Warning: Mild and probably not necessary as she was a very, very minor character, but Lewis' wife has died some time prior to this story's opening.

Summary: Lewis figures out a few things.

Notes: This was the first story I wrote after nearly two years of exclusively doing Pros stuff. I know many blame Phantom Menace for luring me away from Bodie/Doyle, but Morse was actually the culprit and accomplished the task many months before PM's release.

This story appeared in an issue of 'No Holds Barred' and was written long before the novel, let alone the movie based on it, about Morse' death was written.

The flowers would bloom soon, the grass green without a trace of brown remaining as winter faded into spring. It had always been her favorite time of year. Detective Sergeant Robert Lewis walked along the path, his mind full of what she would have said about the weather, the state of his surroundings, and a host of other things. He'd still not got used to it -- the silence which would have once been filled by one of her comments.

Reaching his destination, he stopped and stared at the marble emblazoned with the name Valerie Lewis. "Hello, love," he said. "I brought you some flowers." He set the bouquet of carnations in front of the tombstone, then stood back up.

He'd come from work, so he was wearing a suit, and an earlier rain had left the ground too damp for him to sit in the grass and talk. Or perhaps he didn't need to as much as he'd used to. The kids certainly had no need to come here. "Mum's not there," Lynn had told him quite firmly each time he'd asked if she'd like to visit her mother's grave. Then she'd gesture at the kitchen and the garden. "This is where she is." Mark had differed only in feeling his mother lived in his heart, not in some place.

Lewis secretly agreed, but he was compelled to come here from time to time, bring her flowers, chat. About the kids, about life, about everything but Morse. He was careful never to mention his superior's name. Of course, he talked about the cases he and Chief Inspector Morse worked, but he kept the details short, including references to Morse only by virtue of an occasional 'we.' Silly really, but he'd got into the habit during the last year of her life, when mentioning Morse seemed to upset her. He'd not bothered to discard the habit when she'd died.

After she had first passed away, he would come here once a week and talk for nearly an hour. Now, eight months later, he visited infrequently and found himself with nothing to say after only a few minutes. Well, at least nothing more to say that didn't have something to do with Morse.

"I'm sorry, love," he told her. "I do miss you. I really do." The only moments he felt gratitude for her death were when he remembered how much pain she'd been in by the end. The cancer had spread with alarming speed, but somehow it had also been a slow, painful way to die.

She'd told him of the cancer their last night in Australia. He should have known there had been some hidden reason why she'd allowed him to convince her they could afford for her to fly out to join him. And he'd desperately needed for her to come to him.

They'd had a lovely time, seeing all the sights, enjoying each other's companionship without the strains marking the last few years of their marriage. They'd even made love once, and when they'd returned home, he'd began to study once again for the inspector's exam. He didn't want the promotion, didn't care at all if he never was more than Morse's sergeant, but Val had wanted it. Wanted it? She'd been livid when he'd stopped studying for the exam for the first time. Lewis had even wondered in the midst of their row if their marriage would survive. It had -- just. But he'd moved into the spare bedroom and neither had ever suggested he return to her bed. All she'd asked of him was to stay with her until the end.

Stay with her? It had never occurred to him to do otherwise. Even if their marriage had devolved into friendly companionship, Lewis had taken his marriage vow of 'to death do us part' seriously. "I'd never have left you, Val," he told her grave, a reflection of what he'd told the woman the last night in Sidney.

The promise had pleased her right up until the last few days before she went into a coma. The cancer had spread to her brain by then, and she'd come out with the daftest things. "Carpe diem, Lewis," she'd said in the middle of a conversation about her garden. "Life's too short. Shouldn't waste it."

When he'd asked what she was on about, Val had responded by asking him why he'd wanted her to come to Australia. He'd been depressed, had seen too many lives shattered and he'd needed her companionship -- some time alone together to heal the rift his opting out of promotion had caused. He'd told her all of this, she'd called him a sodding liar, then gone on with her instructions about pruning her roses.

Carpe diem. He'd known it was Latin and vaguely familiar, but he hadn't remembered what it meant, so he'd asked Morse. Seize the day. A line from the movie he'd taken Val to years ago. 'Dead Poems' or something like that.

But why had Val said it? And why had she called him a liar when he'd told her about Australia?

Every time he visited her grave he found himself asking those same questions. But he could never suss it. Some great detective he was. Good job he'd dropped his plans for promotion again. He'd felt bloody disloyal doing so and had made half-hearted attempts at studying once a week or two, but he'd finally given it up. It had never been what he wanted. Why try to do it for a dead woman?

So many questions. It made him tired. He didn't want to think on it, but the nagging feeling he was missing something dragged at him. Of course, he'd had it almost two years now. Ever since ... Australia.

'It all comes back to that, doesn't it, Robbie?' Bloody Australia. He shuddered. Too fitting an epitaph, that. Blood and bodies everywhere. Blood all over Morse. He wrenched his thoughts away from the image and opened his mouth to tell the grave he had to be going. Then it struck him -- he always forced himself to stop thinking about the trip with Morse when the image of the blood spattered man came to him. And he'd never understood what Val had meant.

Despite the damp, despite what it might do to his suit, he sat down on the ground. That was it, wasn't it? The answer was locked up in blood and Morse. He ignored the chill sweeping through him and let his mind drift back over the case.

Australia. New South Wales. Where an old grass had been sent along with his family and a new name twelve years earlier. Should have been a simple trip. Collect the man and return to England in a few days time. But it had all gone wrong. The grass had disappeared, his daughter had been kidnapped to force him into the open, then he had killed himself. Worse, it had turned out the man he had testified against, the man who had died in prison, had been innocent. Morse had taken it very hard.

Lewis had never seen him like that. And the next thing Robbie knew, Morse was offering himself up to the kidnapper. The night before the meet, Morse had talked to Lewis as he never had before. They'd both known he could be going to his death, but Morse had said it didn't matter, said ... 'I'm old, and unmarried, and I don't understand human nature.' Then, for the first, time he'd called Lewis 'Robbie.'

Young by all but a teenager's standards, married with two kids and possessing what he thought was a reasonable understanding of human nature, Lewis had volunteered to go with him. And if he had thought Morse was going to his death, then he must have been volunteering to die with him. Because he didn't want to live without him. A flush burned his cheeks -- he'd not put the thought to words before. Not even after the day in the woods when Morse had stood in front of a madwoman with a gun and demanded she shoot him with her one remaining shot. Shoot him and not Lewis. Only moments earlier Lewis had asked her to spare his life because he had a family -- a wife, who was beginning to show the ravages of a fatal illness and two kids who would need him desperately once their mum had passed on. Yet when Morse had moved toward the gun, Lewis had risked death to stop her from killing the one man he valued above all else. Their survival had been a miracle. He'd kept his awareness focused on that point, carefully not examining the emotions behind both his and Morse's actions.

Suddenly, he understood Val's dislike of Morse. He had stayed with her until death they did part, but he had not put her before Morse. Not even in Australia.

Only Morse's orders had kept Lewis crouched safely behind a porch while Morse faced the gunman in an attempt to save the girl. His stomach twisted again as he heard a gunshot echoing through his memories. Only a warning shot, the ordeal had gone on; then the girl's mother had got free of Lewis, running out into the open to plead for her child and buggering everything. In the next minute, the local sheriff, then the kidnapper were gunned down. The girl was safe, but her captor's blood had splattered all over her and Morse.

For one horrible moment, Lewis had thought it Morse's own blood. Had thought he'd lost a man he'd come to admire, respect and ... was bloody fond of. Normally he would have taken care of Morse, would have offered what comfort he could, but he'd avoided him as much as possible from then until they met again in England. Met again after a lovely holiday with Val, then her devastating news. It had blurred everything else.

His almost mad dash to the phone to beg Val to come to him, the painful conflict on the Sidney Opera House steps as he'd wanted both to take Morse in his arms to comfort him and to run as far away from him as possible, the relief of seeing Morse off on his way back to England because he wouldn't have to look at the man's hurt, lost face any longer -- he'd forgotten it all.

'You're a sodding liar, Robbie.' Val's words, but they echoed his own thoughts.

'Why did you want me to come to Australia?' she had asked him.

"Because I was depressed, because I couldn't understand why I was so afraid to help him," he finally answered.

And why had he been afraid? There was nothing wrong with caring for another man. Care for? He'd offered to die with him, then five months later he'd charged at a woman with a gun all in the insane hope of saving Morse. Such actions didn't suggest mere caring, they suggested --

"Bloody hell." No. It couldn't be. Sure, he'd mucked around a bit when he was a kid, but it had never been anything heavy, and he'd always preferred girls. But ... Bloody hell. He was in love with Morse.

Arrogant, rude, condescending, bastard that he was, Lewis loved him and had done for years. He looked at his wife's name. "Oh, Val, I'm so sorry." She'd known. It was clear to him now. That's why she'd pushed for the promotion, why she'd thrown a fit when he'd told her he wouldn't go through with it. Even though he hadn't known it, he'd been telling her he'd chosen Morse over her. "I never meant. ... Oh, bloody hell. I'm sorry."

He stood up abruptly, then walked away, hurrying towards his car like a man fleeing the angry accusations of his wife. All the hateful things Val had never said to him whirled through his mind making him feel the guilt of a married man caught out.

But he'd never consciously been unfaithful to her while she lived. Never. His own thoughts began to fight back as he drove away. It created a muddle, then made him decide he shouldn't be driving, so he pulled into the car park of a nearby pub, went inside, got a laeger and sat down at a back table. He took a swallow, then gave himself over to the guilt and fear. An hour later he decided it all came down to two things: he'd never cheated on his wife, and she'd all but told him to stop being a prat. Carpe diem. Seize the day. But should he?

He got up and this time ordered an ale. Morse had always said it was good for thinking. Settling himself once again at his table, he allowed his thoughts to turn to Morse and what it meant to love him.

He and Val had married when she'd got pregnant with Lynn, a decision Lewis never had and never would regret. Their children were the joy of his life, and if his relationship with his wife had been more like an intimate friendship, he considered it a fair trade. Had still considered it such when the intimacy had ended, and even the friendship had grown strained. It had never been the sort of love to inspire poems or grand operas. As early as this morning, had someone asked, he'd have said he didn't know if he even believed in that sort of love.

But now as he let himself feel, it began to burn through his veins with more power than the strongest spirit he'd ever tasted. His head swam with it, and a smile began to form. Lovely. He *was* in love. The sort of love that had driven Shakespeare to pick up his quill, forced ... whoever to write whatever daft opera about the whole wonderfully silly emotion. Would Morse whisper poetry in his ear? Would he hold his hand when some soprano sang of her lover? Or would he demand Lewis' transfer?

He frowned at his ale. 'What will you do, sir?' He knew Morse had no prejudices against homosexuals; he need not fear his wraith or outrage, only his discomfort at another man's attentions. But would he be uncomfortable?

Lewis had often marveled at the long list of inappropriate women Morse had become involved with. It had got so Lewis flinched whenever an attractive woman was part of a case, knowing she would soon join the list. All the times Chief Superintendent Strange had got on Morse about his drinking -- though it had never once impaired him on the job -- yet never a word had been said about the women who were witnesses and suspects. Lewis had always found it odd. Perhaps Strange knew something he didn't. Something about Morse' sexuality? Any woman better than no woman? Which might mean?

Then there were the women who were appropriate potential partners for Morse. Lewis had met most of them. Had liked several of them and had occasionally dared to hope 'maybe this time the old bastard has found someone special.' Morse, for all his air of loneliness, had always seemed to run from those women. As if a woman were not what he wanted.

So Morse might be a homosexual. It was not a new thought for Lewis, but it was of sudden concern to him. But then a man who liked men did not necessarily like a particular man. Did Morse love him?

Again Lewis let his thoughts drift back through the past few years. The hurt and need in Morse's eyes in Sidney, his constant demands for Lewis to join him for a drink after hours, Strange telling Lewis how, in a smoke-inhalation induced paranoid delusion, Morse had called for him – 'Where's Lewis? I want Lewis' -- his demand a woman with a gun shoot him – 'Do it now!' -- he let it all come back to him. The evidence was overwhelming -- Morse did love him. But what sort of love? As a mentor? A friend?

Not even another ale helped him think of a single incident indicating a physical desire to accompany the love. His spirits plummeted. He was just over twelve years younger than Morse. He preferred laeger to ale, wasn't particularly well read and liked rock 'n' roll. Not the best companion for an ale-loving, Oxford-educated, opera nut. Nor did Lewis think of himself as the sort of man whose looks compensated for his other deficits. What had the lady in Italy said of him? Oh, yes, he had a kind face.

Lewis snorted, then drained the last of his ale. What did he do? An uncultured, beer-drinking, middle-aged man with two teenagers and a kind face didn't seem like much of a catch for a man like Morse. Did he risk what they already had -- friendship and mutual respect -- in hope of something more?

Noticing it was getting late, he got up, went back to his car and headed for home. Other problems began to occur to him. What would his kids say? What would Strange do? Homosexuality wasn't grounds for dismissal, but it wasn't exactly the road to success either. Lewis would happily serve as Morse's sergeant until the day the man retired, but what then? Work for a new Chief Inspector? One who would probably be younger than him? All assuming Morse wanted to have an affair with him. And if not?

Could he hide his love from the sharp-eyed Morse? Kind faces didn't lend themselves well to keeping feelings hidden. Didn't take much imagination to picture himself trailing around after the man like a love-sick puppy. Get him transferred for sure, that would. The reason for the sudden transfer might even come out, then he would find himself with the label, the prejudice which went with it and no Morse. What a bugger of a mess.

He sighed, turning the car onto his street, then frowned as he spotted Morse's Jaguar parked in front of his house. The Chief Inspector had volunteered to pick up the kids from school when Lewis had mentioned he might stop by the cemetery, but he hadn't expected Morse to do more than drop them off.

Lewis parked, then switched off the engine. The rich sound of a piece he happened to recognize as coming from 'La Traviata' greeted him as soon as he opened the car door. Oh, great. Morse had decided to introduce Lynn and Mark to opera. They'd give Lewis hell about it for weeks.

Bracing himself for his first look at Morse as the object of new found love and the glaring disapproval of two teenagers forced to humor an old man, he opened his front door. Not seeing any point in delaying the inevitable, he went straight to the front room, then blinked in surprise.

Morse and Lynn were sitting on the settee side-by-side, an ale in his hand, a can of Coke in hers. Their heads rested against the back cushions, their eyes were closed and almost identical expressions of rapture decorated their faces. Mark sat in a nearby chair, his attention fixed on a crossword puzzle.

The tickle began in the pit of Lewis' stomach. It rose up through his lungs then burst out in laughter. As this interrupted a climactic aria, he earned two immediate glares of disapproval. This proved Lewis' complete undoing. He began to laugh uncontrollably, tears welling up in his eyes.

The music cut off abruptly, then Lynn's outraged declaration of "Dad, you ruined the best part!" forced him to slide down the door frame and sit on the floor before his knees gave out.

Lynn glared at him with the long suffering, outraged look every parent of a teenager becomes familiar with, pushed the eject button on the cassette player, snatched up the tape, then stalked from the room. Apparently deciding he couldn't concentrate over the sound of his father's continuing laughter, Mark departed as well, crossword in hand.

Lewis had managed to get it down to a weak chuckle when the familiar sound of first Lynn's, then Mark's door being slammed reached him. It almost set him off again, but Morse was suddenly kneeling in front of him.

"Are you all right, Lewis?" he asked with a perplexed look on his much loved face.

'Carpe diem, Lewis. Seize the day.' All notions of taking things slow vanished with the man's closeness, and Lewis found himself reaching up. His hand curled around the back of Morse's head, then one hard yank pulled the man down on top of him. A second later, Lewis' lips found the sought after mouth.

The kiss sent a fire surging into his groin, and he hardened almost instantly. More importantly, he felt an answering hardness press against his thigh. "Bloody hell," he whispered in delighted wonder as their lips parted.

"Lewis, we must not do this," Morse protested, his voice nearly breathless.

"Oh, yes, we must, sir," Lewis told him, his arms going round the shorter, but more solid body. "We really must."

He forced another kiss, but 'La Traviata' started up again -- this time coming from Lynn's room -- and Morse jerked from his arms.

"Not here, you young fool," Morse hissed, his usual gruff manner reduced to near pleading.

"My room has a stout lock on it," Lewis told him, arching his hips so their groins slid together.

Morse groaned, shaking his head in denial, but a second thrust robbed him of his voice.

Opting to take advantage of this rare occurrence, Lewis got them both to their feet, then, taking firm hold of Morse's hand, he led the way up the stairs and into his room. He switched on a light, locked the door behind them, then turned his attention back to a dazed looking Morse.

Lewis gave him a smile.

Morse took a step back away from him.

Lewis dispensed with his shoes and socks, shrugged out of his jacket, then considered the man before him. "Tell me you don't want me, sir, and I'll unlock the door."

Morse swallowed, opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again without uttering a word.

Reaching up, Lewis unfastened his tie, then drew it off in a slow, smooth mo vement which seemed to make Morse shudder. Encouraged, Lewis unbuttoned his shirt, then shrugged out of both it and his jacket at the same time. Val would have been laughing hysterically by now, but Morse looked hungry.

"Do you like what you see, sir?" he asked, teasing his nipples into hardness.

"Lewis. ..."

Reluctantly he abandoned his nipples, moving his hands to his waistband. First the belt buckle, then the zipper opened. Pants and trousers slid down his legs, then he stepped out of them, leaving him naked in front of the fully dressed Morse. "I want you so much," he whispered, his hand settling on his erection. "Want you to touch me, to fuck me. Would you like that, sir? Like to ram your cock up my arse? Be the first one to have me that way. First one I ever wanted like that." He groaned, feeling light-headed with need. "Oh, please, sir."

"Robbie, you're an idiot," Morse said softly, but held out his hand to him.

Lewis was in his arms in an instant, the material of Morse's suit arousing against his nakedness. They kissed again, tongues dueling for the right to ravish one another's mouths, a battle Lewis won even as Morse guided him back against the bed. He moaned in protest as his lover pulled out of his arms, but refrained from reaching for him when he saw Morse had begun to strip.

The older man rid himself of shoes, socks, jacket and tie, but as he reached for the buttons of his shirt he looked decidedly uncomfortable. "I'm an old man," he muttered, "and I never was as beautiful as you are."

Sitting up, Lewis was able to reach the buttons himself. "You're beautiful to me, sir."

Morse glared at him. "Must you call me 'sir' at a time like this?"

Lewis smiled. "Well, if you told me your first name. ..."

"Never."

His smile broadened. "That bad?"

"Terrible."

The last button came free, and Lewis pushed the shirt open. Though thick around the middle, Morse had a muscular chest adorned with soft, grey hair. Lewis rubbed his cheek against it, then tongued the nearest nipple, causing Morse to gasp. "I could call you Pagan, like your old mates from school," he teased in between nibbles.

"Sir it is."

Lewis chuckled, his hands moving to the trousers separating him from what he wanted. His mouth went dry with both desire and fear when he'd finished stripping Morse. "Will it really fit?" he asked, running his finger along the hard length jutting toward him.

"Yes," came the answer along with fingers caressing his hair.

"Will it hurt?"

"Some, but not too much," Morse reassured him. "I'll need something to ease my way."

He glanced around. He knew there was no 'legitimate' form of lubrication in the house, but there was a bottle of lotion on the floor next to the bed. He'd used it to keep his hands from getting chapped in the winter. Snatching it up, he offered it to his lover. "Will this do?"

"Fine."

Flipping off the cap, Lewis poured a generous measure into his hand, then began to rub it over the cock his whole body ached for.

Morse groaned loudly, his head tilting backward in a gesture of anguished denial. "God, Lewis. ..."

"I like the feel of you in my hand," he soothed him, even as he continued to spread the lotion. "All throbbing power and heat. Wanted you for so long." And though he'd only sussed it a few hours ago, Lewis knew it was the truest thing he'd ever said. "I love you, sir."

Morse claimed his mouth, kissing him until he was shaking with need. "I love you, too, Robbie," he whispered when their lips parted. "Now turn over for me."

Lewis obeyed, then was rewarded with hands caressing his back, working slowly down until he felt he didn't have a muscle or bone left in his body. He murmured his approval as his buttocks were parted, and Morse kissed him on the back of the neck.

First one, then two slick fingers began to probe his anus, but the nuzzling mouth kept him from giving much thought to the few twinges he felt. "Lift up on your knees," a whisper commanded him.

Trusting completely, he obeyed once more. The hands giving him such gentle pleasure moved beneath him, caressing his nipples while the mouth continued to toy with his neck, then one hand moved to grip his cock. He moaned loudly, grateful for the volume of Lynn's stereo.

"Easy, Robbie," Morse gentled him, a shift of his weight pressing a thickness against the entry into Lewis' body.

The sensation registered for only a moment, then the hand on his cock squeezed, distracting him until Morse was half-sheathed in him. It hurt. A mixture of pressure and an almost burning sensation, then the clever hand moved again. His body thrust forward, then back in response, and he felt the tickle of hair against his arse. "You're all the way in," he gasped in amazement, the thought of it making his pulse race even as he remained uncertain of how he liked the feeling.

"Yes," the mouth nuzzled his ear. "You're mine now, Robbie. All mine."

That Lewis liked a great deal, and to show his approval, he began to thrust into the hand milking him and push back against the thick cock impaling him. Morse began to move as well and sparks seemed to go off in Lewis' head. "Sir!"

"Ah, there it is," Morse answered, his next thrust causing the same frisson of pleasure.

When it happened a third time, Lewis lost all semblance of thought and gave himself over to the sensation of being fucked by the man he loved. It seemed to go on forever, a dim part of his mind knowing it as a benefit of having an older, experienced lover, who had him sobbing with need for release as he never had before.

Then he was coming, moaning "Sir" over and over again as his semen poured from his body. Nearly insensible, he collapsed down onto the bed, only vaguely aware of Morse's continuing thrusts.

"Robbie," the strained whisper in his ear brought him round. "Robbie, can you feel me?"

"Yes, love," he sighed happily. "I can feel you."

Morse groaned, then the unfamiliar sensation of a man's seed erupting into his body made Lewis grin with delight.

Spent, his lover collapsed against him, the weight of the man a warm presence making Lewis feel loved and comforted. But all too soon, Morse shifted off of him and said, "I should leave."

He instantly rolled over, then wrapped his long legs and arms around the stocky body. "No, sir."

"Lewis --"

"No, sir," he started out firmly. "I'm not having any of it. I want. ..." His voice faltered, and he blushed, unable to go on.

"What?" Morse caressed his back. "What is it you want, my sweet Robbie?"

"I want ... to go to sleep in your arms and wake up with you each morning. I want to complain when you drag me to one of your operas then hold your hand when your eyes get all misty during some grand bit of singing." Lewis felt three times a fool, but once started, he couldn't seem to stop. "I want to get into shouting matches with you over how much time you spend on the crosswords or how loud you play your recordings, then spend hours making love to patch things up. I want to teach you to eat a proper breakfast, to --"

"Lewis, are you proposing to me?"

The hug accompanying the question reassured him he wasn't being mocked. "Yes, sir. You see, I reckon you and me belong together."

"You and I, Lewis," Morse automatically corrected, falling into Lewis' trap. "You and I belong together."

"Knew you'd come to see it my way."

"Lewis --"

He silenced the next protest with a kiss. "I love you, and I'm tired of living without love."

"Val?"

"Was my best friend. Hadn't been more than that for years." He shifted over onto his back. "I'd listen to you quote love sonnets, and I thought no one ever really felt that way. Then I let myself see you."

"It won't be easy. Setting aside all the problems with two men having a relationship, I'm an old man and set in my ways."

Lewis chuckled. "I know that, don't I, sir. But if you set your mind to something, you always manage it."

"So I should set my mind to making you happy?" There was amusement in the deep voice, and Lewis knew he was winning. There would be details to hash out, many of them problematic, but he knew together they'd be up to it. All of which could wait for the morning and the first of many proper breakfasts to come.

"Well, you know what they say, love. Carpe diem."

Morse gave a pointed look to the limbs imprisoning him. "Seems more like Carpe Morse."

"Is that a sort of fish, sir?"

"Oh, shut up and go to sleep, Lewis."

And, curling up against the warmth of his love, Lewis did.

End

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