It was not as if Thursday didn't sleep in odd positions himself. When he was nine and visited his aunt's house, his cousins stuffed him into the linens closet and locked the door. His parents found him seven hours later, nestled between a bed sheet and a set of towels, fast asleep. During the war, Thursday has made many a warm mud holes his bed and was goddamn grateful for it. Better mud than a flea-infested haystack.

Morse however took the fucking cake when it came to odd sleeping positions. When he slept, he didn't curl up or lean to one side, he sprawled. He was like an octopus, his limbs were everywhere. If Thursday found someone sleeping at their desk, the usual position had them leaning on their arms, face down. When Morse slept at his desk, he would be holding his head up with one arm, his other arm draped across the back of his chair, and both his legs wide open, ready to trip someone. It would be hilarious if Thursday wasn't constantly worried Morse was going to permanently crick his neck one day.

"Good lord," Thursday breathed, walking in upon Morse's new position. He was now leaning back into his chair, head tilted back, mouth gaped open, one arm draped over his belly while the other hanged off the side. He'd appeared dead if it wasn't for his snoring.

Jakes was sleeping too, but he was in a better position. He leaned his body against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Even while sleeping he had a permanent frown on his face.

Thursday wanted a nap too; this case had everyone running ragged. Morse especially, as he was the only one in the precinct who knew how to read and speak Latin, and thus, was the only one who knew how to read the killer's notes. Serial killers were getting more and more complicated by the year.

Jakes and Morse could sleep for another hour, and then Thursday was going have to do the unfortunate task of waking them up. They still had too much work to do.

Morse shifted in his sleep and Thursday internally cringed, almost hearing the bones pop in the boy's neck. He couldn't stand this no longer. Thursday tossed the files he had in his hands down upon his desk, then crossed the room to Morse.

He took a few moments to clear a small portion of Morse's desk, moving away the dirty tea cup, the chewed pencils and important papers. Once done, Thursday gently grasped the back of Morse's head.

The immediate touch had Morse jerking awake. Thursday pulled back, startled.

"Mmmm, what?" Morse grumbled, blinking rapidly, still half-asleep. "What?"

He head was drooping, ready to nod off again. Probably in another ridiculous pose.

"Move in," Thursday said quickly, pushing Morse's chair in, encouraging him to lay on the desk. "There. Isn't that better?"

Morse said something unintelligibly, snuffling into the curve of his arms. He really needed this nap. Thursday was going to feel like a heel when waking them up an hour from now.

With a small, exhausted sigh, Thursday picked up the empty tea cup. He turned.

"Thanks, dad."

It was said so quietly, Thursday stopped in mid-step, waiting. The only sounds he could hear was ticking clock sitting above the door frame, and the soft snores of his men.

He waited half a second longer, then starting walking to employee kitchenette to wash out the tea cup.