An Officer and the Noble Woman, Part 27
Title: An Officer and the Noble Woman, Part 27 (Still hearing voices...)
Author: dtstrainers
Paring: Donna Noble/Peter Carlisle
Co-Captain of this Ship: WhosInTheAttic, but all errors are mine alone.
Rating: PG- Plot Galore and a bit of angst thrown in for that special Peter/Donna flavor
Word Count:
Summary: Still dealing with the aftermath of their first real fight, Peter and Donna can't quite reconnect as Ian tries to bring some much-needed perspective to the situation.Disclaimer: Donna and Peter- not mine, but in my mind.
Part 1 | Part 5 | Part 10 | Part 15 | Part 20.1 | Part 25
Tuesday, 12 June 2012. 2:15 PM
Donna Noble stood wearily as the train came to a jarring stop at the Turnham Green Station. When she'd left the Met, she'd fully intended to make her way to Cheltenham & Gloucester and just pretend that the morning had never happened, but halfway there, she turned and headed for the Tube. She knew she couldn't handle the attention her late arrival would bring, never mind the inevitable barrage of questions she didn't want to answer, so she decided to call it a day. Her head was already pounding and she knew that it was only a matter of time before she collapsed and let the emotions she’d kept bottled up all morning overflow: the last thing she wanted was a public breakdown. She tried not to remember the look on Peter’s face the last time she’d seen him as he’d swept out of the interrogation room and away from her. She’d never even seen him angry before, and she’d managed to infuriate him without even trying. She wondered suddenly if she’d ever see him again, much less see him smile.
Fifteen minutes later, apologies to her coworkers made via a quickly-typed e-mail, she dropped her mobile back into her pocket as the train came to a stop and waited patiently as a few old-age pensioners and a young mother with a little boy of maybe five or six exited before her. Already emotionally exhausted by the day, Donna found something ineffably sad about the sight of the small child clinging to his mother's hand as he told her all about his adventures at school that morning. The boy turned to his mother and Donna compared their features, wondering how much he resembled his father and her heart ached for a little boy lost to missed chances, a boy who might have had large, dark eyes and long, elegant hands. Her own hand felt empty as she followed them down the stairs, careful to maintain her distance but near enough to hear his animated chatter. At her age, she had finally given up on having children of her own, and for a time had considered adoption, but her mother had scoffed at the idea and eventually, Donna had abandoned the notion as unfair.
Motherhood was just another experience that had passed her by in a lifetime of near misses and squandered opportunities, where being alone, the one always left behind, seemed to be the norm. Watching the boy, she briefly reconsidered the possibility of adoption before her mother's scornful words replayed in her mind. What? You think it's so easy, Lady, that you'd take on the responsibility of raising a child, all by your lonesome? Think again! You're too flighty by half, always off at a moment's notice, your head in the clouds when your feet should be on the ground! You're not stable enough to find, much less keep a man, and you want to bring a baby into that situation? What kind of a proper home is that? And don't think I'm going to step in to help! I've already raised one child: I've no mind to do it again!
Drowning in remembered recriminations, Donna blinked in surprise when she looked up and found herself at her back gate. She punched in her access code, crossed the small car park and trudged up the stairs to her flat. She was exhausted and needed nothing so much as a long, hot soak and a good cry.
Thinking back to her disgraceful behavior that morning, she sighed heavily. Once again, she'd let her temper run rampant over her good judgement and self-restraint and she had only herself to blame for the outcome. She had no idea what kind of damage she'd done to her relationship with her DI: Peter had never returned to the interrogation room after he'd stormed out, not that she blamed him after her appalling fit of pique. Mindful of Peter's admonishment about time and place, she'd been too ashamed to try and search him out to apologize once Ian had concluded the interview. Instead, she had retreated to the nearest bathroom and hid in a stall, trying to work out what to do next. She’d cradled her mobile in her hand, willing Peter to call or at least text her, but that was a foolish hope. If she was too proud and too mortified to bring herself to call him, why should she dare think he would? In the end, Donna had stormed from the building just as spectacularly as she'd entered it and now her regret gnawed away at her.
As she reached her landing, all Donna could do was replay the events of the morning over and over in her mind, cataloging each time she could have stopped, each time she had pushed Peter too far, each time her caustic words forced him back. His reaction to finding her with Bence hadn’t been entirely unreasonable, under the circumstances. He was a police officer and she had purposefully strayed into his investigation, even as he’d told her to stay put. Her DI had every reason to be angry with her, so why had her response been so strident in return? Suddenly, lines from her recent study popped into her mind: Let grief convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it, and she felt a hot tear of understanding slip down her cheek: she was grieving for Peter’s lost trust. He hadn’t had faith in her judgement; he’d thought her foolish and foolhardy for speaking to Bence and had expected her to just stand there and watch that boy drown in his own guilt. He should have known better, she thought angrily, but then, how could he? They’d only been together two months, two blissfully happy months with no absolutely no precedence for her actions and her eyes widened in understanding. Every single thing that happened that morning, every single angry word that had been said was her fault entirely, and the realization swept over her and threatened to pull her under.
Standing at the outer door to her garden, determined not to fall apart until she was safely inside, Donna dug in her bag for her keys and cursed vividly when she dropped them at her feet. When she stooped to retrieve them, she felt the dam inside begin to crumble and fail as her all her sorrow, anger and regret poured out of her. Tears blurred her vision and she fumbled with the key in the lock, cursing again before she stumbled into her flat, throwing her keys and mobile on the table before storming down the hall towards her bedroom, stripping off her clothes on the way and depositing them in the hamper by her door. She snatched up a pair of old sweatpants and a frayed, familiar sweatshirt before heading to the bath for that cry she‘d promised herself, and maybe a nap after, hoping to purge her system of effects of her lingering despair and regret.
**********
Donna woke with a gasp from a dream she couldn't quite remember. She glanced over at the bedside clock- how could it possibly be 6:30 in the evening? She’d slept the day away, she thought with disgust as she sat up unsteadily. Her heart was racing as though she'd run a mile and as she brushed her hair away from her face, she was surprised to find her cheeks stained with tears. Her dream was quickly evaporating and all she was left with was a hazy memory of her own voice begging someone to stop, someone she trusted and loved. She had vague impressions of looking up into a face she knew but couldn’t remember, a face made strange by pain and loss. She struggled to bring her breathing back to normal as the images slipped away: she'd learned the futility of trying to force her dreams back into daylight for her examination as time and again details slipped away like grains of sand through her fingers. Soon, all that remained of the dream was an empty, hollow feeling and nothing more. There was one thing she could remember, though- she hadn’t eaten a thing all day, and she was starving.
She crawled out of bed and walked to the kitchen, only to be confronted with an empty fridge and bare cupboards. She and Peter had fallen into the habit of meeting up for dinner every evening and Donna hadn't been to the market in almost two weeks. It didn't really matter, she reflected, staring into the empty fridge, as she didn’t feel much like cooking anyhow. She briefly considered going out to pick something up, but she knew she looked a fright and she didn’t have the desire or energy to get dressed. "Delivery it is, then," she muttered to herself as she shut the door.
She reached for her mobile and swiped at the screen before sighing in disgust. She'd forgotten to charge it and it had died completely while she’d sat numbly in the bath after her cry. She hadn't even thought to use it as an alarm when she'd dragged herself to her bedroom and collapsed in exhaustion after. Donna pulled a takeaway menu from a drawer as she took the phone from the wall and cradled it between her shoulder and ear, hitting the speed dial for Turnaham Green Cafe.
"Donna!" came an enthusiastic voice from the other end of the line. "What can I get for my favorite customer this evening? Your usual?"
"Yeah, thanks," she answered automatically as she blindly groped for the mobile power cord, then paused. "No, no Tom. I’m sorry, I wasn't thinkin’. Just an order of Pad Thai, please, and would you mind deliverin'?" She set her mobile down on the kitchen island to charge and sifted the phone from one ear to the other.
"Of course, Donna. Just as soon as Kent gets back. He just left with a big order- there’s a match on tonight, you know. But we can have it over in thirty, maybe forty-five minutes? That OK?" he asked. "I'll throw in some homemade mango ice cream for the DI to make up for the wait." Donna could hear the man smile through the line: Peter had become a favorite in his own right when he'd expressed his fondness for Tom's signature creation and Donna had noticed that the servings of ice cream had been larger ever since.
"Oh, you don’t have to do that, Tom, not tonight. No mango ice cream, thanks,” Donna said, then added, “I'm dinin' alone this evening."
"Oh, well, just chuck it in the freezer for tomorrow then and tell Peter we were taking care of him," Tom insisted before he rang off.
She stood in the kitchen as she replaced the phone on the wall and surveyed her flat, letting her memories wash over her. In the short time they'd been together, Peter had become such a part of her life that she couldn't even order takeaway without his presence anymore. She bit her lip ruthlessly to stop it trembling as she slowly turned in a tight circle, arms wrapped securely around herself as though that would hold her together. She’d told Peter she wanted memories of him in every room and he’d done his part to comply with her wishes: she wondered now if that had been a wise request. She pulled her hair up and twisted it into a knot as she climbed the stairs to her attic window and missed the sound of her mobile powering up, the display alight with missed messages and calls.
**********
Tuesday, 12 June 2012 8:22 PM
Peter Carlisle sat in the booth with his back against the wall, legs crooked up to rest his arm, dangling his second McEwan's between his knees. With his free hand, he flicked his mobile so that it spun round and round in tight circles on the table next to him. Pensively watching it wobble to a halt before whirling it about again, he took another drink and sighed, letting his head tilt back to rest against the wall as he looked at the ceiling.
“So,” Ian tried again, “Tell me more about Donna.”
“What do ye want to hear that ye dinnae already know?” Peter finally asked quietly. He let his head roll onto his shoulder and sniffed, regarding his partner with a surprisingly sober gaze. “Ye know when and where I first became aware of her. I’ve told ye the time and place of our first true meetin’, at the George. Ye know she’s sufferin’ from a form of amnesia and that I’ve taken it upon m'self to find out all I can about her missin’ time.“ He took a long pull on his drink before setting the bottle on the table and swiveling in his seat to face Ian.
“We’ve been datin’ since shortly after our first meetin’, almost two months now,” he continued. “I fell for her fairly quickly and she seemed to feel the same way. We’ve spent nearly every free moment together for the past month and I’ve confessed my past sins to her so that she knows as much about Blackpool as ye now do.” His lips quirked up in a wry smile as he rolled the base of his empty bottle on the table before him. “I know I love her,” he confessed quietly, “and I really thought ... think ... she loves me.” He sat back suddenly, inhaling deeply and folding his arms across his chest as he spoke to the ceiling. “Add to that the knowledge that apparently, flowers do no work on Donna Noble by way of apology, and ye know as much as I do.”
"She might not have gotten home yet, you realize,” Ian said reasonably. “Maybe she went out with coworkers as well?"
"Unlikely,” Peter said bluntly, his chin falling down on his chest. “I called to see that she'd gotten to work alright and maybe try and apologize, but the office manager said she'd emailed, told them she was feelin’ ill after everythin' that had happened and had gone home. I hinted that after her ordeal, Donna might no be in a fit state tomorrow, either, just to be safe. That may have been a bit presumptuous of me, speaking for her now, but there it is.” He shrugged and looked up at Ian. “I really thought she'd call or answer m' texts before now, even if it was just to tell me off again, but this silence? It's no like her."
Ian hid his amusement at the understatement behind his pint glass as he took a drink, but the glint in Peter's eyes and the ghost of a smile told him it hadn't been missed. Peter looked away abruptly, then ducked his head. "I may have driven her away for good with my bad temper, Ian, and I cannae even imagine that I might no hold her hand again." He reached for his mobile again and checked himself, then sighed in exasperation when he gave in and flipped it over, stabbing at the display, only to find it still empty.
“You can't think like that, Peter,” Ian said slowly. Peter rolled his eyes and lifted his bottle to his lips, frowning when he remembered it was empty. He set it down again and folded his hands across the lip of the bottle and rested his chin on top. Ian waited and when Peter refused to comment, Ian continued. “Life is short and happiness within it fleeting. If she's the one you want, it’s down to you to fix this,” he said, stabbing his finger in Peter’s direction. “And what’s more, you know it already. You love her. She loves you.” He lifted his glass and took a long drink and set it carefully back on the table. “So, what are you prepared to do about it?”
Peter stared down at the table without comment and Ian waited patiently. He’d said all he would on the subject: it was all up to Peter now. After a long, quiet moment, still looking at the table, Peter replied, “Whatever it takes. What choice do I have, really?”
He smiled and looked up to thank his partner but something in Ian’s expression stopped him cold. Ian must have noticed, as he hid behind his glass once more. Peter raised a hand, signaling for another round as the waitress passed with a nod. He pretended to look around St. Stephens to give Ian time until the waitress set a fresh pint and another McEwan's before them. Peter smiled his thanks at the girl and turned his attention back to Ian.
"Enough of me and my whinging,” he said as he took possession of the bottle. “What of you, Ian? Why is there no someone waitin' for you at home?" He took a thoughtful drink, his eyes never leaving Ian’s face.
"There was, once," Ian admitted slowly as his expression softened before he remembered himself and his habitual stoicism settled back over his features. "It lasted a little over three years. She ... Madeline... " he said, his voice faltering on her name. "Maddie and I were engaged, but not anymore." He tried to smile philosophically but Peter had worn that expression himself and was unconvinced.
“Ian... Ian, I'm sorry,” he said. “I dinnae know.”
“Why should you?”
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” Ian said automatically, then clarified. “That's the problem.”
“Sorry?” Peter said with a frown, picking up the fresh bottle.
To his credit, Ian didn’t try to hide. He met Peter’s eyes and spoke in even, measured tones. “We met through a mutual friend, dated for a year and fell in love. I asked her to marry me, and she agreed. From the very beginning, I knew she was the one.” He smiled sadly, and took a deep breath. “Problem is, I forgot to tell her that.”
“The engagement dragged on, but every time she pressed me about setting a date, something came up. I wasn’t trying to get out of marriage, I wanted it. I ... did.” Peter realized Ian was carefully specific with his word choice and suspected the past tense still applied to the present. “Anyway, she confronted me about it one night, caught me off-guard, and my response was...,” Ian rubbed a tired hand across his eyes before continuing, “...less than convincing to her.”
“When was this?” Peter asked.
“About six weeks before you came along.”
“And you never said?”
“Would it have mattered then?” Ian replied with a snort of derisive laughter. “We weren’t exactly open with each other at the time.”
“I concede your point. I was a wee bit of a prat when we first started,” Peter said contritely, rubbing the back of his neck. “And what were you prepared to do to get her back?”
“I tried to talk to her. I did!” Ian protested in response to Peter’s incredulous look. “But she wasn’t having any of it. I persisted and she told me to clear off, in no uncertain terms. So I did.”
“That’s it?” Peter said bluntly. “That’s your answer to ‘What You Were Prepared To Do’?”
“DI,” Ian said with a sigh, “she broke it off and moved in with my best mate straightaway.” Ian watched understanding settle over Peter’s expression and looked away for the first time. “And I’ve not seen either since.”
Peter knew he should let it lie, but that was never really his nature, and the one time he had, had ended badly. “And they’ve married?” he persisted.
Ian pursed his lips and shrugged as he lifted his pint again. “No, actually. She seems to be content to just live with him. I guess lessons learned and bridges burned.” His features fell infinitesimally and he emptied the remainder of his pint in one go.
“And you’ve never tried again? I mean, she’s the one,” Peter prodded.
“It’s been too long,” Ian muttered, looking down into his empty glass.
“I was unaware there were limitation periods in love,” Peter replied drily. When that failed to elicit the desired response, he shifted his tactics. “And you've been alone all the while?”
“I've gone on a few dates, here and there, just for company, someone to go to the cinema with, that sort of thing,” Ian said offhandedly, “but that's all. It just hasn’t felt right.” His eyes hardened before he continued. “You only get a chance at a love like that once in a lifetime, Peter, and even then, only if you're very, very lucky,” he growled.
“You’re right, life is never the same again after a love like that,” Peter responded immediately. “But even if you’re positive Madeline is lost to you, it doesnae follow that there’s no one else, or that you cannae love again.” Peter nodded once, remembering past loves wistfully before bright hair and a brilliant smile filled his mind’s eye. “It willnae be the same, but neither should it be.”
Peter looked back up at Ian and his suddenly too-bright green eyes. “Whose sorrows were we here to drown again, DI?” he asked, and Peter was thankful that the man offered him a small, sad smile of shared regret.
The silence that followed was thick and the pain of loss palpable as Peter struggled to frame his response: everything he could think of sounded either commonplace and cliched or pathetically self-serving. Just as he’d settled on the least trite platitude and opened his mouth to speak, his mobile buzzed and danced on the table between them. Peter snatched it up from the table and stared at the screen for a long moment as Ian looked on expectantly. Peter's expression was unreadable and Ian watched with mounting trepidation as he punched out a reply.
**********
Donna had seen Kent approach from her perch in the window seat, so she was halfway down the spiral staircase when the intercom buzzed. She dashed across the room and pressed the button. “Come on in, Kent,” she said breathlessly, “I opened the gate and the garden door. Put it on the counter while I get my wallet.” She turned to get her purse and Kent knocked before opening the door to her flat, her takeaway order dangling from a bag in his hand and a large box cradled in his arms. “Thanks for the delivery: I appreciate it,‘ she said, her back still to him. “I just didn’t feel up to...” She swung around, cash in hand to pay him and stopped dead at the sight of the box he held out to her.
“A little boy was waitin’ with this by your garden doorway,” he explained as she took it from him, handing him payment and a handsome gratuity in return. “He asked me to bring it in for you.”
“Thanks again, Kent,” Donna replied, puzzled. “My best to your family,” she said absently as he waved and closed the door behind him. She looked carefully at the label on the box and smiled- Wheelers of Turnham Green. There was a sticky note affixed to the side of the box and she pulled it free and read it with a growing smile as she set the box on the kitchen island.
Donna,
These came for you today. I was sunning on the garden balcony and saw you get off the train. You looked a bit off colour, so I assumed you were home ill and didn't hear the buzzer. I told the boy to leave them with me and I’d have my grandson drop them by later.
Mrs. K
That answered the question of how the delivery person had managed to get the box to her doorway past the security gate while she was hiding out in the bath, she thought. When she hadn't responded to the intercom, the delivery person must have just buzzed the various flats until Mrs. Kade in the last unit let them in. But what was the occasion? Her birthday wasn't for another month and she hadn't made any new charitable contributions recently. She opened the box and stared dully at the tiny envelope on top of the wrapping paper within as the scent of honeysuckle filled the air.
With trembling fingers, Donna picked up the envelope and carefully peeled back the paper to find the same bouquet Peter had given her before, shot through with rue and a white flower she didn't recognize, the whole arrangement wrapped loosely with honeysuckle vines. She pulled the card from the envelope and read the names printed there in a neat hand: To Donna, From Peter. She turned it over and choked back a sob of relief. Listed along with the flowers she knew were the two new additions-
He's going to give me a second chance. He does still love me, she thought as her tears spilled over and coursed down her face. I haven't completely ruined everything. She lifted the flowers from the box, and inhaled deeply, smiling gratefully as the prickly Scottish thistle brushed her cheek. Donna reached up and retrieved a vase from her cabinet, filled it with water from the tap and gingerly placed the arrangement within. She set the flowers in the center of her kitchen island and let loose a trembling breath. She wasn’t quite ready to speak with him again and they had a lot of rebuilding to do, but things weren’t as hopeless as she’d feared.
She reached for her mobile then and inhaled sharply. She’d missed three phone calls- one from work, one from her mother and one from Nerys- and four text messages, all from Peter.
-Donna, I’m sorry. Call me, please.
-You’re not at work. Are you OK? Call me.
-Donna, I just need to know you’re alright. Please, just text me back.
-I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I miss you. Please, just let me know you’re OK.
She bit her lip as she read his texts and she could hear his growing worry and concern at her lack of response. She wouldn’t be surprised if there was a knock at her door right then and she quickly tapped out a reply.
The flowers are lovely. I missed the delivery. My neighbor got them for me.
-I'm glad you like them.
Where are you?
-With Ian. You?
Home.
-Donna, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry, too. It wasn’t all your fault.
-When can I see you?
Give me tonight to rest and calm down. We’ll talk tomorrow night, yeah?
-I miss you. I love you.
I love you, too, Detective Dumbo.
-Lunch Thursday before we meet the family?
You still want to?
-Of course. It’s a date.
**********
Peter set his mobile down on the table and grinned at Ian. “Maybe flowers work after all,” he said as he waved again at the passing waitress. “This round’s on me, and supper, too.” Ian relaxed and smiled into his pint, enjoying Peter’s infectious mood as he chatted animatedly with the girl taking their order. He envied his good fortune for a moment before he grew pensive. Was Maddie truly lost to me forever? Did I really try? And what's the worst that could happen if I tried again? He pulled out his mobile and flicked open his contact list, looking for a number he hadn’t rang in almost a year before taking a last mouthful of courage from his glass and excusing himself for a moment from the table.
Part 1 | Part 5 | Part 10 | Part 15 | Part 20.1 | Part 25
Author: dtstrainers
Paring: Donna Noble/Peter Carlisle
Co-Captain of this Ship: WhosInTheAttic, but all errors are mine alone.
Rating: PG- Plot Galore and a bit of angst thrown in for that special Peter/Donna flavor
Word Count:
Summary: Still dealing with the aftermath of their first real fight, Peter and Donna can't quite reconnect as Ian tries to bring some much-needed perspective to the situation.Disclaimer: Donna and Peter- not mine, but in my mind.
Part 1 | Part 5 | Part 10 | Part 15 | Part 20.1 | Part 25
Tuesday, 12 June 2012. 2:15 PM
Donna Noble stood wearily as the train came to a jarring stop at the Turnham Green Station. When she'd left the Met, she'd fully intended to make her way to Cheltenham & Gloucester and just pretend that the morning had never happened, but halfway there, she turned and headed for the Tube. She knew she couldn't handle the attention her late arrival would bring, never mind the inevitable barrage of questions she didn't want to answer, so she decided to call it a day. Her head was already pounding and she knew that it was only a matter of time before she collapsed and let the emotions she’d kept bottled up all morning overflow: the last thing she wanted was a public breakdown. She tried not to remember the look on Peter’s face the last time she’d seen him as he’d swept out of the interrogation room and away from her. She’d never even seen him angry before, and she’d managed to infuriate him without even trying. She wondered suddenly if she’d ever see him again, much less see him smile.
Fifteen minutes later, apologies to her coworkers made via a quickly-typed e-mail, she dropped her mobile back into her pocket as the train came to a stop and waited patiently as a few old-age pensioners and a young mother with a little boy of maybe five or six exited before her. Already emotionally exhausted by the day, Donna found something ineffably sad about the sight of the small child clinging to his mother's hand as he told her all about his adventures at school that morning. The boy turned to his mother and Donna compared their features, wondering how much he resembled his father and her heart ached for a little boy lost to missed chances, a boy who might have had large, dark eyes and long, elegant hands. Her own hand felt empty as she followed them down the stairs, careful to maintain her distance but near enough to hear his animated chatter. At her age, she had finally given up on having children of her own, and for a time had considered adoption, but her mother had scoffed at the idea and eventually, Donna had abandoned the notion as unfair.
Motherhood was just another experience that had passed her by in a lifetime of near misses and squandered opportunities, where being alone, the one always left behind, seemed to be the norm. Watching the boy, she briefly reconsidered the possibility of adoption before her mother's scornful words replayed in her mind. What? You think it's so easy, Lady, that you'd take on the responsibility of raising a child, all by your lonesome? Think again! You're too flighty by half, always off at a moment's notice, your head in the clouds when your feet should be on the ground! You're not stable enough to find, much less keep a man, and you want to bring a baby into that situation? What kind of a proper home is that? And don't think I'm going to step in to help! I've already raised one child: I've no mind to do it again!
Drowning in remembered recriminations, Donna blinked in surprise when she looked up and found herself at her back gate. She punched in her access code, crossed the small car park and trudged up the stairs to her flat. She was exhausted and needed nothing so much as a long, hot soak and a good cry.
Thinking back to her disgraceful behavior that morning, she sighed heavily. Once again, she'd let her temper run rampant over her good judgement and self-restraint and she had only herself to blame for the outcome. She had no idea what kind of damage she'd done to her relationship with her DI: Peter had never returned to the interrogation room after he'd stormed out, not that she blamed him after her appalling fit of pique. Mindful of Peter's admonishment about time and place, she'd been too ashamed to try and search him out to apologize once Ian had concluded the interview. Instead, she had retreated to the nearest bathroom and hid in a stall, trying to work out what to do next. She’d cradled her mobile in her hand, willing Peter to call or at least text her, but that was a foolish hope. If she was too proud and too mortified to bring herself to call him, why should she dare think he would? In the end, Donna had stormed from the building just as spectacularly as she'd entered it and now her regret gnawed away at her.
As she reached her landing, all Donna could do was replay the events of the morning over and over in her mind, cataloging each time she could have stopped, each time she had pushed Peter too far, each time her caustic words forced him back. His reaction to finding her with Bence hadn’t been entirely unreasonable, under the circumstances. He was a police officer and she had purposefully strayed into his investigation, even as he’d told her to stay put. Her DI had every reason to be angry with her, so why had her response been so strident in return? Suddenly, lines from her recent study popped into her mind: Let grief convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it, and she felt a hot tear of understanding slip down her cheek: she was grieving for Peter’s lost trust. He hadn’t had faith in her judgement; he’d thought her foolish and foolhardy for speaking to Bence and had expected her to just stand there and watch that boy drown in his own guilt. He should have known better, she thought angrily, but then, how could he? They’d only been together two months, two blissfully happy months with no absolutely no precedence for her actions and her eyes widened in understanding. Every single thing that happened that morning, every single angry word that had been said was her fault entirely, and the realization swept over her and threatened to pull her under.
Standing at the outer door to her garden, determined not to fall apart until she was safely inside, Donna dug in her bag for her keys and cursed vividly when she dropped them at her feet. When she stooped to retrieve them, she felt the dam inside begin to crumble and fail as her all her sorrow, anger and regret poured out of her. Tears blurred her vision and she fumbled with the key in the lock, cursing again before she stumbled into her flat, throwing her keys and mobile on the table before storming down the hall towards her bedroom, stripping off her clothes on the way and depositing them in the hamper by her door. She snatched up a pair of old sweatpants and a frayed, familiar sweatshirt before heading to the bath for that cry she‘d promised herself, and maybe a nap after, hoping to purge her system of effects of her lingering despair and regret.
**********
Donna woke with a gasp from a dream she couldn't quite remember. She glanced over at the bedside clock- how could it possibly be 6:30 in the evening? She’d slept the day away, she thought with disgust as she sat up unsteadily. Her heart was racing as though she'd run a mile and as she brushed her hair away from her face, she was surprised to find her cheeks stained with tears. Her dream was quickly evaporating and all she was left with was a hazy memory of her own voice begging someone to stop, someone she trusted and loved. She had vague impressions of looking up into a face she knew but couldn’t remember, a face made strange by pain and loss. She struggled to bring her breathing back to normal as the images slipped away: she'd learned the futility of trying to force her dreams back into daylight for her examination as time and again details slipped away like grains of sand through her fingers. Soon, all that remained of the dream was an empty, hollow feeling and nothing more. There was one thing she could remember, though- she hadn’t eaten a thing all day, and she was starving.
She crawled out of bed and walked to the kitchen, only to be confronted with an empty fridge and bare cupboards. She and Peter had fallen into the habit of meeting up for dinner every evening and Donna hadn't been to the market in almost two weeks. It didn't really matter, she reflected, staring into the empty fridge, as she didn’t feel much like cooking anyhow. She briefly considered going out to pick something up, but she knew she looked a fright and she didn’t have the desire or energy to get dressed. "Delivery it is, then," she muttered to herself as she shut the door.
She reached for her mobile and swiped at the screen before sighing in disgust. She'd forgotten to charge it and it had died completely while she’d sat numbly in the bath after her cry. She hadn't even thought to use it as an alarm when she'd dragged herself to her bedroom and collapsed in exhaustion after. Donna pulled a takeaway menu from a drawer as she took the phone from the wall and cradled it between her shoulder and ear, hitting the speed dial for Turnaham Green Cafe.
"Donna!" came an enthusiastic voice from the other end of the line. "What can I get for my favorite customer this evening? Your usual?"
"Yeah, thanks," she answered automatically as she blindly groped for the mobile power cord, then paused. "No, no Tom. I’m sorry, I wasn't thinkin’. Just an order of Pad Thai, please, and would you mind deliverin'?" She set her mobile down on the kitchen island to charge and sifted the phone from one ear to the other.
"Of course, Donna. Just as soon as Kent gets back. He just left with a big order- there’s a match on tonight, you know. But we can have it over in thirty, maybe forty-five minutes? That OK?" he asked. "I'll throw in some homemade mango ice cream for the DI to make up for the wait." Donna could hear the man smile through the line: Peter had become a favorite in his own right when he'd expressed his fondness for Tom's signature creation and Donna had noticed that the servings of ice cream had been larger ever since.
"Oh, you don’t have to do that, Tom, not tonight. No mango ice cream, thanks,” Donna said, then added, “I'm dinin' alone this evening."
"Oh, well, just chuck it in the freezer for tomorrow then and tell Peter we were taking care of him," Tom insisted before he rang off.
She stood in the kitchen as she replaced the phone on the wall and surveyed her flat, letting her memories wash over her. In the short time they'd been together, Peter had become such a part of her life that she couldn't even order takeaway without his presence anymore. She bit her lip ruthlessly to stop it trembling as she slowly turned in a tight circle, arms wrapped securely around herself as though that would hold her together. She’d told Peter she wanted memories of him in every room and he’d done his part to comply with her wishes: she wondered now if that had been a wise request. She pulled her hair up and twisted it into a knot as she climbed the stairs to her attic window and missed the sound of her mobile powering up, the display alight with missed messages and calls.
**********
Tuesday, 12 June 2012 8:22 PM
Peter Carlisle sat in the booth with his back against the wall, legs crooked up to rest his arm, dangling his second McEwan's between his knees. With his free hand, he flicked his mobile so that it spun round and round in tight circles on the table next to him. Pensively watching it wobble to a halt before whirling it about again, he took another drink and sighed, letting his head tilt back to rest against the wall as he looked at the ceiling.
“So,” Ian tried again, “Tell me more about Donna.”
“What do ye want to hear that ye dinnae already know?” Peter finally asked quietly. He let his head roll onto his shoulder and sniffed, regarding his partner with a surprisingly sober gaze. “Ye know when and where I first became aware of her. I’ve told ye the time and place of our first true meetin’, at the George. Ye know she’s sufferin’ from a form of amnesia and that I’ve taken it upon m'self to find out all I can about her missin’ time.“ He took a long pull on his drink before setting the bottle on the table and swiveling in his seat to face Ian.
“We’ve been datin’ since shortly after our first meetin’, almost two months now,” he continued. “I fell for her fairly quickly and she seemed to feel the same way. We’ve spent nearly every free moment together for the past month and I’ve confessed my past sins to her so that she knows as much about Blackpool as ye now do.” His lips quirked up in a wry smile as he rolled the base of his empty bottle on the table before him. “I know I love her,” he confessed quietly, “and I really thought ... think ... she loves me.” He sat back suddenly, inhaling deeply and folding his arms across his chest as he spoke to the ceiling. “Add to that the knowledge that apparently, flowers do no work on Donna Noble by way of apology, and ye know as much as I do.”
"She might not have gotten home yet, you realize,” Ian said reasonably. “Maybe she went out with coworkers as well?"
"Unlikely,” Peter said bluntly, his chin falling down on his chest. “I called to see that she'd gotten to work alright and maybe try and apologize, but the office manager said she'd emailed, told them she was feelin’ ill after everythin' that had happened and had gone home. I hinted that after her ordeal, Donna might no be in a fit state tomorrow, either, just to be safe. That may have been a bit presumptuous of me, speaking for her now, but there it is.” He shrugged and looked up at Ian. “I really thought she'd call or answer m' texts before now, even if it was just to tell me off again, but this silence? It's no like her."
Ian hid his amusement at the understatement behind his pint glass as he took a drink, but the glint in Peter's eyes and the ghost of a smile told him it hadn't been missed. Peter looked away abruptly, then ducked his head. "I may have driven her away for good with my bad temper, Ian, and I cannae even imagine that I might no hold her hand again." He reached for his mobile again and checked himself, then sighed in exasperation when he gave in and flipped it over, stabbing at the display, only to find it still empty.
“You can't think like that, Peter,” Ian said slowly. Peter rolled his eyes and lifted his bottle to his lips, frowning when he remembered it was empty. He set it down again and folded his hands across the lip of the bottle and rested his chin on top. Ian waited and when Peter refused to comment, Ian continued. “Life is short and happiness within it fleeting. If she's the one you want, it’s down to you to fix this,” he said, stabbing his finger in Peter’s direction. “And what’s more, you know it already. You love her. She loves you.” He lifted his glass and took a long drink and set it carefully back on the table. “So, what are you prepared to do about it?”
Peter stared down at the table without comment and Ian waited patiently. He’d said all he would on the subject: it was all up to Peter now. After a long, quiet moment, still looking at the table, Peter replied, “Whatever it takes. What choice do I have, really?”
He smiled and looked up to thank his partner but something in Ian’s expression stopped him cold. Ian must have noticed, as he hid behind his glass once more. Peter raised a hand, signaling for another round as the waitress passed with a nod. He pretended to look around St. Stephens to give Ian time until the waitress set a fresh pint and another McEwan's before them. Peter smiled his thanks at the girl and turned his attention back to Ian.
"Enough of me and my whinging,” he said as he took possession of the bottle. “What of you, Ian? Why is there no someone waitin' for you at home?" He took a thoughtful drink, his eyes never leaving Ian’s face.
"There was, once," Ian admitted slowly as his expression softened before he remembered himself and his habitual stoicism settled back over his features. "It lasted a little over three years. She ... Madeline... " he said, his voice faltering on her name. "Maddie and I were engaged, but not anymore." He tried to smile philosophically but Peter had worn that expression himself and was unconvinced.
“Ian... Ian, I'm sorry,” he said. “I dinnae know.”
“Why should you?”
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” Ian said automatically, then clarified. “That's the problem.”
“Sorry?” Peter said with a frown, picking up the fresh bottle.
To his credit, Ian didn’t try to hide. He met Peter’s eyes and spoke in even, measured tones. “We met through a mutual friend, dated for a year and fell in love. I asked her to marry me, and she agreed. From the very beginning, I knew she was the one.” He smiled sadly, and took a deep breath. “Problem is, I forgot to tell her that.”
“The engagement dragged on, but every time she pressed me about setting a date, something came up. I wasn’t trying to get out of marriage, I wanted it. I ... did.” Peter realized Ian was carefully specific with his word choice and suspected the past tense still applied to the present. “Anyway, she confronted me about it one night, caught me off-guard, and my response was...,” Ian rubbed a tired hand across his eyes before continuing, “...less than convincing to her.”
“When was this?” Peter asked.
“About six weeks before you came along.”
“And you never said?”
“Would it have mattered then?” Ian replied with a snort of derisive laughter. “We weren’t exactly open with each other at the time.”
“I concede your point. I was a wee bit of a prat when we first started,” Peter said contritely, rubbing the back of his neck. “And what were you prepared to do to get her back?”
“I tried to talk to her. I did!” Ian protested in response to Peter’s incredulous look. “But she wasn’t having any of it. I persisted and she told me to clear off, in no uncertain terms. So I did.”
“That’s it?” Peter said bluntly. “That’s your answer to ‘What You Were Prepared To Do’?”
“DI,” Ian said with a sigh, “she broke it off and moved in with my best mate straightaway.” Ian watched understanding settle over Peter’s expression and looked away for the first time. “And I’ve not seen either since.”
Peter knew he should let it lie, but that was never really his nature, and the one time he had, had ended badly. “And they’ve married?” he persisted.
Ian pursed his lips and shrugged as he lifted his pint again. “No, actually. She seems to be content to just live with him. I guess lessons learned and bridges burned.” His features fell infinitesimally and he emptied the remainder of his pint in one go.
“And you’ve never tried again? I mean, she’s the one,” Peter prodded.
“It’s been too long,” Ian muttered, looking down into his empty glass.
“I was unaware there were limitation periods in love,” Peter replied drily. When that failed to elicit the desired response, he shifted his tactics. “And you've been alone all the while?”
“I've gone on a few dates, here and there, just for company, someone to go to the cinema with, that sort of thing,” Ian said offhandedly, “but that's all. It just hasn’t felt right.” His eyes hardened before he continued. “You only get a chance at a love like that once in a lifetime, Peter, and even then, only if you're very, very lucky,” he growled.
“You’re right, life is never the same again after a love like that,” Peter responded immediately. “But even if you’re positive Madeline is lost to you, it doesnae follow that there’s no one else, or that you cannae love again.” Peter nodded once, remembering past loves wistfully before bright hair and a brilliant smile filled his mind’s eye. “It willnae be the same, but neither should it be.”
Peter looked back up at Ian and his suddenly too-bright green eyes. “Whose sorrows were we here to drown again, DI?” he asked, and Peter was thankful that the man offered him a small, sad smile of shared regret.
The silence that followed was thick and the pain of loss palpable as Peter struggled to frame his response: everything he could think of sounded either commonplace and cliched or pathetically self-serving. Just as he’d settled on the least trite platitude and opened his mouth to speak, his mobile buzzed and danced on the table between them. Peter snatched it up from the table and stared at the screen for a long moment as Ian looked on expectantly. Peter's expression was unreadable and Ian watched with mounting trepidation as he punched out a reply.
**********
Donna had seen Kent approach from her perch in the window seat, so she was halfway down the spiral staircase when the intercom buzzed. She dashed across the room and pressed the button. “Come on in, Kent,” she said breathlessly, “I opened the gate and the garden door. Put it on the counter while I get my wallet.” She turned to get her purse and Kent knocked before opening the door to her flat, her takeaway order dangling from a bag in his hand and a large box cradled in his arms. “Thanks for the delivery: I appreciate it,‘ she said, her back still to him. “I just didn’t feel up to...” She swung around, cash in hand to pay him and stopped dead at the sight of the box he held out to her.
“A little boy was waitin’ with this by your garden doorway,” he explained as she took it from him, handing him payment and a handsome gratuity in return. “He asked me to bring it in for you.”
“Thanks again, Kent,” Donna replied, puzzled. “My best to your family,” she said absently as he waved and closed the door behind him. She looked carefully at the label on the box and smiled- Wheelers of Turnham Green. There was a sticky note affixed to the side of the box and she pulled it free and read it with a growing smile as she set the box on the kitchen island.
Donna,
These came for you today. I was sunning on the garden balcony and saw you get off the train. You looked a bit off colour, so I assumed you were home ill and didn't hear the buzzer. I told the boy to leave them with me and I’d have my grandson drop them by later.
Mrs. K
That answered the question of how the delivery person had managed to get the box to her doorway past the security gate while she was hiding out in the bath, she thought. When she hadn't responded to the intercom, the delivery person must have just buzzed the various flats until Mrs. Kade in the last unit let them in. But what was the occasion? Her birthday wasn't for another month and she hadn't made any new charitable contributions recently. She opened the box and stared dully at the tiny envelope on top of the wrapping paper within as the scent of honeysuckle filled the air.
With trembling fingers, Donna picked up the envelope and carefully peeled back the paper to find the same bouquet Peter had given her before, shot through with rue and a white flower she didn't recognize, the whole arrangement wrapped loosely with honeysuckle vines. She pulled the card from the envelope and read the names printed there in a neat hand: To Donna, From Peter. She turned it over and choked back a sob of relief. Listed along with the flowers she knew were the two new additions-
- Rue- regret, sorrow and repentance
- Star of Bethlehem - atonement and reconciliation
He's going to give me a second chance. He does still love me, she thought as her tears spilled over and coursed down her face. I haven't completely ruined everything. She lifted the flowers from the box, and inhaled deeply, smiling gratefully as the prickly Scottish thistle brushed her cheek. Donna reached up and retrieved a vase from her cabinet, filled it with water from the tap and gingerly placed the arrangement within. She set the flowers in the center of her kitchen island and let loose a trembling breath. She wasn’t quite ready to speak with him again and they had a lot of rebuilding to do, but things weren’t as hopeless as she’d feared.
She reached for her mobile then and inhaled sharply. She’d missed three phone calls- one from work, one from her mother and one from Nerys- and four text messages, all from Peter.
-Donna, I’m sorry. Call me, please.
-You’re not at work. Are you OK? Call me.
-Donna, I just need to know you’re alright. Please, just text me back.
-I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I miss you. Please, just let me know you’re OK.
She bit her lip as she read his texts and she could hear his growing worry and concern at her lack of response. She wouldn’t be surprised if there was a knock at her door right then and she quickly tapped out a reply.
The flowers are lovely. I missed the delivery. My neighbor got them for me.
-I'm glad you like them.
Where are you?
-With Ian. You?
Home.
-Donna, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry, too. It wasn’t all your fault.
-When can I see you?
Give me tonight to rest and calm down. We’ll talk tomorrow night, yeah?
-I miss you. I love you.
I love you, too, Detective Dumbo.
-Lunch Thursday before we meet the family?
You still want to?
-Of course. It’s a date.
**********
Peter set his mobile down on the table and grinned at Ian. “Maybe flowers work after all,” he said as he waved again at the passing waitress. “This round’s on me, and supper, too.” Ian relaxed and smiled into his pint, enjoying Peter’s infectious mood as he chatted animatedly with the girl taking their order. He envied his good fortune for a moment before he grew pensive. Was Maddie truly lost to me forever? Did I really try? And what's the worst that could happen if I tried again? He pulled out his mobile and flicked open his contact list, looking for a number he hadn’t rang in almost a year before taking a last mouthful of courage from his glass and excusing himself for a moment from the table.
Part 1 | Part 5 | Part 10 | Part 15 | Part 20.1 | Part 25