demanded him to be alert. She had always thought her dad's job had sounded demanding beyond what it maybe needed to be when she'd been younger, but then she'd grown to discover that it would run you off your feet no matter what you did; it wasn't a personal choice for many.

Somehow, she'd looked at the young man – Morse, she had reminded herself – and thought that perhaps that wasn't entirely the case with him. He always seemed like he'd be the first to arrive and the last to leave if he was ever given the opportunity.

There was that look of his, though. She couldn't seem to get over it. Even though she was furiously curious, and most definitely not infatuated – or so she told herself – Joan had had to admit to herself that the curiously pleasant face of the Detective Constable made for an intriguing reshuffle of her choices in type. She'd been unashamedly attracted to the dark types – and yet…

He was something very different.

Fair and gentle, and most definitely tight lipped. Not smooth at all. Fumbling and more than prone to shuffling his feet. But there was a keenness and an intelligence in his eyes that had made her keep thinking about him even when the front door pushed him from her reality and back into his own, as it swung back on its hinges and took him from her sight again. Seeing him in her house again was proving just a little unusual. And that was more so than usual, to start with.

The dinner table had had an empty place for him that night, and he'd finally emerged, hair a little rumpled from his awkward sofa-bed set-up, a bleary look in his otherwise wide, blue-green eyes.

"You shouldn't have let me sleep, Sir," he'd muttered, taking a pro-offered seat beside Sam, who'd obligingly budged up at his father's request. He'd been facing her at that point, the soft glow of the lamplight casting the planes of his face in slender lines and gentle slopes.

Some witty conversation had inevitably arisen – it never seemed to end between Joan and Sam, but that was the result of having parents who'd raised them to whip out tongue before someone else could. She'd always been grateful for that upbringing.

Once a copper, always a copper.

Always had been the case with her Dad.

He'd looked unusual at that table that night – like he was inserting himself into their family, perhaps as a temporary guest. As Sam had said, it usually took them at least six months before they even crossed the threshold, never mind sit at the table. But maybe that was why Morse was so different. There was clearly something about him that her Dad liked – maybe a shyness or kindness that seemed to be lacking in the others.

Maybe he felt taking on another son – surrogate, anyways – was the right thing to do.

She let a smirk shy of a grin tilt her lips, imagining just how well that setup would work. Knowing Morse, he'd probably continue to say yes to things her Dad said if that's what he wanted.

Although, she wasn't too naïve to believe that he was all gentleness. Men like that usually had some hidden passion in them that only made the surface when all politeness was wasted on others.

Sadly though, he'd only been seated for less than five minutes before work once again called him to the front again, like a soldier called to war when he'd only just gotten back on his feet. Maybe the life of a policeman really was fighting through the hard stuff, Joan had thought.

How right she'd be in the end.

There'll probably be about three chapters to this, mind - just because it's one big piece and I just want to cut it up a little.

The Endeavour fandom is frightfully small, but then it's a quiet little thing on ITV, so I suppose that's to be expected.

Thanks to everyone who continues to follow my work! It means the world.