Through with Feeble Hoping
A prequel of sorts, a bit of character background for my Peter Carlisle in An Officer and the Noble Woman. It was originally part of the companion piece I'm writing for To Die, To Sleep - To Sleep, Perchance to Dream, which is a backstory for Donna Noble in my monster-on-my-harddrive, AOATNW. The only problem was this began to take on a life of its own and by the time I knew I needed to cut it for pacing, I'd already fallen in love with Coria. This can be read on its own, but it'll make more sense if you know my Peter Carlisle.
Author: dtstrainers
Characters: Peter Carlisle and introducing Coira Hardy-Carlisle
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,836
Thanks to the lovely
serenityslady for the continuing support and suggestions.
Disclaimer: Peter Carlisle from Blackpool- not mine, but in my mind.
It poured buckets, from before sunup till far into the night, the day he’d finally come home. Peter stood outside the front door he’d slammed so many times as a child, torn between the comfort he craved and the condemnation he dreaded. He hadn't spoken to his mother in nearly two years - not properly, at any rate - not since the day he'd categorically rejected her counsel and married despite her express disapproval. When her prediction had finally come to pass, precisely as she’d promised, he postponed the inevitable as long as possible. He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there with his forehead pressed to the doorframe and cold rain dripping from his fringe before she saw him but when she did, she opened the door without a word and pulled him down the hall to the bath. He stood there shivering as she silently filled the tub and then turned to him to gently push his sodden jacket from his shoulders. “I’ll make the tea,” she'd said and shut the door.
When he eventually emerged, wrapped in a cast-off robe that had once belonged to his father, she was sat before the fire, tea in hand, waiting.
"How are ye, laddie?” she asked quietly and to his chagrin, Peter found he couldn’t look at her. He flopped into the chair across and halfheartedly rummaged through the tin she’d placed on the low table between them.
"I wasnae good enough, mum,” he finally mumbled, sitting back heavily and toying with a biscuit. “I wasnae good enough fer her and now she’s gone and left me, just like ye said she would.”
"No,” his mother insisted curtly. “It was never a matter of ye bein’ good enough fer her. It was a matter of ye bein’ right fer her, and her fer ye.” She leaned forward abruptly, shaking a warning finger in his direction. "Dinnae ever let me hear you or any other say yer no good enough.” She sniffed once and sat back with a firm nod of her head. “There’s no finer man to be found, and it’s a sore fight for any that says otherwise."
Peter’s lip quirked into the ghost of a smile. It would serve no purpose to openly disagree with her, he knew, but sometimes it seemed that all he’d been able to do for some time now was argue. Well-worn recriminations and favorite casual cruelties flashed across his memory in instant replay, and he ran his hands through his hair in frustration. This wasn’t how his life was supposed to be. He forced himself to examine every word, every gesture, searching out the tell-tale clues he should have seen, those tiny signs that should have alerted him when it all went wrong. He tortured himself, recalling the first time he’d seen her from afar before he pressed his face into his hands, rubbing his eyes and staring off into the fire. He let himself be mesmerized by the flames, watching them flicker and dance in the grate until he could feel his mother’s gaze settle heavily upon him.
Peter inhaled deeply then shrugged, speaking on the tail end of a sigh. "I know ye never liked Roselyn…"
"I did, if ye remember,” she interrupted, sitting back with a fond smile. "Och, she was a bonnie wee wain when ye brought her round, lively and quick. I could see why ye fancied her. She made ye happy fer a bit, and I thought where was the harm in that?” She settled her cup back into the saucer and pushed it back from the edge of the table, and at this unconscious signal, Peter readied himself for the tirade to come. "It was only when ye started talkin’ off yer haid about true love and forever that I laid some home truths at yer door.” she declared, waving her hands about airily. She dropped them to her lap and stared at him fiercely. “Did ye no learn anythin’ growin’ up in this house, laddie?”
She focused suddenly on the dark red robe he wore and for a moment, Peter could have sworn he saw his mother's eyes grow bright. She blinked rapidly and he chanced reaching for her hand, but at his first movement, her eyes sprang defiantly back to his and he was forced to reach for a piece of shortbread instead. She pressed her lips together and slowly retrieved her tea, taking an overlong sip before speaking again. "When I told ye no to marry Roselyn, it was because I saw this day,” she admitted, slowly shaking her head. "Ye were both too young, still findin’ yer way. But ye? Ye were a stubborn arse, same as yer father, so damned sure ye’re right an’ always in a hurry to get there.” She turned to face him, her blue eyes blazing. "What did I always tell ye, laddie?” she demanded. “ 'Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.’ ”
Aye, mum,” he mumbled mechanically, his eyes still downcast. She paused to look at Peter, worrying the substituted biscuit against the other lying on his plate, watching as they fell to bits in his hand and she sighed.
“Oh, but ye always did wear yer heart upon yer sleeve, love,” she murmured fondly, reaching out to push his fringe from his face. Peter bit his bottom lip and ruthlessly tried to suppress the tears that sprang to his eyes but his mother knew him too well. She opened her arms and a tiny sob broke free from his control as he moved to join her on the worn sofa. "Even as a child, always the fairy stories and happy endings,” she whispered, stroking his hair as he hid his face in the crook of her neck. He let himself be petted as silent tears trickled down and caught in her collar. “Even in all yer detective stories, where a clever mind was all that was required to make everythin' right in the world.”
He inhaled a juddering breath and hugged his mother tightly before pushing away and falling back on the sofa beside her. He stared unblinking at the ceiling and but for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, he might easily have been mistaken for the dead. "Ye do know that I always hoped the two of ye would prove me wrong,” his mother finally whispered. “Peter, I didnae want this fer you, or fer her. I wanted to be wrong. I wanted ye to be happy.”
Peter blinked slowly and his mother’s hand itched to wipe the tears from his face. He let his head loll back against the sofa and blinked again as if seeing her for the first time. “If ye knew this was goin’ to happen, why did ye no stop me?” he breathed. "Why did ye push me away?“
“When has it ever mattered what I had to say?” she scoffed, frowning at the rain still pounding against the window.
“Everything ye say matters,” he replied. "To me.”
Coira Hardy-Carlisle stared at the beautiful, broken man beside her, her little boy no more, wondering when was the last time he’d let her see him cry. He watched her for a long moment before her expression softened and she shrugged. "Ye had to live yer own life. Ye had yer own mistakes to make. Ye had to find out fer yerself, but I didnae have to watch and pretend to like it,” she stated. He seemed to consider her words before slowly closing his eyes with a tiny shrug of his own.
“Knowing ye as I do, things were said that ye wished were no,” his mother guessed, and when Peter only snorted in reply, she grew pensive. “So where is Roselyn now?” she finally ventured to ask. “Ye did leave her somewhere safe?” When Peter raised an eyebrow with a sideways glance, she wagged a finger at him once more. “I’m no implyin’ ye did anythin’ to her, laddie. I know ye're no like yer father that way.” Peter relaxed fractionally but continued to look at her askance. She sat a bit straighter in her chair and sniffed. “I know what yer thinkin’, and even though I don’t care much fer her in light of yer current situation, I must remind you that I am a civilized woman.”
Peter almost smiled in response. "With occasional lapses,” he murmured wryly and his mother gave a small snort of assent but otherwise remained expectantly silent. “I left her at ou….the flat,” he finally admitted, picking at a frayed spot on the pocket of the robe he wore. “She’ll be gone by the time I go back. It’s no like we had much to begin with and she’ll have had help with her things.” He stared without seeing at the threadbare crease in the pocket he'd worried into a proper hole.
His mother absorbed the information dispassionately. “What will ye do?"
“I’ve had an offer down in Kendall,” Peter admitted, watching her shoulder twitch as he spoke. She stared at him thoughtfully before nodding.
“Runnin’ away, are ye?” she challenged, but without any real heat.
“Mum, I -"
“No, maybe a change of scene would do ye good,” she admitted grudgingly. “Kendall’s no far. It’s no like yer movin' all the way to Cardiff, or God forbid, London.” When Peter lapsed back into silence, his mother leaned forward into his line of sight. “I know ye’re miserable, laddie, but the best thing for bein’ sad is to learn somethin’ from it. Ye understand?”
“Aye, mum,” he mumbled automatically, looking out the window as thunder rattled the glass in its pane.
Watching Peter retreat once more into melancholy, she reached over and slapped his thigh smartly. "We'll be havin' none o' that, no in my house! Haid doon, arse up! The one fer ye is out there still."
"Ye would say that," Peter groused, rubbing the spot she'd assaulted. "But the truth is I have learned somethin' from all this. To be wise and love exceeds man's might, and I'll have no more of it," he growled. He crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his chin up to eye his mother defiantly. He held her gaze as long as possible before his determination wavered and he sniffed and looked away. "I'm done with love," he declared bitterly, with only a tiny waver in his voice to betray him. He glared back at his mother then, daring her to contradict him.
"I'm sure ye know yer own heart better than ever I would," she replied with a sad smile. She stood and reached down to flick his damp fringe, gaining a bashful flicker of his eyes to hers in return as she wrapped him in her arms. She stroked his hair gently and just as Peter relaxed in her embrace, she whispered, "But just ye keep in mind, bairn: whit’s fer ye’ll no go past ye. Keep lookin'. Ye'll find her in the end."
Author: dtstrainers
Characters: Peter Carlisle and introducing Coira Hardy-Carlisle
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,836
Thanks to the lovely
serenityslady for the continuing support and suggestions.
Disclaimer: Peter Carlisle from Blackpool- not mine, but in my mind.
It poured buckets, from before sunup till far into the night, the day he’d finally come home. Peter stood outside the front door he’d slammed so many times as a child, torn between the comfort he craved and the condemnation he dreaded. He hadn't spoken to his mother in nearly two years - not properly, at any rate - not since the day he'd categorically rejected her counsel and married despite her express disapproval. When her prediction had finally come to pass, precisely as she’d promised, he postponed the inevitable as long as possible. He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there with his forehead pressed to the doorframe and cold rain dripping from his fringe before she saw him but when she did, she opened the door without a word and pulled him down the hall to the bath. He stood there shivering as she silently filled the tub and then turned to him to gently push his sodden jacket from his shoulders. “I’ll make the tea,” she'd said and shut the door.
When he eventually emerged, wrapped in a cast-off robe that had once belonged to his father, she was sat before the fire, tea in hand, waiting.
"How are ye, laddie?” she asked quietly and to his chagrin, Peter found he couldn’t look at her. He flopped into the chair across and halfheartedly rummaged through the tin she’d placed on the low table between them.
"I wasnae good enough, mum,” he finally mumbled, sitting back heavily and toying with a biscuit. “I wasnae good enough fer her and now she’s gone and left me, just like ye said she would.”
"No,” his mother insisted curtly. “It was never a matter of ye bein’ good enough fer her. It was a matter of ye bein’ right fer her, and her fer ye.” She leaned forward abruptly, shaking a warning finger in his direction. "Dinnae ever let me hear you or any other say yer no good enough.” She sniffed once and sat back with a firm nod of her head. “There’s no finer man to be found, and it’s a sore fight for any that says otherwise."
Peter’s lip quirked into the ghost of a smile. It would serve no purpose to openly disagree with her, he knew, but sometimes it seemed that all he’d been able to do for some time now was argue. Well-worn recriminations and favorite casual cruelties flashed across his memory in instant replay, and he ran his hands through his hair in frustration. This wasn’t how his life was supposed to be. He forced himself to examine every word, every gesture, searching out the tell-tale clues he should have seen, those tiny signs that should have alerted him when it all went wrong. He tortured himself, recalling the first time he’d seen her from afar before he pressed his face into his hands, rubbing his eyes and staring off into the fire. He let himself be mesmerized by the flames, watching them flicker and dance in the grate until he could feel his mother’s gaze settle heavily upon him.
Peter inhaled deeply then shrugged, speaking on the tail end of a sigh. "I know ye never liked Roselyn…"
"I did, if ye remember,” she interrupted, sitting back with a fond smile. "Och, she was a bonnie wee wain when ye brought her round, lively and quick. I could see why ye fancied her. She made ye happy fer a bit, and I thought where was the harm in that?” She settled her cup back into the saucer and pushed it back from the edge of the table, and at this unconscious signal, Peter readied himself for the tirade to come. "It was only when ye started talkin’ off yer haid about true love and forever that I laid some home truths at yer door.” she declared, waving her hands about airily. She dropped them to her lap and stared at him fiercely. “Did ye no learn anythin’ growin’ up in this house, laddie?”
She focused suddenly on the dark red robe he wore and for a moment, Peter could have sworn he saw his mother's eyes grow bright. She blinked rapidly and he chanced reaching for her hand, but at his first movement, her eyes sprang defiantly back to his and he was forced to reach for a piece of shortbread instead. She pressed her lips together and slowly retrieved her tea, taking an overlong sip before speaking again. "When I told ye no to marry Roselyn, it was because I saw this day,” she admitted, slowly shaking her head. "Ye were both too young, still findin’ yer way. But ye? Ye were a stubborn arse, same as yer father, so damned sure ye’re right an’ always in a hurry to get there.” She turned to face him, her blue eyes blazing. "What did I always tell ye, laddie?” she demanded. “ 'Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.’ ”
Aye, mum,” he mumbled mechanically, his eyes still downcast. She paused to look at Peter, worrying the substituted biscuit against the other lying on his plate, watching as they fell to bits in his hand and she sighed.
“Oh, but ye always did wear yer heart upon yer sleeve, love,” she murmured fondly, reaching out to push his fringe from his face. Peter bit his bottom lip and ruthlessly tried to suppress the tears that sprang to his eyes but his mother knew him too well. She opened her arms and a tiny sob broke free from his control as he moved to join her on the worn sofa. "Even as a child, always the fairy stories and happy endings,” she whispered, stroking his hair as he hid his face in the crook of her neck. He let himself be petted as silent tears trickled down and caught in her collar. “Even in all yer detective stories, where a clever mind was all that was required to make everythin' right in the world.”
He inhaled a juddering breath and hugged his mother tightly before pushing away and falling back on the sofa beside her. He stared unblinking at the ceiling and but for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, he might easily have been mistaken for the dead. "Ye do know that I always hoped the two of ye would prove me wrong,” his mother finally whispered. “Peter, I didnae want this fer you, or fer her. I wanted to be wrong. I wanted ye to be happy.”
Peter blinked slowly and his mother’s hand itched to wipe the tears from his face. He let his head loll back against the sofa and blinked again as if seeing her for the first time. “If ye knew this was goin’ to happen, why did ye no stop me?” he breathed. "Why did ye push me away?“
“When has it ever mattered what I had to say?” she scoffed, frowning at the rain still pounding against the window.
“Everything ye say matters,” he replied. "To me.”
Coira Hardy-Carlisle stared at the beautiful, broken man beside her, her little boy no more, wondering when was the last time he’d let her see him cry. He watched her for a long moment before her expression softened and she shrugged. "Ye had to live yer own life. Ye had yer own mistakes to make. Ye had to find out fer yerself, but I didnae have to watch and pretend to like it,” she stated. He seemed to consider her words before slowly closing his eyes with a tiny shrug of his own.
“Knowing ye as I do, things were said that ye wished were no,” his mother guessed, and when Peter only snorted in reply, she grew pensive. “So where is Roselyn now?” she finally ventured to ask. “Ye did leave her somewhere safe?” When Peter raised an eyebrow with a sideways glance, she wagged a finger at him once more. “I’m no implyin’ ye did anythin’ to her, laddie. I know ye're no like yer father that way.” Peter relaxed fractionally but continued to look at her askance. She sat a bit straighter in her chair and sniffed. “I know what yer thinkin’, and even though I don’t care much fer her in light of yer current situation, I must remind you that I am a civilized woman.”
Peter almost smiled in response. "With occasional lapses,” he murmured wryly and his mother gave a small snort of assent but otherwise remained expectantly silent. “I left her at ou….the flat,” he finally admitted, picking at a frayed spot on the pocket of the robe he wore. “She’ll be gone by the time I go back. It’s no like we had much to begin with and she’ll have had help with her things.” He stared without seeing at the threadbare crease in the pocket he'd worried into a proper hole.
His mother absorbed the information dispassionately. “What will ye do?"
“I’ve had an offer down in Kendall,” Peter admitted, watching her shoulder twitch as he spoke. She stared at him thoughtfully before nodding.
“Runnin’ away, are ye?” she challenged, but without any real heat.
“Mum, I -"
“No, maybe a change of scene would do ye good,” she admitted grudgingly. “Kendall’s no far. It’s no like yer movin' all the way to Cardiff, or God forbid, London.” When Peter lapsed back into silence, his mother leaned forward into his line of sight. “I know ye’re miserable, laddie, but the best thing for bein’ sad is to learn somethin’ from it. Ye understand?”
“Aye, mum,” he mumbled automatically, looking out the window as thunder rattled the glass in its pane.
Watching Peter retreat once more into melancholy, she reached over and slapped his thigh smartly. "We'll be havin' none o' that, no in my house! Haid doon, arse up! The one fer ye is out there still."
"Ye would say that," Peter groused, rubbing the spot she'd assaulted. "But the truth is I have learned somethin' from all this. To be wise and love exceeds man's might, and I'll have no more of it," he growled. He crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his chin up to eye his mother defiantly. He held her gaze as long as possible before his determination wavered and he sniffed and looked away. "I'm done with love," he declared bitterly, with only a tiny waver in his voice to betray him. He glared back at his mother then, daring her to contradict him.
"I'm sure ye know yer own heart better than ever I would," she replied with a sad smile. She stood and reached down to flick his damp fringe, gaining a bashful flicker of his eyes to hers in return as she wrapped him in her arms. She stroked his hair gently and just as Peter relaxed in her embrace, she whispered, "But just ye keep in mind, bairn: whit’s fer ye’ll no go past ye. Keep lookin'. Ye'll find her in the end."