The Way of Things, Chapter 39
Mickey had called them back for a phone call from Jacques, apparently convinced it was urgent. The news ultimately hadn’t been that earth-shattering, although Peter appreciated that he was one of the people expected to be present to hear it. If nothing else, it had provided a nice middle-of-the-day update for the team in Kendal.
The man they’d taken into custody in London-Billings, a high-ranking bureaucrat under the notorious Doctor Smith-had refused to yield much information despite being asked nicely by Torchwood. Peter found himself wondering about the types of laws which governed Torchwood: Did the organisation have that kind of power, that they could legally interrogate and arrest an employee, without involving any other agency? He supposed they might-Rose had told him she and her team had received some police training, and from what he’d seen Torchwood had rather extensive powers. He’d have to ask Rose.
James and Penington had arrived halfway through the call with Jacques; he’d watched as Rose blushed under James’s scrutiny, as the man then grinned before turning to him and winking. He’d been taken aback by the ease with which her team seemed to shift to acceptance of him, and he wondered yet again what Rose might have said to them.
Billings had told Jacques what the warehouse was for, at least, which was one less thing they had to worry about. It had been purchased by McGreevy shortly after his move from Glasgow-a noteworthy point, as it indicated that McGreevy had potentially been entertaining ideas about selling technology well before he met Philippa. According to Billings, it had been ignored by McGreevy once he’d realized a lab wouldn’t be practical that far removed from town. Once he’d started working with Philippa and Swinson, however, he’d found a new use for the location, using it as the testing and demonstration site for the teleport; it had also served as a sort of backup hideout, offering shelter if necessary and plenty of open space around it.
Torchwood also had the criminal services running a full investigation into the company behind it all; if nothing else, they might be able to finally make the charges of trafficking in stolen property stick. If they were quite lucky, they’d be able to prove profit off of government secrets without authorisation. Torchwood had tried before, but had been unsuccessful due to a variety of possibly illegal means; Peter had been surprised to find Rose so pessimistic on the chances of success this time.
The rest of the day passed with frustratingly little in the way of progress. They were so close-he and everyone else could practically smell the end of the case-and he was growing increasingly frustrated. He’d half-hoped working things out with Rose would somehow, magically, cause Swinson to appear, for the case to resolve itself. It had been an unrealistic hope, but that hadn’t made it any less appealing.
On the positive side-the longer things took, the more time he’d have with Rose. He’d told her not to overthink things, but the truth was, it was as much guidance for him as for her. He was already worrying about what to do when Rose invariably left; would she get back to London and realize it was a mistake? Even if she didn’t, it was a not insignificant distance between them. He’d have to get used to catching a zeppelin or-given her love of it-the train. He hoped she’d come to Kendal, visit him-stay with him-but he was reluctant to make any demands of her.
And there he went overthinking things.
He needed to focus on work...only there was precious little that he could focus on. They needed Swinson. They had no leads. There were PC’s looking for him all over the country; Torchwood was increasing the resident population of Kendal in leaps and bounds with the number of personnel they were sending north. He had nothing to contribute; and so his mind wandered.
Their date tonight-he needed to focus on that, if he was going to obsess about something Rose-related. He wanted to repeat what they had done on their last date-the passionate lovemaking with dinner in-between, knew that it was far too much to ask so soon. Their date the previous night had been the perfect combination of luck and circumstance, the proverbial lightning in a bottle; trying to plan something like that would ruin it.
His eyes closed as he remembered the night before. It was...He’d never quite imagined it could be something like that. His wife had been good in bed, but had lacked passion, or even emotion. Natalie had been passionate, but her heart hadn’t really been in it-she’d never seen him, even as she called out his name. He’d slept with women who were as talented as courtesans, and women who couldn’t insert tab A into slot B without pictures and a guide-but nothing had approached what he’d experienced the night before.
He’d fantasized about how it would be with Rose a countless number of times, and still he had never come close to accurately imagining how it would be. There had been more between them than the sex, the human need to come together. When he and Rose were making love it was almost reverent, and he hoped it would always be like that.
It was the most spectacular shag-shags, really-of his life.
And there he went overthinking again; surely it was time for the end-of-day meeting by now? There might be frustratingly little to focus on at work, but that didn’t mean the team would skip their daily wrap-up. The rest of group seemed to agree it was high time to wrap up for the day, and everyone settled around the table.
As he sat and listened to the afternoon brief, he pondered on just how silent Rose’s team had been about what he and Rose had been up to the night before. Earlier in the day, he’d been impressed by the lack of teasing he and Rose had received; as their silence on the subject had persisted for the duration of the day, however, he’d grown worried. Maybe they were waiting to see if she really was happy, to get a post-match analysis from her, before deciding if he was worth the effort? His worry increased as her team slowly filed out at the end of the day, glancing his way with grins or sly smiles.
He and Rose had agreed to meet for supper at six-thirty; he was owed a favour by one of the local restaurateurs, and he advised Rose to dress for a proper dinner-not just a table and chairs, but a roof and a tablecloth. She laughed, her awkwardness from that morning gone, before leaving for the hotel with the rest of her team. He took a moment to book a table at a small, popular inn just outside of town, before returning to the interrogation room.
He had a brief consultation with Penington, making sure the DC was receiving everything he needed, reviewing any questions he might have about processes or procedures. He offered to serve as a sounding board for any theories the DC might have, and shared a few of his own with Penington. The DC was more than competent, and Peter felt a flash of regret that he’d not had faith in the man sooner-that it had taken having Rose around to get him to trust the man who was his partner.
Penington had a date himself-Peter had noted the DC had been taking his girlfriend of many months out more and more often-and so it was that Peter returned home shortly before six. His mind was running through what needed to be done before he’d be ready to leave for Rose-he needed a shave, he thought he had a pressed suit somewhere-but he was brought up short in the doorway of his room. It seemed so surreal that Rose had been there just that morning, had slept in his bed next to him; had awoken next to him. He’d made love to her more times than he’d ever thought he’d be allowed to. The image of her under him, on his bed, would be seared into his memory for as long as he lived.
He walked to the wardrobe, drifting his fingers along the footboard of the bed as he passed. She’d admired his bed-had seemed to genuinely like it-and he felt his breath hitch at the memory. He’d been terrified again at that point that he was in the middle of a dream, and had tried to convince himself it was real even as he brought her to orgasm again, as he tested what she might like. Her eyes had been brimming with emotion as she watched him; as the memory flashed before him he closed his eyes and leaned against the wardrobe, gasping involuntarily.
He never wanted to stop being able to do that, to be lucky enough to have her look at him like that.
He opened his eyes, caught his breath-he didn’t have time to revel in the memories. The thought crossed his mind that if he was really lucky they might yet make more later that night. He stripped out of his work clothes, flashes of getting dressed that morning dancing across his mind’s eye as he removed each article of clothing, until he was standing in his pants.
He’d love nothing more than to skip dinner, to bring Rose back to the house and make love to her all over again, to learn what she really tasted like, to discover more things she enjoyed. He shook the desire off, forcibly tucking it away. Dinner-a proper dinner, with a roof and a tablecloth, where they could talk and enjoy each other’s presence, get to know one another better-that had to come first.
He shaved, and then damped down his hair to bring it under some semblance of control. He had some cologne somewhere, and he rooted around his medicine cabinet for the dusty bottle. It smelled decent, and he put a little on before returning to his room and the wardrobe. He pulled on a clean vest, before setting to look for an outfit for the night.
His nicest suit-the one he never wore-was tucked along the far side of the clothes rack and still bore the plastic covering from the cleaners. The black wool had been tailored to fit his frame years ago, but he’d worn it so rarely that it still looked new; he pulled it out, casually tossing it across the bed. A crisp white shirt was hanging alongside the suit, and as he pulled it on and buttoned it, he idly wondered when he’d unboxed it. He looked over his rather sombre collection of ties, finally settling on a bright periwinkle with varying stripes of dark grey to complete the outfit. He unwrapped his suit, hurriedly pulling the trousers on as it occurred to him that he was in danger of running late. Socks and shoes-matching; he checked twice-were hastily donned, and he left the house, coat in hand, with just enough time to get over to Rose.
She was waiting for him in the lobby of the hotel-he could see her through the doors as he double-parked. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her as he pulled on his jacket and walked into the hotel. She was wearing a simple black dress which flowed as she moved, looking at the painting he’d been wondering about the night before as he’d waited for her. The dress was subtle and clearly high-quality, and set off her curves in an incredibly flattering, unbelievably sexy way. She had a sweater clasped in her hand-and she looked stunning.
He stood by the doors, admiring her as she walked towards him and once again wondering how he could be so lucky. She stopped in front of him, grinning, and he scrambled to form a coherent thought.
“You’re beautiful.”
She turned a lovely shade of pink at the honest statement, ducking her head briefly before raising her chin. She held his gaze, her smile fading, as she lightly ran her fingers down his tie. “And you look quite handsome.”
They stared openly, lost in each other as people walked around them; as it seemed to do when he was with her, time briefly stopped.
Peter was pulled out of the moment by the sudden appearance of Jake’s beaming face over Rose’s shoulder; Mickey was behind him, as well as James, and Peter felt himself turn scarlet.
“DI.” Jake’s voice was full of barely suppressed mirth. Rose blinked, startled, and hastily spun to face her colleagues.
“Jake. Mickey. James.” He nodded to them in turn, making eye contact with each man. Their expressions were grave, and it occurred to him that he and Rose might have chaperones for the evening.
“You lot have fun,” Rose said, a note of warning underlying the humour in her voice. No chaperones, then; he relaxed marginally.
“We will. Shall we expect you back?” James grinned as he watched Rose blush. An awkward silence briefly descended.
Peter was curious about Rose’s answer, but wasn’t keen to discuss it with her team, and certainly not in such a public spot. “Yes, well, we’ve a dinner reservation to keep.” He turned, gently placing his hand at the back of Rose’s back, preparing to escort her to his car.
“Be careful.” Mickey looked at Peter as he said it, and Peter fought down the urge to look away.
“We will be,” he replied.
Rose said her goodbyes to her team before allowing Peter to lead her out of the lobby. She grinned, asking “Where are we off to?” as they stepped outside.
“Dinner,” he replied with a smile.
She laughed. “Alright, then, a surprise it is.”
He grinned, giving her a kiss before opening the car door. He quickly walked around, joining her in the vehicle; as he buckled in, she leaned over. “You look...amazing.”
Her voice was low, sultry; he swallowed thickly as he turned on the car. “So do you,” he whispered, looking at her. The neckline of her dress offered a tantalizing glimpse of her décolletage; the skirt had hiked up just enough over her knee to make it tempting to brush his fingers over the skin of her legs instead of grabbing the gear shift. She leaned closer to him, gave him a light kiss, before sitting back. “Do we really have a dinner reservation?” Her tone seemed to indicate she didn’t believe him, that she possibly thought he used the line as a way to extricate them from the awkward situation inside.
“We do. And we’ll be late.” He kissed her once more before setting out for dinner.
The inn was off the road to Windermere; it was known not only for its food, but for its romantic atmosphere and its stunning view. It was a popular spot for anniversaries and proposals, although he certainly wasn’t thinking of doing anything so dramatic that night; he simply wanted to take Rose to a proper supper. He’d helped the owners with a case years before, had maintained an acquaintance with them since then; they’d told him all he ever had to do was call and they’d make sure he had a place to eat. If they were surprised to see him arrive with a date, they hid it well; the couple greeted he and Rose warmly, wishing them a lovely supper. He didn’t miss Rose’s happy expression as she watched him, and fought down a grin as the maitre d’ eventually showed the two of them to a secluded nook off the main dining room. Candlelight danced off the white tablecloth and limewashed walls, bathing everything in a warm glow.
Rose smiled delightedly as they were left alone. “Roof, chairs, table, and tablecloth. Candles, even. You’ve outdone yourself.”
He smiled in return. “I did promise.”
“Indeed you did.”
They made desultory conversation as they looked over the menus, discussing what looked interesting or unusual. He offered her the selection of wine for dinner; she looked surprised and stammeringly replied that she’d have whatever he liked. As the waiter walked away with their orders, he sat back in his chair, gazing at her. He couldn’t get enough of just looking at her, of seeing her across from him, happy.
She gazed steadily back, her lips holding the barest hint of a smile as her eyes roved over him. He waited patiently, curious as to what she would say.
“Is that tie part of your secret stash of clothes with colour?” she finally asked, a smile curving the corners of her mouth.
He smiled in return. “It is. It routinely gets mocked by the other ties, you know, for being so bright.”
“Poor tie.” She paused, before adding softly, “I like it.”
“I’m glad,” he replied. The waiter brought their wine, and they watched each other in silence as their glasses were poured out. They were alone again soon enough, and he watched as she took a sip of the liquid, her eyes holding his over the rim of her glass. She licked her lips slowly as she set it down, and he felt his body immediately react.
She was going to think this was all about sex if he couldn’t get his hormones under control.
“What’s John like?” he asked, suddenly. He had no idea where the question had come from, but he found he was curious.
She laughed. “Are you going to interrogate me, Carlisle?”
“You don’t want me to do that, Tyler.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping. She mirrored his posture.
“Maybe I do.”
She was teasing him, damn her. “Not over dinner, you don’t.”
She swallowed, her eyes dropping to his lips.
“What about you?” she asked, dragging her eyes upwards.
“Do I want to be interrogated over dinner?” He was trying to pull the conversation back, to get them onto an even keel. If he didn’t, he was fairly certain he’d be banned from the inn for conduct most unbecoming a representative of the constabulary.
“No. What about you. Have you a brother?” Her question was simple, but he found himself breathless. He never talked about his family, with anyone. Most people he knew had no idea about his family; they probably assumed he’d sprung from under a rock.
He swallowed, looking down at the tablecloth. He picked the knife up, began to idly play with it as he contemplated his answer. He saw Rose’s hand slide across the white cloth, the light catching the sparkle of her bracelet as her fingers lightly rested on his hand. “Peter, I’m sorry. I...Would you like me to tell you about John?”
He released the tableware, turned his hand over to grasp hers, before raising his eyes to her face. “No. I...I just...No one really asks about my family.”
“Oh.” Her voice was rich with emotion, and she squeezed his hand. “Do you want to talk about them?”
No, his mind responded. “I...I just don’t keep in touch with them. Not really. Haven’t for years.”
She watched him silently, her gaze full of compassion. He could almost see her put the pieces together; she hadn’t missed his slip the night before, his wistfulness over a childhood he’d not had. He’d been relieved when she’d let him change the subject, but now-as she looked at him, her focus slowly turning inwards as she thought-he had to admit she had most likely worked out most of the story.
Knowing that she had figured out at least the basic story somehow made it easier to tell her about it. It was like truth serum. He took a breath, and began.
“My mum, she died when I was a wee lad. My father never quite recovered, kind of withdrew into himself, left my brother and I to fend for ourselves.”
“I’m so sorry, Peter.” Her voice was soft, sympathetic.
He squeezed her hand and continued. “It wasn’t all Dickensian; I had a lovely gran who looked after me, until she too died. My brother, he...he fell in with a bad crowd, you could say. I fell into it for a bit, as well, until I found out I wasn’t cut out for that sort of life.”
He took a sip of his wine; he’d not told anyone even that much since before he’d gotten married. Rose continued to watch him, her hand softly enfolding his. He took a deep breath, and continued. “My father, he finally died when I was in my fourth year of secondary school; my brother was old enough to act as guardian and was earning enough to keep us in the house, but it wasn’t an honest living. As soon as I could, I left. Found a university that would take me, and then made my way to the first police service that would have me.” He looked up from the spot on the table he’d focused on as he spoke; Rose was still gazing at him, her eyes bright in the candlelight.
“Peter, I...” She was plainly at a loss for words, and he kicked himself for ruining the evening.
“I’m sorry, Rose, I shouldn’t have-”
“Don’t be daft.” Her voice was sharp, but quickly grew soft. “I asked because it’s part of you, Peter, and I wanted to know. I...I had no idea. I’m sorry.”
He squeezed her hand, sighing. “Rose, it was a long time ago, all of that. I’ve been here longer than I was up there, at this point; it almost seems like something from a book, instead of my life.”
The waiter appeared, bearing their appetisers. Rose released his hand, sat back; he watched to see if she did anything to indicate she was withdrawing from him, and was relieved when she leaned forward as soon as the waiter left.
“And…your brother?” she asked, tentatively.
“He’s still in Glasgow; I check on him periodically.”
They ate in silence for several moments, each lost in thoughts of what he had shared. He was terrified that he’d ruined their happy meal, but wasn’t sure what to say that wouldn’t be awkward or a painfully obvious change of topic.
“What’s Glasgow like?” Rose finally asked, setting her spoon down. She looked genuinely curious; he still suspected it was her way of redirecting the conversation, but he took the out gratefully.
“I’ve not been there in years, mind-and I grew up just west of there. But it’s lovely.”
She sighed. “I’ve only been there for work-one of the shorter trips. We appeared in the middle of the night, somewhere north of the city, and left only a few hours later.”
“As a local boy, I’m compelled to say you’ve not missed much.” He allowed a wry note to enter his voice, and was rewarded with a smile.
“Spoken like a true native,” Rose replied, laughing.
Their main courses arrived, and silence returned as they enjoyed their meals. It was comfortable, not awkward, and he enjoyed sneaking glances at Rose as she sat across from him. She caught him at it, more than once, and smiled gently at him each time.
He noticed her glass was empty, and poured her a new glass. She paused, took a sip, and restarted the conversation. “What did you study at uni?” Her voice was full of curiosity, and he looked at her, surprised.
“You didn’t find out when you ran my background?” His voice held no malice; he really had thought something like that would come up.
“It, ah, was long enough ago that it didn’t appear.” She blushed, although he didn’t miss the twinkle in her eyes.
“That’s both insulting and a bit of a relief,” he replied drily. He set his silverware down and took a sip of wine. “I focused on history.”
“Thus the books.”
“Thus the books. Literature, too.”
She looked genuinely surprised.
“Not what you’d expect of your garden variety copper, I’d warrant.”
“No-but I never thought you were garden variety,” she replied honestly. “Did it cause you any trouble, getting your job?”
He felt heat suffuse his body at her casual compliment, even as he was initially taken aback-surely she knew how the police services hired? It took him a moment to remember with a start that she wasn’t from there. A thousand questions about her life in the other universe flooded his mind, but he pushed them back; she was asking about him, and he was bound and determined to answer everything she asked.
“Not so much as you might think. The, er, dabbling in things as a troubled youth caused more raised eyebrows than my unusual degrees. I tested well enough that they ultimately didn’t care.”
She placed her knife and fork in the middle of her plate, finished, before answering him. “Did you know you wanted to be a detective?”
A question he’d answered a thousand times; and one he’d often asked himself. “I don’t know. I knew I liked policework; thought I could be good at it, given my experiences with the police in Scotland. It appealed to me, so I gave it a go.”
“D’you ever wish you’d done something else?” she asked after another pregnant pause. He set his fork down, indicating he was done, and leaned back contemplatively. The waiter, who seemed to have an impeccable sense of timing, appeared and cleared the plates.
“Surprisingly, no. I can’t think of anything else I’d be half so good at. There are days, in the rain, or when I’m hip deep in a mess, that I wonder if it was the smartest thing I’ve ever done-but I don’t know that I wish I’d done something else with my life, career-wise.”
Desserts were offered; he and Rose each selected one and ordered coffee, and lapsed once more into comfortable silence as the waiter left.
The press containing their coffee was discreetly placed on their table, two cups and saucers set before each of them, and they focused briefly on taking care of their respective cups of coffee. He was half-tempted to fix Rose’s cup the way he knew she liked it, but held back; that might be a bit too over the top. Dessert appeared as they took their first sips of coffee, and they were once more left alone.
Rose had ordered a chocolate torte, and he felt himself smile as he watched her savour the first bite. Her eyes closed, a blissful smile crossing her lips as she slowly dragged the fork out of her mouth; he felt his mouth go dry as he remembered how they’d eaten their mousse the night before.
He wanted to kiss her; as though sensing his thoughts, her eyes flew open and met his. A wicked grin graced her lips, and she held his gaze as she slowly licked her fork clean.
She was trying to kill him, he was certain of it.
“Not nice, Tyler,” he growled, leaning forward.
An eyebrow shot up, and the wicked grin remained. “You should have learned by now, Carlisle, that I’m not nice.”
He wanted her. Badly. “Will you stay with me again tonight?” he asked, his voice low.
Her eyes widened, the grin fading from her face. He wanted to kick himself again; he knew he needed to take things slow with her, had even made a promise to himself to not pressure her to come home with him after dinner.
He felt his appetite wane as she continued to gaze at him, gobsmacked. He’d miscalculated, and now had to find a graceful way out of the mess. “I’d like you to, Rose. I can’t remember the last time I slept so well. But if you’re not comfortable, you don’t have to. I’ll still want to see you again, take you out again.”
“No, ‘s not that.” She took a sip of her coffee, grimacing as she swallowed a large swig of the hot beverage. She set the cup down, rotating it on the saucer.
“Rose, you don’t have to,” he repeated.
She looked up at him, blushing. “I...It’s been a long time since I’ve done that, yeah? Years, literally. Never here. And...well...” She blushed an even deeper shade of pink. “I, ah...I used some muscles I’d not used in a while.” Her ears were bright red, and her gaze dropped to the tablecloth.
The penny dropped. “Rose.” He pitched his voice low, willing her to look at him. She did, with effort. “Me asking you to stay with me isn’t the same as asking you to have sex.”
She gave him an embarrassed grin.
“I just...I’d like to fall asleep with you again.” He could barely get the words out, the pure, unadulterated truth of them causing him to almost have to force himself to verbalize the sentiment. He was rarely, if ever, this sincerely forthright with people. He hoped he was right in thinking it would be worth the risk with Rose.
“I’d like to fall asleep with you, too,” she whispered in reply.
He smiled, joy suffusing his body, and she smiled in response. He would never, ever grow tired of that smile.
They finished dessert, drained their cups of coffee. They talked about nothing important, learning what little things might amuse the other, sharing anecdotes from work or play as they waited for the bill, and then as he paid it.
They walked out to the car, hand-in-hand; it was chilly, but Rose insisted on walking close to him instead of pulling on her sweater. As they sat in the car, waiting for the heater to warm up, he asked the final question which had been bothering him. “Would you like to stop by your hotel, on the way?”
He was still worried that she’d change her mind, but he had to ask; he didn’t want her to feel obligated or trapped.
He saw her smile in the dim light. “S’pose I should. Get some things for tomorrow, and let at least one of the group know where I am.” She added lightly, “We can sleep in that way, too.”
He couldn’t resist. He leaned over, tenderly kissing her in the dark warmth of his car. She softly kissed him back, her hand gliding up over his shoulder; he slid a hand up to cup her face, gently working his mouth against hers.
The thought, when it came, was blinding: he loved her. Really and truly. Not just a passing fancy, not just lust. Love.
He pulled back, gasping; she blinked her eyes open, looking at him with concern. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, trying to catch his breath. How had that happened? “Just...we’d better get going, if you want to have time to get some things.”
She smiled at him, satisfied with his reply; her hand rested on his as he shifted into first gear.
He was taking the woman he loved, home, to sleep with him in his bed
The man they’d taken into custody in London-Billings, a high-ranking bureaucrat under the notorious Doctor Smith-had refused to yield much information despite being asked nicely by Torchwood. Peter found himself wondering about the types of laws which governed Torchwood: Did the organisation have that kind of power, that they could legally interrogate and arrest an employee, without involving any other agency? He supposed they might-Rose had told him she and her team had received some police training, and from what he’d seen Torchwood had rather extensive powers. He’d have to ask Rose.
James and Penington had arrived halfway through the call with Jacques; he’d watched as Rose blushed under James’s scrutiny, as the man then grinned before turning to him and winking. He’d been taken aback by the ease with which her team seemed to shift to acceptance of him, and he wondered yet again what Rose might have said to them.
Billings had told Jacques what the warehouse was for, at least, which was one less thing they had to worry about. It had been purchased by McGreevy shortly after his move from Glasgow-a noteworthy point, as it indicated that McGreevy had potentially been entertaining ideas about selling technology well before he met Philippa. According to Billings, it had been ignored by McGreevy once he’d realized a lab wouldn’t be practical that far removed from town. Once he’d started working with Philippa and Swinson, however, he’d found a new use for the location, using it as the testing and demonstration site for the teleport; it had also served as a sort of backup hideout, offering shelter if necessary and plenty of open space around it.
Torchwood also had the criminal services running a full investigation into the company behind it all; if nothing else, they might be able to finally make the charges of trafficking in stolen property stick. If they were quite lucky, they’d be able to prove profit off of government secrets without authorisation. Torchwood had tried before, but had been unsuccessful due to a variety of possibly illegal means; Peter had been surprised to find Rose so pessimistic on the chances of success this time.
The rest of the day passed with frustratingly little in the way of progress. They were so close-he and everyone else could practically smell the end of the case-and he was growing increasingly frustrated. He’d half-hoped working things out with Rose would somehow, magically, cause Swinson to appear, for the case to resolve itself. It had been an unrealistic hope, but that hadn’t made it any less appealing.
On the positive side-the longer things took, the more time he’d have with Rose. He’d told her not to overthink things, but the truth was, it was as much guidance for him as for her. He was already worrying about what to do when Rose invariably left; would she get back to London and realize it was a mistake? Even if she didn’t, it was a not insignificant distance between them. He’d have to get used to catching a zeppelin or-given her love of it-the train. He hoped she’d come to Kendal, visit him-stay with him-but he was reluctant to make any demands of her.
And there he went overthinking things.
He needed to focus on work...only there was precious little that he could focus on. They needed Swinson. They had no leads. There were PC’s looking for him all over the country; Torchwood was increasing the resident population of Kendal in leaps and bounds with the number of personnel they were sending north. He had nothing to contribute; and so his mind wandered.
Their date tonight-he needed to focus on that, if he was going to obsess about something Rose-related. He wanted to repeat what they had done on their last date-the passionate lovemaking with dinner in-between, knew that it was far too much to ask so soon. Their date the previous night had been the perfect combination of luck and circumstance, the proverbial lightning in a bottle; trying to plan something like that would ruin it.
His eyes closed as he remembered the night before. It was...He’d never quite imagined it could be something like that. His wife had been good in bed, but had lacked passion, or even emotion. Natalie had been passionate, but her heart hadn’t really been in it-she’d never seen him, even as she called out his name. He’d slept with women who were as talented as courtesans, and women who couldn’t insert tab A into slot B without pictures and a guide-but nothing had approached what he’d experienced the night before.
He’d fantasized about how it would be with Rose a countless number of times, and still he had never come close to accurately imagining how it would be. There had been more between them than the sex, the human need to come together. When he and Rose were making love it was almost reverent, and he hoped it would always be like that.
It was the most spectacular shag-shags, really-of his life.
And there he went overthinking again; surely it was time for the end-of-day meeting by now? There might be frustratingly little to focus on at work, but that didn’t mean the team would skip their daily wrap-up. The rest of group seemed to agree it was high time to wrap up for the day, and everyone settled around the table.
As he sat and listened to the afternoon brief, he pondered on just how silent Rose’s team had been about what he and Rose had been up to the night before. Earlier in the day, he’d been impressed by the lack of teasing he and Rose had received; as their silence on the subject had persisted for the duration of the day, however, he’d grown worried. Maybe they were waiting to see if she really was happy, to get a post-match analysis from her, before deciding if he was worth the effort? His worry increased as her team slowly filed out at the end of the day, glancing his way with grins or sly smiles.
He and Rose had agreed to meet for supper at six-thirty; he was owed a favour by one of the local restaurateurs, and he advised Rose to dress for a proper dinner-not just a table and chairs, but a roof and a tablecloth. She laughed, her awkwardness from that morning gone, before leaving for the hotel with the rest of her team. He took a moment to book a table at a small, popular inn just outside of town, before returning to the interrogation room.
He had a brief consultation with Penington, making sure the DC was receiving everything he needed, reviewing any questions he might have about processes or procedures. He offered to serve as a sounding board for any theories the DC might have, and shared a few of his own with Penington. The DC was more than competent, and Peter felt a flash of regret that he’d not had faith in the man sooner-that it had taken having Rose around to get him to trust the man who was his partner.
Penington had a date himself-Peter had noted the DC had been taking his girlfriend of many months out more and more often-and so it was that Peter returned home shortly before six. His mind was running through what needed to be done before he’d be ready to leave for Rose-he needed a shave, he thought he had a pressed suit somewhere-but he was brought up short in the doorway of his room. It seemed so surreal that Rose had been there just that morning, had slept in his bed next to him; had awoken next to him. He’d made love to her more times than he’d ever thought he’d be allowed to. The image of her under him, on his bed, would be seared into his memory for as long as he lived.
He walked to the wardrobe, drifting his fingers along the footboard of the bed as he passed. She’d admired his bed-had seemed to genuinely like it-and he felt his breath hitch at the memory. He’d been terrified again at that point that he was in the middle of a dream, and had tried to convince himself it was real even as he brought her to orgasm again, as he tested what she might like. Her eyes had been brimming with emotion as she watched him; as the memory flashed before him he closed his eyes and leaned against the wardrobe, gasping involuntarily.
He never wanted to stop being able to do that, to be lucky enough to have her look at him like that.
He opened his eyes, caught his breath-he didn’t have time to revel in the memories. The thought crossed his mind that if he was really lucky they might yet make more later that night. He stripped out of his work clothes, flashes of getting dressed that morning dancing across his mind’s eye as he removed each article of clothing, until he was standing in his pants.
He’d love nothing more than to skip dinner, to bring Rose back to the house and make love to her all over again, to learn what she really tasted like, to discover more things she enjoyed. He shook the desire off, forcibly tucking it away. Dinner-a proper dinner, with a roof and a tablecloth, where they could talk and enjoy each other’s presence, get to know one another better-that had to come first.
He shaved, and then damped down his hair to bring it under some semblance of control. He had some cologne somewhere, and he rooted around his medicine cabinet for the dusty bottle. It smelled decent, and he put a little on before returning to his room and the wardrobe. He pulled on a clean vest, before setting to look for an outfit for the night.
His nicest suit-the one he never wore-was tucked along the far side of the clothes rack and still bore the plastic covering from the cleaners. The black wool had been tailored to fit his frame years ago, but he’d worn it so rarely that it still looked new; he pulled it out, casually tossing it across the bed. A crisp white shirt was hanging alongside the suit, and as he pulled it on and buttoned it, he idly wondered when he’d unboxed it. He looked over his rather sombre collection of ties, finally settling on a bright periwinkle with varying stripes of dark grey to complete the outfit. He unwrapped his suit, hurriedly pulling the trousers on as it occurred to him that he was in danger of running late. Socks and shoes-matching; he checked twice-were hastily donned, and he left the house, coat in hand, with just enough time to get over to Rose.
She was waiting for him in the lobby of the hotel-he could see her through the doors as he double-parked. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her as he pulled on his jacket and walked into the hotel. She was wearing a simple black dress which flowed as she moved, looking at the painting he’d been wondering about the night before as he’d waited for her. The dress was subtle and clearly high-quality, and set off her curves in an incredibly flattering, unbelievably sexy way. She had a sweater clasped in her hand-and she looked stunning.
He stood by the doors, admiring her as she walked towards him and once again wondering how he could be so lucky. She stopped in front of him, grinning, and he scrambled to form a coherent thought.
“You’re beautiful.”
She turned a lovely shade of pink at the honest statement, ducking her head briefly before raising her chin. She held his gaze, her smile fading, as she lightly ran her fingers down his tie. “And you look quite handsome.”
They stared openly, lost in each other as people walked around them; as it seemed to do when he was with her, time briefly stopped.
Peter was pulled out of the moment by the sudden appearance of Jake’s beaming face over Rose’s shoulder; Mickey was behind him, as well as James, and Peter felt himself turn scarlet.
“DI.” Jake’s voice was full of barely suppressed mirth. Rose blinked, startled, and hastily spun to face her colleagues.
“Jake. Mickey. James.” He nodded to them in turn, making eye contact with each man. Their expressions were grave, and it occurred to him that he and Rose might have chaperones for the evening.
“You lot have fun,” Rose said, a note of warning underlying the humour in her voice. No chaperones, then; he relaxed marginally.
“We will. Shall we expect you back?” James grinned as he watched Rose blush. An awkward silence briefly descended.
Peter was curious about Rose’s answer, but wasn’t keen to discuss it with her team, and certainly not in such a public spot. “Yes, well, we’ve a dinner reservation to keep.” He turned, gently placing his hand at the back of Rose’s back, preparing to escort her to his car.
“Be careful.” Mickey looked at Peter as he said it, and Peter fought down the urge to look away.
“We will be,” he replied.
Rose said her goodbyes to her team before allowing Peter to lead her out of the lobby. She grinned, asking “Where are we off to?” as they stepped outside.
“Dinner,” he replied with a smile.
She laughed. “Alright, then, a surprise it is.”
He grinned, giving her a kiss before opening the car door. He quickly walked around, joining her in the vehicle; as he buckled in, she leaned over. “You look...amazing.”
Her voice was low, sultry; he swallowed thickly as he turned on the car. “So do you,” he whispered, looking at her. The neckline of her dress offered a tantalizing glimpse of her décolletage; the skirt had hiked up just enough over her knee to make it tempting to brush his fingers over the skin of her legs instead of grabbing the gear shift. She leaned closer to him, gave him a light kiss, before sitting back. “Do we really have a dinner reservation?” Her tone seemed to indicate she didn’t believe him, that she possibly thought he used the line as a way to extricate them from the awkward situation inside.
“We do. And we’ll be late.” He kissed her once more before setting out for dinner.
The inn was off the road to Windermere; it was known not only for its food, but for its romantic atmosphere and its stunning view. It was a popular spot for anniversaries and proposals, although he certainly wasn’t thinking of doing anything so dramatic that night; he simply wanted to take Rose to a proper supper. He’d helped the owners with a case years before, had maintained an acquaintance with them since then; they’d told him all he ever had to do was call and they’d make sure he had a place to eat. If they were surprised to see him arrive with a date, they hid it well; the couple greeted he and Rose warmly, wishing them a lovely supper. He didn’t miss Rose’s happy expression as she watched him, and fought down a grin as the maitre d’ eventually showed the two of them to a secluded nook off the main dining room. Candlelight danced off the white tablecloth and limewashed walls, bathing everything in a warm glow.
Rose smiled delightedly as they were left alone. “Roof, chairs, table, and tablecloth. Candles, even. You’ve outdone yourself.”
He smiled in return. “I did promise.”
“Indeed you did.”
They made desultory conversation as they looked over the menus, discussing what looked interesting or unusual. He offered her the selection of wine for dinner; she looked surprised and stammeringly replied that she’d have whatever he liked. As the waiter walked away with their orders, he sat back in his chair, gazing at her. He couldn’t get enough of just looking at her, of seeing her across from him, happy.
She gazed steadily back, her lips holding the barest hint of a smile as her eyes roved over him. He waited patiently, curious as to what she would say.
“Is that tie part of your secret stash of clothes with colour?” she finally asked, a smile curving the corners of her mouth.
He smiled in return. “It is. It routinely gets mocked by the other ties, you know, for being so bright.”
“Poor tie.” She paused, before adding softly, “I like it.”
“I’m glad,” he replied. The waiter brought their wine, and they watched each other in silence as their glasses were poured out. They were alone again soon enough, and he watched as she took a sip of the liquid, her eyes holding his over the rim of her glass. She licked her lips slowly as she set it down, and he felt his body immediately react.
She was going to think this was all about sex if he couldn’t get his hormones under control.
“What’s John like?” he asked, suddenly. He had no idea where the question had come from, but he found he was curious.
She laughed. “Are you going to interrogate me, Carlisle?”
“You don’t want me to do that, Tyler.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping. She mirrored his posture.
“Maybe I do.”
She was teasing him, damn her. “Not over dinner, you don’t.”
She swallowed, her eyes dropping to his lips.
“What about you?” she asked, dragging her eyes upwards.
“Do I want to be interrogated over dinner?” He was trying to pull the conversation back, to get them onto an even keel. If he didn’t, he was fairly certain he’d be banned from the inn for conduct most unbecoming a representative of the constabulary.
“No. What about you. Have you a brother?” Her question was simple, but he found himself breathless. He never talked about his family, with anyone. Most people he knew had no idea about his family; they probably assumed he’d sprung from under a rock.
He swallowed, looking down at the tablecloth. He picked the knife up, began to idly play with it as he contemplated his answer. He saw Rose’s hand slide across the white cloth, the light catching the sparkle of her bracelet as her fingers lightly rested on his hand. “Peter, I’m sorry. I...Would you like me to tell you about John?”
He released the tableware, turned his hand over to grasp hers, before raising his eyes to her face. “No. I...I just...No one really asks about my family.”
“Oh.” Her voice was rich with emotion, and she squeezed his hand. “Do you want to talk about them?”
No, his mind responded. “I...I just don’t keep in touch with them. Not really. Haven’t for years.”
She watched him silently, her gaze full of compassion. He could almost see her put the pieces together; she hadn’t missed his slip the night before, his wistfulness over a childhood he’d not had. He’d been relieved when she’d let him change the subject, but now-as she looked at him, her focus slowly turning inwards as she thought-he had to admit she had most likely worked out most of the story.
Knowing that she had figured out at least the basic story somehow made it easier to tell her about it. It was like truth serum. He took a breath, and began.
“My mum, she died when I was a wee lad. My father never quite recovered, kind of withdrew into himself, left my brother and I to fend for ourselves.”
“I’m so sorry, Peter.” Her voice was soft, sympathetic.
He squeezed her hand and continued. “It wasn’t all Dickensian; I had a lovely gran who looked after me, until she too died. My brother, he...he fell in with a bad crowd, you could say. I fell into it for a bit, as well, until I found out I wasn’t cut out for that sort of life.”
He took a sip of his wine; he’d not told anyone even that much since before he’d gotten married. Rose continued to watch him, her hand softly enfolding his. He took a deep breath, and continued. “My father, he finally died when I was in my fourth year of secondary school; my brother was old enough to act as guardian and was earning enough to keep us in the house, but it wasn’t an honest living. As soon as I could, I left. Found a university that would take me, and then made my way to the first police service that would have me.” He looked up from the spot on the table he’d focused on as he spoke; Rose was still gazing at him, her eyes bright in the candlelight.
“Peter, I...” She was plainly at a loss for words, and he kicked himself for ruining the evening.
“I’m sorry, Rose, I shouldn’t have-”
“Don’t be daft.” Her voice was sharp, but quickly grew soft. “I asked because it’s part of you, Peter, and I wanted to know. I...I had no idea. I’m sorry.”
He squeezed her hand, sighing. “Rose, it was a long time ago, all of that. I’ve been here longer than I was up there, at this point; it almost seems like something from a book, instead of my life.”
The waiter appeared, bearing their appetisers. Rose released his hand, sat back; he watched to see if she did anything to indicate she was withdrawing from him, and was relieved when she leaned forward as soon as the waiter left.
“And…your brother?” she asked, tentatively.
“He’s still in Glasgow; I check on him periodically.”
They ate in silence for several moments, each lost in thoughts of what he had shared. He was terrified that he’d ruined their happy meal, but wasn’t sure what to say that wouldn’t be awkward or a painfully obvious change of topic.
“What’s Glasgow like?” Rose finally asked, setting her spoon down. She looked genuinely curious; he still suspected it was her way of redirecting the conversation, but he took the out gratefully.
“I’ve not been there in years, mind-and I grew up just west of there. But it’s lovely.”
She sighed. “I’ve only been there for work-one of the shorter trips. We appeared in the middle of the night, somewhere north of the city, and left only a few hours later.”
“As a local boy, I’m compelled to say you’ve not missed much.” He allowed a wry note to enter his voice, and was rewarded with a smile.
“Spoken like a true native,” Rose replied, laughing.
Their main courses arrived, and silence returned as they enjoyed their meals. It was comfortable, not awkward, and he enjoyed sneaking glances at Rose as she sat across from him. She caught him at it, more than once, and smiled gently at him each time.
He noticed her glass was empty, and poured her a new glass. She paused, took a sip, and restarted the conversation. “What did you study at uni?” Her voice was full of curiosity, and he looked at her, surprised.
“You didn’t find out when you ran my background?” His voice held no malice; he really had thought something like that would come up.
“It, ah, was long enough ago that it didn’t appear.” She blushed, although he didn’t miss the twinkle in her eyes.
“That’s both insulting and a bit of a relief,” he replied drily. He set his silverware down and took a sip of wine. “I focused on history.”
“Thus the books.”
“Thus the books. Literature, too.”
She looked genuinely surprised.
“Not what you’d expect of your garden variety copper, I’d warrant.”
“No-but I never thought you were garden variety,” she replied honestly. “Did it cause you any trouble, getting your job?”
He felt heat suffuse his body at her casual compliment, even as he was initially taken aback-surely she knew how the police services hired? It took him a moment to remember with a start that she wasn’t from there. A thousand questions about her life in the other universe flooded his mind, but he pushed them back; she was asking about him, and he was bound and determined to answer everything she asked.
“Not so much as you might think. The, er, dabbling in things as a troubled youth caused more raised eyebrows than my unusual degrees. I tested well enough that they ultimately didn’t care.”
She placed her knife and fork in the middle of her plate, finished, before answering him. “Did you know you wanted to be a detective?”
A question he’d answered a thousand times; and one he’d often asked himself. “I don’t know. I knew I liked policework; thought I could be good at it, given my experiences with the police in Scotland. It appealed to me, so I gave it a go.”
“D’you ever wish you’d done something else?” she asked after another pregnant pause. He set his fork down, indicating he was done, and leaned back contemplatively. The waiter, who seemed to have an impeccable sense of timing, appeared and cleared the plates.
“Surprisingly, no. I can’t think of anything else I’d be half so good at. There are days, in the rain, or when I’m hip deep in a mess, that I wonder if it was the smartest thing I’ve ever done-but I don’t know that I wish I’d done something else with my life, career-wise.”
Desserts were offered; he and Rose each selected one and ordered coffee, and lapsed once more into comfortable silence as the waiter left.
The press containing their coffee was discreetly placed on their table, two cups and saucers set before each of them, and they focused briefly on taking care of their respective cups of coffee. He was half-tempted to fix Rose’s cup the way he knew she liked it, but held back; that might be a bit too over the top. Dessert appeared as they took their first sips of coffee, and they were once more left alone.
Rose had ordered a chocolate torte, and he felt himself smile as he watched her savour the first bite. Her eyes closed, a blissful smile crossing her lips as she slowly dragged the fork out of her mouth; he felt his mouth go dry as he remembered how they’d eaten their mousse the night before.
He wanted to kiss her; as though sensing his thoughts, her eyes flew open and met his. A wicked grin graced her lips, and she held his gaze as she slowly licked her fork clean.
She was trying to kill him, he was certain of it.
“Not nice, Tyler,” he growled, leaning forward.
An eyebrow shot up, and the wicked grin remained. “You should have learned by now, Carlisle, that I’m not nice.”
He wanted her. Badly. “Will you stay with me again tonight?” he asked, his voice low.
Her eyes widened, the grin fading from her face. He wanted to kick himself again; he knew he needed to take things slow with her, had even made a promise to himself to not pressure her to come home with him after dinner.
He felt his appetite wane as she continued to gaze at him, gobsmacked. He’d miscalculated, and now had to find a graceful way out of the mess. “I’d like you to, Rose. I can’t remember the last time I slept so well. But if you’re not comfortable, you don’t have to. I’ll still want to see you again, take you out again.”
“No, ‘s not that.” She took a sip of her coffee, grimacing as she swallowed a large swig of the hot beverage. She set the cup down, rotating it on the saucer.
“Rose, you don’t have to,” he repeated.
She looked up at him, blushing. “I...It’s been a long time since I’ve done that, yeah? Years, literally. Never here. And...well...” She blushed an even deeper shade of pink. “I, ah...I used some muscles I’d not used in a while.” Her ears were bright red, and her gaze dropped to the tablecloth.
The penny dropped. “Rose.” He pitched his voice low, willing her to look at him. She did, with effort. “Me asking you to stay with me isn’t the same as asking you to have sex.”
She gave him an embarrassed grin.
“I just...I’d like to fall asleep with you again.” He could barely get the words out, the pure, unadulterated truth of them causing him to almost have to force himself to verbalize the sentiment. He was rarely, if ever, this sincerely forthright with people. He hoped he was right in thinking it would be worth the risk with Rose.
“I’d like to fall asleep with you, too,” she whispered in reply.
He smiled, joy suffusing his body, and she smiled in response. He would never, ever grow tired of that smile.
They finished dessert, drained their cups of coffee. They talked about nothing important, learning what little things might amuse the other, sharing anecdotes from work or play as they waited for the bill, and then as he paid it.
They walked out to the car, hand-in-hand; it was chilly, but Rose insisted on walking close to him instead of pulling on her sweater. As they sat in the car, waiting for the heater to warm up, he asked the final question which had been bothering him. “Would you like to stop by your hotel, on the way?”
He was still worried that she’d change her mind, but he had to ask; he didn’t want her to feel obligated or trapped.
He saw her smile in the dim light. “S’pose I should. Get some things for tomorrow, and let at least one of the group know where I am.” She added lightly, “We can sleep in that way, too.”
He couldn’t resist. He leaned over, tenderly kissing her in the dark warmth of his car. She softly kissed him back, her hand gliding up over his shoulder; he slid a hand up to cup her face, gently working his mouth against hers.
The thought, when it came, was blinding: he loved her. Really and truly. Not just a passing fancy, not just lust. Love.
He pulled back, gasping; she blinked her eyes open, looking at him with concern. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, trying to catch his breath. How had that happened? “Just...we’d better get going, if you want to have time to get some things.”
She smiled at him, satisfied with his reply; her hand rested on his as he shifted into first gear.
He was taking the woman he loved, home, to sleep with him in his bed