The Way of Things, Chapter 41
Peter was pulled from a pleasant dream--involving him, Rose, and a bathtub-by the trill of his phone. The clock read two forty-three, and he snatched the offending electronic off his nightstand before quietly growling into it, “Carlisle.”
Rose shifted next to him, and he felt his stomach drop at the thought that she’d not get a solid sleep that night, either. He moved to a sitting position, his feet touching the cold floor, and reached behind him to pull the duvet over where he had lain as he listened to the voice of Penington on the end of the line.
“Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you-but you did say to call no matter what.”
He grunted a response, and stood, wanting to find someplace to talk where he wouldn’t risk waking Rose completely. He snuck out of the bedroom, turning on the light in the hallway before walking to the small room he used as a library.
“I did,” he replied, shortly.
“It’s just that some of the evidence Torchwood gave us came back positive; we can prove that Swinson killed McGreevy, sir.”
“What?” His brain still wasn’t functioning completely, and he scrambled to recall what evidence Torchwood had shared with them. Penington had given him a thumbnail sketch of what had gone on at the house, but in his sleep-addled state he was at a bit of a loss to figure out what they could possibly have.
“They packaged the kitchen knives, sir; it was one of those that killed McGreevy. Ian got secondary confirmation from the lab; I think one of his lady friends told him the result.”
“The kitchen knives?” Peter repeated dumbly. Hadn’t they looked at them when they searched his house?
“Yes, sir. One of the new gents had this...thing; ran it through the kitchen, and it did whatever it does when there’s something interesting. They’re testing it to see if it might be useful in criminal cases.”
“Right.” They could finally press formal charges against Swinson, could make him more than just a person of interest. He needed to get to the station and get the paperwork started. “I’ll be down shortly.”
“I’ll see you there, sir.”
He paused, a logistical concern coming to mind. “Er, Penny, are you already there?”
“No, sir.”
“I, ah, don’t suppose you could give me a lift? From my place?”
He could hear Penington restraining his curiosity, and was grateful when the DC instead agreed to pick him up in fifteen minutes. He rang off, staring at his phone somewhat dazedly.
Fifteen minutes. No time at all, really; he had to get ready, had to make sure Rose wouldn’t wake up to an empty bed and think something had happened. And he needed a wash.
He showered quickly, pulling his clothes on over still-damp skin, his hair soaking his collar. Rose continued to sleep on in the room beyond, and he returned to the library to hastily scrawl a note to her. He wasn’t sure if she was one of those people who would recall a conversation in the middle of the night, and he didn’t want to take the risk that she’d wake up and find him still gone.
He placed the note on his nightstand, next to the alarm and paused, looking down at her. She was unbelievably beautiful as she slept, and he was tempted to open the curtains to the moonlight just so he could see her a bit better. She had managed to improve upon what he had thought was the best night of his life. Maybe every night, from here on out, would be an impossible improvement on the one before. Maybe he just had no idea how good things could get, had never even suspected how wonderful a relationship could be. And he loved her.
He couldn’t help the grin that creased his face. He loved her, and there she was, sound asleep in his bed, snuggled under his red duvet. Things really were impossibly good already.
He leaned down and kissed her lips, wishing he could do it while lying next to her before making lazy love to her first thing in the morning. He only had five minutes before Penington would show up, and he desperately wanted to talk to her before he left. She stirred, smiling softly in her sleep; he caressed her face with his fingertips even as he leaned close and whispered her name.
She slowly opened her eyes, her brow wrinkling in sleepy confusion. Her expression shifted to a drowsy smile as she saw him, groggily whispering “Hey.”
“Rose, I’ve got to go.” He tried to keep his voice soft, not wanting to alarm her.
Her focus sharpened, and she pushed up onto her elbows. “What’s happened?”
“I have to go write some warrants; we can prove Swinson murdered your man.”
She scooted, shifting to sit up straight. “I should go with you.”
He glanced at the clock: he had three minutes until the DC arrived. “Rose, you don’t need to. You don’t have to.”
She looked at him, and he worried she’d argue with him; he was, after all, making her decision for her. He knew her well enough to know that she’d not take kindly to it. He was right.
“It’s a joint case. How d’you know I don’t need to be there?”
“It’s an administrative thing from our side.”
“Then why’re y’going?”
“Because I don’t want to get sacked.”
She looked at him, her eyes worried in the pale light from the hallway. “I don’t want you in there alone.”
And there she went again, making already impossibly good things even better by actually being worried about him, even in her half-awake state. He desperately wanted to crawl back under the covers with her and make love to her until she sobbed his name. He forced himself to focus on something else: the DC, arriving imminently; Rose, worrying about him.
He refrained from pointing out that she’d be as alone as he; he hoped his house was a safe place, that she’d be out of harm’s way tucked up in his bed. If he didn’t convince himself of that, he’d never be able to let her out of his sight. “I won’t be. Penny should be downstairs waiting for me.”
He stole another glance at the clock. One minute to go.
She sighed, dropping her eyes. “I-- Call if you need me. Please. I don’t want to shirk work because y’think I need t’ sleep.”
He smiled, caught out, and lightly kissed her. “I promise, I’ll call if I need you. There’s a note for you on the stand; remember to read it when you wake up.”
She brought her hand up to his face, gazing intently at him before he pulled away. “Be careful.”
“I will be. Go back to sleep. I’ll feel better knowing you got a good night’s sleep into the bargain.”
She moved, laid back down; he pulled the duvet up to her chin, tucking her in as she watched him. He brushed one last kiss over her lips before forcing himself to leave her, walking purposefully out of the room and down to the waiting Penington.
He hoped he was doing the right thing.
The DC gave him a questioning look as he got into the car, and Peter tried to act as nonchalant as possible. As he started down the road, Penington could resist no longer. “Is something wrong with your car, sir?”
Peter turned to him, saw the grin on the man’s face, and capitulated. “You know very well why I’m leaving my car at the house, Penny.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“How many people know?”
Penington glanced over at him, genuinely surprised. Was that a look of hurt on his face, as well? “Actually know? Well...I do. And, of course, her team. A few folks suspect, although most of them think...” Penington caught himself.
“Think I’d be beneath her notice? Or that I’m being used?”
Penington paused to consider the question as he turned into the station. “Even odds on that, sir. And then others think she and James are a couple.”
Peter was surprised at the flash of jealousy he felt; his possessive streak might be getting a bit out of control. Penington continued. “They’ll not hear a word out of me, sir. Nor her team.” The car came to a halt in front of the station.
“Thank you,” Peter replied, quietly. Penington gave him a short, embarrassed nod.
Once in the building Peter stopped by the lounge to put a fresh pot of coffee on, before walking out to the station room to join Penington. The station was practically empty, the only person present one of the PC’s who was working on a report, and he gave the man a polite nod before walking over to his DC.
He scanned the report Penington handed him, taking in the salient facts; it should be a fairly cut-and-dried request, something that Penington could easily have done. He’d not lied to Rose, though-he didn’t want to give the Chief any further items to complain about, certainly didn’t want to be sacked because he’d opted to sleep next to her instead of doing one of the basic tasks of his job.
He wandered back to the lounge. He poured out three mugs of coffee, adding generous doses of powdered creamer and sugar to each, before returning to the squad room. He could have laughed at the look of shock on the PC’s face as he gave him a mug of steaming liquid, and allowed a smile to cross his face as he turned away from the stunned man. He casually sauntered to his desk, handing Penington the second mug of coffee as he passed; Penington was already typing away, and absently thanked him for the coffee as Peter sat down in the chair in front of his desk.
Time to earn his salary.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Rose hadn’t meant to fall back asleep; she’d had every intention of getting out of bed once Peter left, making a phone call to one of the team so they could come get her. She was surprised, then, to blink open her eyes to find the room considerably lighter than it had been the last time she’d looked. She’d not only fallen asleep, she’d slept the rest of the night through.
The bed next to her was still empty, and she rolled over with a sigh. It was approaching seven, which meant Peter had been gone for quite a while. Longer than she’d have expected it to take to write a warrant, certainly; but perhaps there were other things involved which he’d not told her about. While she had appreciated his solicitude in telling her to go to sleep, she’d been bothered by his casual direction that she stay back; she knew her own mind, and didn’t much appreciate being told what to do, no matter the intention behind it.
She sat up, fumbling with the light; it took a minute or so of peering at the alarm clock to work out how to turn it off. It was exceptionally strange to wake up in Peter’s bedroom alone; it felt incredibly empty without him in it.
He’d told her to make sure to read the note he’d left her, and she reached over and removed the folded piece of paper from next to the alarm clock. His handwriting was messier than she’d seen it, an angular script instead of the precise print he used on his reports, and she scanned the short note quickly.
Rose,
Sorry to dash off. I hope you slept well, and I’m sorry I’m not there to see you wake up.
If I’m not back before you’re ready to go to the station, my car keys can be found on the kitchen counter. Unless you’ve heard differently, I’ll plan to see you at the morning meeting, at the usual time.
Thank you for last night.
P
Her heart fluttered as she read the words, his admonition to make sure to read the note making her wonder if there was subtext in there she was missing. She couldn’t really think about it, was instead stuck on the Thank you for last night, hearing his voice thanking her for being her.
Sitting in Peter’s bed, mooning about the man who wasn’t there, wasn’t going to get her ready for work any faster, and she finally crawled out from under the covers. Her bag had been moved to rest next to the door into the en-suite, and she fought down a slightly hysterical giggle as she saw he’d left her a clean towel.
She marvelled at the shower, fighting down thoughts of Peter using it every day, trying not to imagine what it would be like to take a shower with him in the large stall. The space smelled of him, the scent of his soap perfuming the air, and it took a great deal of effort to focus on showering instead of becoming lost in her memories of the previous two nights she’d spent with him.
Shower done, she finished getting ready in the bathroom; it felt odd to go through the mundane morning routine in Peter’s personal space, and it served to drive home just how far their relationship had gone in a matter of days. She wondered what it was like to be with him in the morning, when he got ready: Did he shave first? What about his shower? She wished she’d been more awake-more bold-the morning before when she’d had the opportunity to find out.
She had half-hoped she’d find Peter sprawled on his bed when she finally emerged from the en-suite, and tried not to feel disappointed when she instead saw the empty bed. She paused, a bit at a loss for what to do, before deciding the least she could do was make his bed. The chore done, she found her trainers and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. As she looked at the stand-the one Peter used-she couldn’t help but grin at the books piled haphazardly to the side. She’d noticed them the first night she was in his room, but had been so distracted she’d not had a chance to wonder about them, to try to work out what Peter would read as he lay in bed at night. She leaned forward, curious, turning her head to read the titles: A Tale of Two Cities, by Dickens; Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson; a slim volume of poetry, entitled simply Poems; and the rather dull-sounding Four Days in February: The Aotearoa Crisis by some author she’d never heard of. She picked up the volume of poetry, opened it, and chuckled as she saw Robert Burns’ name on the title page. She should have known.
She noted the time as she set the small book back down, and stood hastily. She needed to get going. She hastily packed up her bag, took one last look around, and left the room.
She wanted to know what waited through the other doorways on the first floor, wanted to see what was on the shelves she could see in one of the front rooms, what the boxes were in the other. She fought the urge to snoop further, instead walking slowly down the stairs; if Peter wanted to share, he would. The ground floor was cold and quiet, and she felt a brief chill as she walked down the silent hallway to the dim kitchen. She was used to feeling warm in the house, of laughing with Peter, or touching him, and it felt wrong to have it be so empty, so still. The coffee things had been left on the counter, next to his keys, but she didn’t like being alone in the house; she’d stop for coffee on her way into the station.
He’d slid his house keys in through the mail slot of the front door which, she thought, might go some way towards explaining why he hadn’t returned. She picked them up off the floor and, with one last look around, left his house. His car waited for her where he’d left it, and it felt strangely intimate to slide behind the steering wheel, to start the engine.
She fought not to hear her father’s voice-her real father, back in 1987, in the other universe-talking about how he trusted her enough to give her his car keys. It didn’t mean anything special; it was an expediency.
Perhaps, if she repeated it enough, she’d believe it.
She had worked out where it was Peter stopped for his morning coffee early in their working relationship, and she navigated her way across the river, through the streets behind the pedestrian zone of town. She took it as a good sign when she found a parking spot in front of the small storefront, and hurriedly parked Peter’s car before hurrying into the shop. The woman who ran the shop looked at her appraisingly as she entered, and Rose has the strangest feeling she was being...judged. As she stopped at the counter, the woman smiled and spoke. “So you’re the reason the Inspector was so chipper yesterday, are ya?”
Rose blushed, unsure of what to say and stammering. “I...he....”
“’s alright, dear-though if it’s meant to be secret he ought not let you drive his little auto about. Small town, after all-and he’s been here long enough to be well-known.” The woman bustled about, completely unconcerned with the effect of her words on Rose. “You’ll be picking up his coffee then?”
“I...yes.” Rose finally managed. She collected herself, forced a coherent statement to leave her lips. “Four coffees, please, actually. And some pastries.”
“Ah, feeding the lads two days running? He must really be over the moon for you.”
Rose once again found herself at a loss, her cheeks aflame. She’d forgotten what it was like to live in a place where everyone knew each other’s business and made no pretence about discussing it; she’d grown used instead to the attention of the tabloids, the anonymous scrutiny, so often wrong and so much easier to ignore.
The woman behind the counter took pity on her, covering Rose’s hand with hers after setting the tray of coffee down. “He’s a good man, is the DI. I reckon he’s well worth the effort; if I were a few years younger, I might have gone for him m’self, husband be darned.” Rose tried not to think of another woman who had gone for Peter, husband be damned; trying to smooth over the unintentional gaffe, she forced a smile as she paid. Thanking the woman, Rose balanced the tray of coffee on top of the box of pastries and hurried back out to Peter’s car. She set the coffee on the floor, the pastries on the seat, and set out to finish the journey to the station.
No one was outside when she pulled in, a small favour for which she was grateful. It felt odd enough to pull up at work in her co-lead’s car-she couldn’t imagine how she’d have handled having someone see her arrive in it. Then again, she supposed if the woman who owned the coffee shop could work it out, the cat was already well and truly out of the bag. She wondered if Peter had known that would happen, if he hadn’t done it deliberately as a way to...what, exactly?
She was still trying to work out if Peter had an ulterior motive, closing the car door with her hip and breakfast balanced in her hands, when she saw the white van arrive. She sighed; she might as well wait outside and take the ribbing of the boys, before going inside and struggling to act as though all were normal. Her team didn’t disappoint-Jake was grinning wildly, James was practically smirking, and Mickey was fighting to keep his smile hidden.
“So, Rose, how’d you sleep?” James asked as he stopped in front of her.
“Like the dead, thanks for asking. Here.” She foisted the box of pastries off on him.
“And the DI?” Jake drawled, winking.
Rose refused to be baited. “He’s here. At least, I think he is.”
“How’d you get here, then?” Mickey was looking at her, a speculative gleam in his eye.
Rose blushed. “I, ah...that is, he...”
Mickey grinned. “He gave you the keys to his car.”
“Maybe,” she mumbled. She shifted the tray of coffee. “Don’t you think we’d best be getting inside?” she asked hopefully; the three men in front of her snickered.
“Don’t think you’re going to get out of telling us about your date last night,” Jake offered, before turning to walk to the station door.
“I know you better than that,” Rose said, wryly. “I’ll tell you about dinner, if you like.”
“Just dinner?” Jake asked, his voice teasing but a note of hope entering his voice.
“You’re a perv, Jake,” Rose offered, opening the door.
“Well, I just thought...”
“He’s not your type, either.”
Jake put on a mock pout, before following her down the hallway. Rose, on the verge of seeing Peter again, suddenly felt buoyant and bold. Pausing at the station room door, she turned to Jake, grinning. “He did make sweet, passionate love to me, though,” she confided, breezily, with a wink, and then pushed her way through the door. Jake paused, a classic expression of astonishment on his face, and Rose laughed as she walked through into the room.
The station room was full of officers already at work; she felt as though each of them knew exactly what she had done the night before, and how she’d got to work that morning. She knew she was being oversensitive; Peter wouldn’t have told anyone, and she didn’t think Penington would have, either. That didn’t mean there wouldn’t be gossip, of course, but she thought she could deal with that. She could especially deal with it if it was the price she paid for an evening like the one she’d just experienced. Rose tried to wipe the smile off of her face. If she looked like a cat with a canary all the time, it would be the same as climbing up on a desk and making a general announcement.
Peter’s desk was covered with paper--some pieces balled and tossed to the side, some sheets covered with printed text-and there were several empty mugs perched to the side of his darkened computer monitor; but there was no sign of the man himself. Penington’s desk wasn’t much cleaner, although his computer was on, and Rose wondered if they’d already set out for the day.
She sighed, relieved that she’d not have to greet Peter in front of such an extensive audience, and continued walking towards the interrogation room. Her team followed in her wake, whispering and nudging each other like little boys.
She pushed open the door to the darkened room, and stifled a gasp: both Penington and Peter were seated, their bodies bent forwards, their heads resting on their arms on the table. She hoped, desperately, that they were napping, that something terrible hadn’t happened. She silently hurried across the room, set the tray down with undue haste, and leaned over Peter.
“Peter?” Rose whispered, her hand lightly resting on his arm. She released her breath as he moved slightly, as his eyes slowly blinked open. She smiled at him as he saw her, and took a slight step back as he sat upright.
Jake took that as his cue to turn on the overhead light; Peter scowled as he was blinded. “Bloody hell! Have ye got to do that?!”
Jake looked chagrined, and James hastily moved forward with the pastries. Rose reached over, grabbing the coffee that had been treated with cream and sugar; she waved it in front of Peter, hoping it would get him out of his foul mood. “Breakfast,” she said lightly, releasing the cup as Peter snatched it.
Penington had sat up sleepily at the sound of Peter whining, and she passed him one of the cups. “Thought you might want something to perk you up.” She was rewarded with a sleepy grin from the DC, as he pulled the lid off and took a sip of the hot liquid.
She claimed the third cup, taking a grateful sip from the container, and looked over at her team. James was standing behind Penington, but Mickey and Jake were still clustered by the door. “Fourth one’s up for grabs,” she said, her lips curving upwards. She reached for the white box, opened it, and hurriedly grabbed a croissant from it before the men pillaged its contents.
Peter found his donut, tucked securely in the corner of the box; she watched, amused, as Penington waited for the older man to lay claim to the prize before going after whatever else was left. Peter sat back, donut in one hand, coffee in the other, and beamed at her before taking a drink from his cup.
The team ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, Jake and Mickey each nursing a cup of the station brew while James enjoyed the good stuff Rose had brought from town, and she marvelled at how much things really had changed. She could get used to working like this; partnered with competent locals who cared as much about doing their job well as she and her team did; folks for whom a mystery was more than a job, it was something to be enjoyed. She didn’t think she’d be able to handle working with Peter all the time, though-he was far too distracting, far too...Peter. Still...Torchwood was always on the lookout for new staff, even routinely recruited from local forces with whom they worked; Peter would be a brilliant addition to the group-and, if he decided to work for them, he’d be down in London.
She swallowed the last of her croissant; she was getting ahead of herself, planning ways to get Peter to move to London. One date at a time, he’d said, encouraging her to slow down, to enjoy things as they developed. She didn’t need to plan out their entire future together in one day.
The morning meeting began as Mickey and Peter started on seconds; Penington was stretched out in his chair, nursing the remnants of his coffee as his boss briefed the Torchwood team on how the two men had spent the previous six hours. The warrant for Swinson had been signed shortly before five that morning, and had been transmitted to every police jurisdiction in the country; the North Lakes Constabulary had also put in a request that it be transmitted internationally. A copy had been sent to London, as well, and it was expected that Torchwood would keep their promise, given the day before, to share it out with the intelligence services, as well as any other organization they knew about. Peter hoped that Torchwood would be able to leverage their position in the Home Office to ensure that the warrant was spread as widely as possible; Rose noted the anger in Peter’s voice as he discussed Swinson, and once again thought that she’d hate to be a suspect in one of his cases.
They were just wrapping up the briefing when Rose’s mobile rang; it was Jacques. Rose put her phone in the centre of the table, the speakerphone engaged, and leaned in with the rest of the team to hear what he had to share.
“Got the warrant the DC forwarded down-we’ve spread it far and wide, with the comment that Mr. Swinson is most dangerous and should be treated as such. No nibbles back, but our North American friends have yet to wake up.”
There was the sound of papers being shifted, before Jacques resumed. “Billings hasn’t been terribly useful, at least as regards finding Swinson. He’s been dead useful in following the money, though-we expect to be able to do all sorts of interesting things tomorrow. Can’t tell you much more than that, of course, but I will do as soon as possible.”
“Any activity on the accounts?” James asked; he’d stopped working the accounting trail once Jacques’ team had become involved, but he still retained an interest in that side of the case.
“The money’s not so much as twitched. Doesn’t mean nothing’s going on, of course; just means they’re hoping we’ll get bored and leave it alone again.” Jacques sniffed, shuffled some more papers, and continued. “Probably of greatest interest to you lot, however, is that Science Directorate has made great strides in tracing the teleport. Doctor Smith actually smiled when I saw him a few minutes ago, says he could have something workable before lunchtime today. He’s out for blood now, is the good Doctor. I knew we kept him on for a reason other than his charming personality.”
Rose’s eyes flew to Peter’s; a trace for the teleport meant they could be done far sooner than they’d hoped. Assuming, of course, that Swinson was somewhere where he could be found. He was gazing at her, his face neutral but his eyes burning.
She swallowed, forced her eyes back to the phone in the middle of the table. “What do you need from us, Jacques?” she asked, her voice clipped. She had to focus on the job.
“Nothing-I think you all have done everything you can. The teams are still out at the sites, say they’ll let you know if they need anything you’ve not already provided. They’ve been highly complimentary of the locals, as well-and I think they even meant it.” She could hear Jacques chuckle at his own joke. “I do need to speak with the DI about how we’re going to handshake on this case-making sure we don’t take things necessary for his case, and vice-versa.”
Peter shifted, leaning towards the phone. “At your leisure, sir. I’d rather we weren’t deleterious to your case, as I’m sure you’d rather not be to ours.”
“Quite so. If the pretty young woman would lend you her mobile, I’ll speak with you directly.” Rose blushed, wondering briefly how much Jacques knew versus how much he suspected; Peter sniffed, and she hastily leaned forward.
“Will do. Anything else for us, before I hand you over to him?”
“Not at the moment, Rose. Keep your phone handy-you’re the one I’m calling when we have anything new crop up.”
She pressed the button to cancel the speaker function and handed the phone over to Peter; his fingers brushed hers as he took the electronic from her hand, and she felt her breath catch at the simple contact. The corners of his lips curled upwards, his dimple appearing, before he began speaking with Jacques.
Rose turned, taking a deep breath, to the rest of the men in the room. They were all staring at her-at her and Peter, more accurately-and she flushed. “Right, let’s see what we can do to slay the paperwork monster. Maybe, if you all are good, we’ll take a field trip this afternoon.”
Rose shifted next to him, and he felt his stomach drop at the thought that she’d not get a solid sleep that night, either. He moved to a sitting position, his feet touching the cold floor, and reached behind him to pull the duvet over where he had lain as he listened to the voice of Penington on the end of the line.
“Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you-but you did say to call no matter what.”
He grunted a response, and stood, wanting to find someplace to talk where he wouldn’t risk waking Rose completely. He snuck out of the bedroom, turning on the light in the hallway before walking to the small room he used as a library.
“I did,” he replied, shortly.
“It’s just that some of the evidence Torchwood gave us came back positive; we can prove that Swinson killed McGreevy, sir.”
“What?” His brain still wasn’t functioning completely, and he scrambled to recall what evidence Torchwood had shared with them. Penington had given him a thumbnail sketch of what had gone on at the house, but in his sleep-addled state he was at a bit of a loss to figure out what they could possibly have.
“They packaged the kitchen knives, sir; it was one of those that killed McGreevy. Ian got secondary confirmation from the lab; I think one of his lady friends told him the result.”
“The kitchen knives?” Peter repeated dumbly. Hadn’t they looked at them when they searched his house?
“Yes, sir. One of the new gents had this...thing; ran it through the kitchen, and it did whatever it does when there’s something interesting. They’re testing it to see if it might be useful in criminal cases.”
“Right.” They could finally press formal charges against Swinson, could make him more than just a person of interest. He needed to get to the station and get the paperwork started. “I’ll be down shortly.”
“I’ll see you there, sir.”
He paused, a logistical concern coming to mind. “Er, Penny, are you already there?”
“No, sir.”
“I, ah, don’t suppose you could give me a lift? From my place?”
He could hear Penington restraining his curiosity, and was grateful when the DC instead agreed to pick him up in fifteen minutes. He rang off, staring at his phone somewhat dazedly.
Fifteen minutes. No time at all, really; he had to get ready, had to make sure Rose wouldn’t wake up to an empty bed and think something had happened. And he needed a wash.
He showered quickly, pulling his clothes on over still-damp skin, his hair soaking his collar. Rose continued to sleep on in the room beyond, and he returned to the library to hastily scrawl a note to her. He wasn’t sure if she was one of those people who would recall a conversation in the middle of the night, and he didn’t want to take the risk that she’d wake up and find him still gone.
He placed the note on his nightstand, next to the alarm and paused, looking down at her. She was unbelievably beautiful as she slept, and he was tempted to open the curtains to the moonlight just so he could see her a bit better. She had managed to improve upon what he had thought was the best night of his life. Maybe every night, from here on out, would be an impossible improvement on the one before. Maybe he just had no idea how good things could get, had never even suspected how wonderful a relationship could be. And he loved her.
He couldn’t help the grin that creased his face. He loved her, and there she was, sound asleep in his bed, snuggled under his red duvet. Things really were impossibly good already.
He leaned down and kissed her lips, wishing he could do it while lying next to her before making lazy love to her first thing in the morning. He only had five minutes before Penington would show up, and he desperately wanted to talk to her before he left. She stirred, smiling softly in her sleep; he caressed her face with his fingertips even as he leaned close and whispered her name.
She slowly opened her eyes, her brow wrinkling in sleepy confusion. Her expression shifted to a drowsy smile as she saw him, groggily whispering “Hey.”
“Rose, I’ve got to go.” He tried to keep his voice soft, not wanting to alarm her.
Her focus sharpened, and she pushed up onto her elbows. “What’s happened?”
“I have to go write some warrants; we can prove Swinson murdered your man.”
She scooted, shifting to sit up straight. “I should go with you.”
He glanced at the clock: he had three minutes until the DC arrived. “Rose, you don’t need to. You don’t have to.”
She looked at him, and he worried she’d argue with him; he was, after all, making her decision for her. He knew her well enough to know that she’d not take kindly to it. He was right.
“It’s a joint case. How d’you know I don’t need to be there?”
“It’s an administrative thing from our side.”
“Then why’re y’going?”
“Because I don’t want to get sacked.”
She looked at him, her eyes worried in the pale light from the hallway. “I don’t want you in there alone.”
And there she went again, making already impossibly good things even better by actually being worried about him, even in her half-awake state. He desperately wanted to crawl back under the covers with her and make love to her until she sobbed his name. He forced himself to focus on something else: the DC, arriving imminently; Rose, worrying about him.
He refrained from pointing out that she’d be as alone as he; he hoped his house was a safe place, that she’d be out of harm’s way tucked up in his bed. If he didn’t convince himself of that, he’d never be able to let her out of his sight. “I won’t be. Penny should be downstairs waiting for me.”
He stole another glance at the clock. One minute to go.
She sighed, dropping her eyes. “I-- Call if you need me. Please. I don’t want to shirk work because y’think I need t’ sleep.”
He smiled, caught out, and lightly kissed her. “I promise, I’ll call if I need you. There’s a note for you on the stand; remember to read it when you wake up.”
She brought her hand up to his face, gazing intently at him before he pulled away. “Be careful.”
“I will be. Go back to sleep. I’ll feel better knowing you got a good night’s sleep into the bargain.”
She moved, laid back down; he pulled the duvet up to her chin, tucking her in as she watched him. He brushed one last kiss over her lips before forcing himself to leave her, walking purposefully out of the room and down to the waiting Penington.
He hoped he was doing the right thing.
The DC gave him a questioning look as he got into the car, and Peter tried to act as nonchalant as possible. As he started down the road, Penington could resist no longer. “Is something wrong with your car, sir?”
Peter turned to him, saw the grin on the man’s face, and capitulated. “You know very well why I’m leaving my car at the house, Penny.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“How many people know?”
Penington glanced over at him, genuinely surprised. Was that a look of hurt on his face, as well? “Actually know? Well...I do. And, of course, her team. A few folks suspect, although most of them think...” Penington caught himself.
“Think I’d be beneath her notice? Or that I’m being used?”
Penington paused to consider the question as he turned into the station. “Even odds on that, sir. And then others think she and James are a couple.”
Peter was surprised at the flash of jealousy he felt; his possessive streak might be getting a bit out of control. Penington continued. “They’ll not hear a word out of me, sir. Nor her team.” The car came to a halt in front of the station.
“Thank you,” Peter replied, quietly. Penington gave him a short, embarrassed nod.
Once in the building Peter stopped by the lounge to put a fresh pot of coffee on, before walking out to the station room to join Penington. The station was practically empty, the only person present one of the PC’s who was working on a report, and he gave the man a polite nod before walking over to his DC.
He scanned the report Penington handed him, taking in the salient facts; it should be a fairly cut-and-dried request, something that Penington could easily have done. He’d not lied to Rose, though-he didn’t want to give the Chief any further items to complain about, certainly didn’t want to be sacked because he’d opted to sleep next to her instead of doing one of the basic tasks of his job.
He wandered back to the lounge. He poured out three mugs of coffee, adding generous doses of powdered creamer and sugar to each, before returning to the squad room. He could have laughed at the look of shock on the PC’s face as he gave him a mug of steaming liquid, and allowed a smile to cross his face as he turned away from the stunned man. He casually sauntered to his desk, handing Penington the second mug of coffee as he passed; Penington was already typing away, and absently thanked him for the coffee as Peter sat down in the chair in front of his desk.
Time to earn his salary.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Rose hadn’t meant to fall back asleep; she’d had every intention of getting out of bed once Peter left, making a phone call to one of the team so they could come get her. She was surprised, then, to blink open her eyes to find the room considerably lighter than it had been the last time she’d looked. She’d not only fallen asleep, she’d slept the rest of the night through.
The bed next to her was still empty, and she rolled over with a sigh. It was approaching seven, which meant Peter had been gone for quite a while. Longer than she’d have expected it to take to write a warrant, certainly; but perhaps there were other things involved which he’d not told her about. While she had appreciated his solicitude in telling her to go to sleep, she’d been bothered by his casual direction that she stay back; she knew her own mind, and didn’t much appreciate being told what to do, no matter the intention behind it.
She sat up, fumbling with the light; it took a minute or so of peering at the alarm clock to work out how to turn it off. It was exceptionally strange to wake up in Peter’s bedroom alone; it felt incredibly empty without him in it.
He’d told her to make sure to read the note he’d left her, and she reached over and removed the folded piece of paper from next to the alarm clock. His handwriting was messier than she’d seen it, an angular script instead of the precise print he used on his reports, and she scanned the short note quickly.
Rose,
Sorry to dash off. I hope you slept well, and I’m sorry I’m not there to see you wake up.
If I’m not back before you’re ready to go to the station, my car keys can be found on the kitchen counter. Unless you’ve heard differently, I’ll plan to see you at the morning meeting, at the usual time.
Thank you for last night.
P
Her heart fluttered as she read the words, his admonition to make sure to read the note making her wonder if there was subtext in there she was missing. She couldn’t really think about it, was instead stuck on the Thank you for last night, hearing his voice thanking her for being her.
Sitting in Peter’s bed, mooning about the man who wasn’t there, wasn’t going to get her ready for work any faster, and she finally crawled out from under the covers. Her bag had been moved to rest next to the door into the en-suite, and she fought down a slightly hysterical giggle as she saw he’d left her a clean towel.
She marvelled at the shower, fighting down thoughts of Peter using it every day, trying not to imagine what it would be like to take a shower with him in the large stall. The space smelled of him, the scent of his soap perfuming the air, and it took a great deal of effort to focus on showering instead of becoming lost in her memories of the previous two nights she’d spent with him.
Shower done, she finished getting ready in the bathroom; it felt odd to go through the mundane morning routine in Peter’s personal space, and it served to drive home just how far their relationship had gone in a matter of days. She wondered what it was like to be with him in the morning, when he got ready: Did he shave first? What about his shower? She wished she’d been more awake-more bold-the morning before when she’d had the opportunity to find out.
She had half-hoped she’d find Peter sprawled on his bed when she finally emerged from the en-suite, and tried not to feel disappointed when she instead saw the empty bed. She paused, a bit at a loss for what to do, before deciding the least she could do was make his bed. The chore done, she found her trainers and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. As she looked at the stand-the one Peter used-she couldn’t help but grin at the books piled haphazardly to the side. She’d noticed them the first night she was in his room, but had been so distracted she’d not had a chance to wonder about them, to try to work out what Peter would read as he lay in bed at night. She leaned forward, curious, turning her head to read the titles: A Tale of Two Cities, by Dickens; Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson; a slim volume of poetry, entitled simply Poems; and the rather dull-sounding Four Days in February: The Aotearoa Crisis by some author she’d never heard of. She picked up the volume of poetry, opened it, and chuckled as she saw Robert Burns’ name on the title page. She should have known.
She noted the time as she set the small book back down, and stood hastily. She needed to get going. She hastily packed up her bag, took one last look around, and left the room.
She wanted to know what waited through the other doorways on the first floor, wanted to see what was on the shelves she could see in one of the front rooms, what the boxes were in the other. She fought the urge to snoop further, instead walking slowly down the stairs; if Peter wanted to share, he would. The ground floor was cold and quiet, and she felt a brief chill as she walked down the silent hallway to the dim kitchen. She was used to feeling warm in the house, of laughing with Peter, or touching him, and it felt wrong to have it be so empty, so still. The coffee things had been left on the counter, next to his keys, but she didn’t like being alone in the house; she’d stop for coffee on her way into the station.
He’d slid his house keys in through the mail slot of the front door which, she thought, might go some way towards explaining why he hadn’t returned. She picked them up off the floor and, with one last look around, left his house. His car waited for her where he’d left it, and it felt strangely intimate to slide behind the steering wheel, to start the engine.
She fought not to hear her father’s voice-her real father, back in 1987, in the other universe-talking about how he trusted her enough to give her his car keys. It didn’t mean anything special; it was an expediency.
Perhaps, if she repeated it enough, she’d believe it.
She had worked out where it was Peter stopped for his morning coffee early in their working relationship, and she navigated her way across the river, through the streets behind the pedestrian zone of town. She took it as a good sign when she found a parking spot in front of the small storefront, and hurriedly parked Peter’s car before hurrying into the shop. The woman who ran the shop looked at her appraisingly as she entered, and Rose has the strangest feeling she was being...judged. As she stopped at the counter, the woman smiled and spoke. “So you’re the reason the Inspector was so chipper yesterday, are ya?”
Rose blushed, unsure of what to say and stammering. “I...he....”
“’s alright, dear-though if it’s meant to be secret he ought not let you drive his little auto about. Small town, after all-and he’s been here long enough to be well-known.” The woman bustled about, completely unconcerned with the effect of her words on Rose. “You’ll be picking up his coffee then?”
“I...yes.” Rose finally managed. She collected herself, forced a coherent statement to leave her lips. “Four coffees, please, actually. And some pastries.”
“Ah, feeding the lads two days running? He must really be over the moon for you.”
Rose once again found herself at a loss, her cheeks aflame. She’d forgotten what it was like to live in a place where everyone knew each other’s business and made no pretence about discussing it; she’d grown used instead to the attention of the tabloids, the anonymous scrutiny, so often wrong and so much easier to ignore.
The woman behind the counter took pity on her, covering Rose’s hand with hers after setting the tray of coffee down. “He’s a good man, is the DI. I reckon he’s well worth the effort; if I were a few years younger, I might have gone for him m’self, husband be darned.” Rose tried not to think of another woman who had gone for Peter, husband be damned; trying to smooth over the unintentional gaffe, she forced a smile as she paid. Thanking the woman, Rose balanced the tray of coffee on top of the box of pastries and hurried back out to Peter’s car. She set the coffee on the floor, the pastries on the seat, and set out to finish the journey to the station.
No one was outside when she pulled in, a small favour for which she was grateful. It felt odd enough to pull up at work in her co-lead’s car-she couldn’t imagine how she’d have handled having someone see her arrive in it. Then again, she supposed if the woman who owned the coffee shop could work it out, the cat was already well and truly out of the bag. She wondered if Peter had known that would happen, if he hadn’t done it deliberately as a way to...what, exactly?
She was still trying to work out if Peter had an ulterior motive, closing the car door with her hip and breakfast balanced in her hands, when she saw the white van arrive. She sighed; she might as well wait outside and take the ribbing of the boys, before going inside and struggling to act as though all were normal. Her team didn’t disappoint-Jake was grinning wildly, James was practically smirking, and Mickey was fighting to keep his smile hidden.
“So, Rose, how’d you sleep?” James asked as he stopped in front of her.
“Like the dead, thanks for asking. Here.” She foisted the box of pastries off on him.
“And the DI?” Jake drawled, winking.
Rose refused to be baited. “He’s here. At least, I think he is.”
“How’d you get here, then?” Mickey was looking at her, a speculative gleam in his eye.
Rose blushed. “I, ah...that is, he...”
Mickey grinned. “He gave you the keys to his car.”
“Maybe,” she mumbled. She shifted the tray of coffee. “Don’t you think we’d best be getting inside?” she asked hopefully; the three men in front of her snickered.
“Don’t think you’re going to get out of telling us about your date last night,” Jake offered, before turning to walk to the station door.
“I know you better than that,” Rose said, wryly. “I’ll tell you about dinner, if you like.”
“Just dinner?” Jake asked, his voice teasing but a note of hope entering his voice.
“You’re a perv, Jake,” Rose offered, opening the door.
“Well, I just thought...”
“He’s not your type, either.”
Jake put on a mock pout, before following her down the hallway. Rose, on the verge of seeing Peter again, suddenly felt buoyant and bold. Pausing at the station room door, she turned to Jake, grinning. “He did make sweet, passionate love to me, though,” she confided, breezily, with a wink, and then pushed her way through the door. Jake paused, a classic expression of astonishment on his face, and Rose laughed as she walked through into the room.
The station room was full of officers already at work; she felt as though each of them knew exactly what she had done the night before, and how she’d got to work that morning. She knew she was being oversensitive; Peter wouldn’t have told anyone, and she didn’t think Penington would have, either. That didn’t mean there wouldn’t be gossip, of course, but she thought she could deal with that. She could especially deal with it if it was the price she paid for an evening like the one she’d just experienced. Rose tried to wipe the smile off of her face. If she looked like a cat with a canary all the time, it would be the same as climbing up on a desk and making a general announcement.
Peter’s desk was covered with paper--some pieces balled and tossed to the side, some sheets covered with printed text-and there were several empty mugs perched to the side of his darkened computer monitor; but there was no sign of the man himself. Penington’s desk wasn’t much cleaner, although his computer was on, and Rose wondered if they’d already set out for the day.
She sighed, relieved that she’d not have to greet Peter in front of such an extensive audience, and continued walking towards the interrogation room. Her team followed in her wake, whispering and nudging each other like little boys.
She pushed open the door to the darkened room, and stifled a gasp: both Penington and Peter were seated, their bodies bent forwards, their heads resting on their arms on the table. She hoped, desperately, that they were napping, that something terrible hadn’t happened. She silently hurried across the room, set the tray down with undue haste, and leaned over Peter.
“Peter?” Rose whispered, her hand lightly resting on his arm. She released her breath as he moved slightly, as his eyes slowly blinked open. She smiled at him as he saw her, and took a slight step back as he sat upright.
Jake took that as his cue to turn on the overhead light; Peter scowled as he was blinded. “Bloody hell! Have ye got to do that?!”
Jake looked chagrined, and James hastily moved forward with the pastries. Rose reached over, grabbing the coffee that had been treated with cream and sugar; she waved it in front of Peter, hoping it would get him out of his foul mood. “Breakfast,” she said lightly, releasing the cup as Peter snatched it.
Penington had sat up sleepily at the sound of Peter whining, and she passed him one of the cups. “Thought you might want something to perk you up.” She was rewarded with a sleepy grin from the DC, as he pulled the lid off and took a sip of the hot liquid.
She claimed the third cup, taking a grateful sip from the container, and looked over at her team. James was standing behind Penington, but Mickey and Jake were still clustered by the door. “Fourth one’s up for grabs,” she said, her lips curving upwards. She reached for the white box, opened it, and hurriedly grabbed a croissant from it before the men pillaged its contents.
Peter found his donut, tucked securely in the corner of the box; she watched, amused, as Penington waited for the older man to lay claim to the prize before going after whatever else was left. Peter sat back, donut in one hand, coffee in the other, and beamed at her before taking a drink from his cup.
The team ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, Jake and Mickey each nursing a cup of the station brew while James enjoyed the good stuff Rose had brought from town, and she marvelled at how much things really had changed. She could get used to working like this; partnered with competent locals who cared as much about doing their job well as she and her team did; folks for whom a mystery was more than a job, it was something to be enjoyed. She didn’t think she’d be able to handle working with Peter all the time, though-he was far too distracting, far too...Peter. Still...Torchwood was always on the lookout for new staff, even routinely recruited from local forces with whom they worked; Peter would be a brilliant addition to the group-and, if he decided to work for them, he’d be down in London.
She swallowed the last of her croissant; she was getting ahead of herself, planning ways to get Peter to move to London. One date at a time, he’d said, encouraging her to slow down, to enjoy things as they developed. She didn’t need to plan out their entire future together in one day.
The morning meeting began as Mickey and Peter started on seconds; Penington was stretched out in his chair, nursing the remnants of his coffee as his boss briefed the Torchwood team on how the two men had spent the previous six hours. The warrant for Swinson had been signed shortly before five that morning, and had been transmitted to every police jurisdiction in the country; the North Lakes Constabulary had also put in a request that it be transmitted internationally. A copy had been sent to London, as well, and it was expected that Torchwood would keep their promise, given the day before, to share it out with the intelligence services, as well as any other organization they knew about. Peter hoped that Torchwood would be able to leverage their position in the Home Office to ensure that the warrant was spread as widely as possible; Rose noted the anger in Peter’s voice as he discussed Swinson, and once again thought that she’d hate to be a suspect in one of his cases.
They were just wrapping up the briefing when Rose’s mobile rang; it was Jacques. Rose put her phone in the centre of the table, the speakerphone engaged, and leaned in with the rest of the team to hear what he had to share.
“Got the warrant the DC forwarded down-we’ve spread it far and wide, with the comment that Mr. Swinson is most dangerous and should be treated as such. No nibbles back, but our North American friends have yet to wake up.”
There was the sound of papers being shifted, before Jacques resumed. “Billings hasn’t been terribly useful, at least as regards finding Swinson. He’s been dead useful in following the money, though-we expect to be able to do all sorts of interesting things tomorrow. Can’t tell you much more than that, of course, but I will do as soon as possible.”
“Any activity on the accounts?” James asked; he’d stopped working the accounting trail once Jacques’ team had become involved, but he still retained an interest in that side of the case.
“The money’s not so much as twitched. Doesn’t mean nothing’s going on, of course; just means they’re hoping we’ll get bored and leave it alone again.” Jacques sniffed, shuffled some more papers, and continued. “Probably of greatest interest to you lot, however, is that Science Directorate has made great strides in tracing the teleport. Doctor Smith actually smiled when I saw him a few minutes ago, says he could have something workable before lunchtime today. He’s out for blood now, is the good Doctor. I knew we kept him on for a reason other than his charming personality.”
Rose’s eyes flew to Peter’s; a trace for the teleport meant they could be done far sooner than they’d hoped. Assuming, of course, that Swinson was somewhere where he could be found. He was gazing at her, his face neutral but his eyes burning.
She swallowed, forced her eyes back to the phone in the middle of the table. “What do you need from us, Jacques?” she asked, her voice clipped. She had to focus on the job.
“Nothing-I think you all have done everything you can. The teams are still out at the sites, say they’ll let you know if they need anything you’ve not already provided. They’ve been highly complimentary of the locals, as well-and I think they even meant it.” She could hear Jacques chuckle at his own joke. “I do need to speak with the DI about how we’re going to handshake on this case-making sure we don’t take things necessary for his case, and vice-versa.”
Peter shifted, leaning towards the phone. “At your leisure, sir. I’d rather we weren’t deleterious to your case, as I’m sure you’d rather not be to ours.”
“Quite so. If the pretty young woman would lend you her mobile, I’ll speak with you directly.” Rose blushed, wondering briefly how much Jacques knew versus how much he suspected; Peter sniffed, and she hastily leaned forward.
“Will do. Anything else for us, before I hand you over to him?”
“Not at the moment, Rose. Keep your phone handy-you’re the one I’m calling when we have anything new crop up.”
She pressed the button to cancel the speaker function and handed the phone over to Peter; his fingers brushed hers as he took the electronic from her hand, and she felt her breath catch at the simple contact. The corners of his lips curled upwards, his dimple appearing, before he began speaking with Jacques.
Rose turned, taking a deep breath, to the rest of the men in the room. They were all staring at her-at her and Peter, more accurately-and she flushed. “Right, let’s see what we can do to slay the paperwork monster. Maybe, if you all are good, we’ll take a field trip this afternoon.”