Chapter Text
The thing about going to certain bars and clubs in Oxford was that if you saw someone you knew from outside - from the real world, from work, from your neighborhood - you didn’t make eye contact. You didn’t acknowledge.
Peter Jakes knew that instinctively, like he knew a lot of things. And he was glad to see that the young dark-haired man at the other end of the bar knew the same. His perfectly lined eyes hit Jakes and just slid away, like Jakes wasn’t even there, and he turned his attention back to the older, bearded man who seemed to be buying him a drink. Jakes, meanwhile, refocused on the heavily made-up face and bobbing wig in front of him, listening to his friend Brian carrying on about something in that terribly charming way he had when he was all done up as Blanche.
Jakes was halfway through another cigarette, Blanche halfway through another tall tale, when there was a loud noise from the entrance to the bar, and then a shout went up. The call of “Coppers!” might not have meant instant arrest any longer, lives ruined in a moment, but it was still no good, and the bar was immediately in chaos. Blanche gave Jakes a look - Jakes was already on his feet, and he leaned close. “You’ll be fine, this isn’t a bust.”
He knew exactly what it was, though, and therefore exactly who would be there - a knowledge confirmed when a familiar voice boomed out “All right, all right, calm down, this isn’t a raid.” And a second later Jakes was through the scrum and grabbing the young man from the other end of the bar by the elbow.
Sam Thursday turned wild eyes on Jakes, who only held him tighter. “Back door, come on.” The place had multiple exits - plenty of places like it did - and he’d long since scoped out which was the best. The least likely to be covered. He was right, and a minute later they were out in an alley, Jakes tugging the stumbling younger man down turns in several back streets before stopping abruptly in a sheltered spot.
Sam looked at him in the dim light, and murmured “Thanks,” followed immediately by “Oh, I’m going to be sick.” Jakes turned him away in a businesslike fashion, and Sam managed to not get the largely liquid contents of his stomach on any of their shoes. A good boy, that Thursday boy.
He sounded so miserable as he took a last few dry retches that Jakes reached out and patted his back. “You’re all right. Better out than in.”
Sam laughed roughly and spat on the ground.
“What?”
“You sound like my dad.” He stilled, then, and looked up at him. “He didn’t -“
Jakes shook his head. “He was still in the lobby, no way to see in from there.”
Sam nodded weakly. He still looked like he might be sick, and his eyeliner was running a little from nervous sweat and the edge of tears that had risen with the vomit.
“Are they expecting you home tonight?”
“No. They think I’m at a mate’s.”
“Good. You can sleep at mine.”
Jakes wouldn’t have thought it possible for the boy to go any more greeny-pale and stricken-looking, but he did. “I couldn’t.”
“You could. You’re still drunk and you look rough. You’re in no state to be walking home alone and I’m in no mood to walk with you. I’ve got a spare room. You can sleep there and go home in the morning.”
“You don’t have to. And I already ruined your night.”
“Your father and my lovely fellow coppers ruined my night.”
“But you left your… the lady - to get me -“
Jakes laughed, so loud that Sam startled. “Oh, Blanche would love to hear you call her that. A lady. But no. It’s not like that. Just an old friend.”
“Oh. All right… But you still don’t have to.”
Jakes heaved a sigh. “There’s a killer on the loose and I’m a copper. So maybe I do have to.”
That shut Sam up, and he followed Jakes home. He was still unsteady on his feet, but seemed to be sobering up a little. Nonetheless, Jakes left him a basin beside the bed in the spare room, along with a pile of blankets, before going to wash his face and put himself to bed.
It was only when he got there, in the privacy of his own space, that he let what he’d done sink in, and he muttered a soft “Fuck,” rubbing at his face, before lying down and turning off the light.
He’d half expected Sam to be gone in the morning, but when he looked in the young man was still sound asleep, wrapped up in the blankets, mouth hanging open a little. When Jakes knocked on the open door, Sam snuffled and shifted, then blinked across at his host and sat up suddenly - an action that was followed by a groan.
“All right?” Jakes asked, concerned he might need to remind him the basin was there.
Sam nodded, though he was rubbing at his temples. “Just hungover.”
“You remember how you got here?”
“Yeah. Uh. Thanks.”
Jakes shrugged. “Clean up - wash your face, I left out a flannel. Then we’ll get breakfast.”
“Sorry?”
“You’re hungover, I’m not fresh as a daisy myself, and I’m starved. And I’ve got no food in. So we’re going to go eat breakfast.”
Sam seemed to know when a tone brooked no argument, and just nodded and went off to the bathroom to clean up. When he emerged he looked fresh-cheeked and not nearly so rough, though his eyes were bloodshot. They nodded at each other, and went downstairs and onto the street without another word.
Breakfast was quiet, too, other than some chat about how good the café’s eggs and coffee were, and the argument over who would pay. In the end Jakes let Sam pay for his own meal, both because he was afraid they would attract attention and, as Sam hissed in a low voice, he did owe Jakes.
When Jakes said he’d walk Sam home, Sam tried to shoo him off, saying he was fine - sober, and safe, on a quiet Sunday morning. But Jakes shook his head and said, voice low, “We need to talk about some things, where we can’t be overheard.”
And Sam accepted that without argument, and they took the long way to the Thursdays’, through deserted parks and empty residential streets.
When he was sure they were alone, Jakes started. “I know you won’t tell anyone…”
Sam shook his head vehemently, giving him a slightly horrified look. “Of course not.”
“Good. And me neither, of course.”
“You promise?”
He turned his sharp gaze to Sam, but nodded softly. “I do.”
“Good. Me too.”
“Does anyone else know?”
Sam shook his head, saying “Just my sister,” then hesitated, missing a step in his gait. “And Morse.”
“What? Why?”
Sam had stopped dead in the path, and wasn’t looking at Jakes, eyes moving away fast like they had in the bar. “We had an encounter. In a public lav.”
“An encounter?”
“Not like that! It was back a week ago, a week and a half… he was investigating a case.” He’d turned back to Jakes, and now his eyes went very wide. “Is that why they were there last night?”
“Yes. I’m sure. I’m not working that case… come on, keep walking.” An old woman with a dog had passed on a cross-path, and he didn’t want to be seen to be lingering like this. “This killer, whoever it is,” he said, voice low as they walked, almost drowned out by the crunch of their shoes on the gravel, “He isn’t just going after young men, he’s going after young homosexuals. Around the station they’re calling him the Queer Killer, when no one important’s listening. And that’s what they’re calling him in the bars, too. Mr. QK.” He grasped at Sam’s elbow suddenly, both of them pulling up short again. “You can’t be cottaging. Not now. Not like that. You need to be careful.” His fingers were digging into Sam’s arm, and the younger man winced before he nodded, fast, and Jakes became aware of what he was doing, and dropped his arm.
“Morse said the same thing. Not to be out like that, not right now. Not until him and Dad catch him.”
“Good. Good to know he does have some sense, sometimes.” He started walking again, fast, and Sam jogged to keep up. “There’s going to be a lot more police presence around those sort of places, and places like last night, until they do catch him. So, given…”
Sam just nodded. It was an easy implication to understand. They both needed to lie low if they didn’t want their secrets getting found out by people at the centers of their lives.
They didn’t say much else, and Jakes turned around several blocks from the Thursdays’ house, leaving Sam to make his own way home.