And So Things Go, Chapter 28
Title- And So Things Go (28/34)
Author- jlrpuck
Rating - T
Pairing - Peter Carlisle/Rose Tyler
Disclaimer - Characters from Blackpool and Doctor Who are the property of the BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary - The story of how Peter Carlisle moved to London to live with Rose Tyler.
Author’s Notes - Peter finally puts in for a transfer.
earlgreytea68 and chicklet73 have been ideal betas for this-supportive, diligent, and full of excellent ideas. lostwolfchats has been fabulous, as well, and equally as invaluable, ensuring that I didn’t ruin the Queen’s English…too badly. Any errors-grammatical, colloquial, or factual-are mine, and mine alone. And, on an artistic front-thank you to angelfireeast for the lovely banner at the top of the chapter.
Two additional notes today: First, just a reminder that there will be no Chapter updates the week of October 13; instead, keep an eye out for at least one Peter/Rose ficlet by a guest author (posted to the_rspcpc, as well as their personal journal). Second, I’m out of town starting this Sunday-and I’ve learned the place I’m staying doesn’t have internet (I *know*)! I think, rather than asking everyone to wait, I’ll post early-so keep an eye out for Chapter 29 on SUNDAY (I can post short messages from my bberry, and will post a reminder on Monday morning). I’m terribly, terribly sorry about the havoc with the posting schedule. Stupid real life.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Epilogue
The next month passed in a blur, long days spent trying to keep his temper in check at work, mingling with brief visits to London. The officers from the Met were found guilty the day after he returned to Kendal; “Nearly getting yourself killed played well with the jury,” Elias had said when he’d relayed the news. “But I wouldn’t recommend making a habit of that.”
Peter was able to duck away for one last, lingering visit with Rose at the very end of November, the weekend before the applications for the Met positions were due. They stayed in for almost the entirety of his visit, Rose helping him to organize his file and application; she read to him that weekend, a book by an obscure author named Conan Doyle telling of a fictional detective with ludicrous powers of observation. Sunday morning, as they lay together-once again hoping to stave off his departure time--he asked her to come up to Kendal for Twelfth Night, to celebrate the holiday with him, in his house. It could well be the last year he’d be there to do it, and he wanted Rose there with him to bring some happy memories to the holiday, and to his birthday. In exchange for her agreeing to come to Kendal, he’d agreed to celebrate the winter holiday she’d grown up with-Christmas.
He tried not to read too much into things when the weather turned exceedingly foul the week his application was due. Kendal found itself blanketed under a coating of ice, topped by a dusting of snow-easily the most miserable weather he’d seen in years. The roads were practically impassable, and by the time he got to work he was already furious with the world, and mankind in general. The ice melted away the next day, although it remained terribly cold, and going anywhere out of doors remained a misery.
Williams seemed to be torn on how to handle Peter’s announcement that he was applying for a transfer: on the one hand, he seemed inclined to ease Peter’s way, to get him out of Kendal as quickly as possible. And yet, on the other hand, his deep-seated desire to make things as difficult as possible for Peter kept rearing its head; it took up until the last day and almost the last hour for Peter to get a signed letter from the DCI, stating he was aware of Peter’s request and supported it.
Penny looked stricken when Peter told him of the transfer request; again, Peter was struck by the knowledge that he really did like the young man, but that the environment in which they had to work together kept colouring his perception of the DC. Peter told Penny of his thoughts, that the DC would be just fine, would have no troubles finding a partner who would treat him better and allow him to live up to his potential. He’d added that the job with the Met wasn’t a done thing-that he was applying for the position, not accepting it. Peter had blushed when Penny had, almost like a child, stubbornly stated that he had no interest in training a new DI to be his partner.
It was just a week later that Peter took a whirlwind trip to the capital for an interview with the hiring board at the Met. He had been sitting at his desk, glaring at the notes from the latest case he was working-a proper offense this time, and not the penny-ante work he’d had heaped on him in November-when Elias rang, inviting him south for the interview. Peter had been unable to take a day of leave and so had crammed the trip into a Saturday, leaving Kendal at sunrise and returning after sunset.
The interview had gone well, he was sure of that; Blackpool was discussed openly, but briefly, and the rest of the four-hour interview had been spent talking about his most challenging cases, the cases which he’d considered to be easiest, and his investigative style. Elias had been the one to escort him out afterwards, and had given him a broad grin as he shook Peter’s hand and bade him goodbye. His only regret for that particular trip was that Rose had been out of town, this time on a trip with her family to celebrate John’s birthday. It was just as well-he’d caught a cold at some point, and awoke that Sunday with a crushing headache, barely able to breathe and with a throat that felt as though it were on fire.
As he had done the last time he was sick-years before-he turned to Louise for help. She plied him with tea with honey and lemon, and directed him to her favourite chemist. The chemist, in turn, gave him the strongest stuff available and bade him return to bed. Williams had been convinced it was a ruse for Peter to sneak off to London for an interview-not realizing Peter had already done that-and had actually stopped by the house mid-day Monday to make sure Peter was as sick as he claimed. Peter hadn’t been able to keep from coughing on the DCI, and had been left in peace for another day-just long enough for whatever concoction he’d been given to begin to work, and for his symptoms to abate.
He returned to work that Wednesday, notes in hand, and spent the remainder of the week working with Penington to solve the case. They finally were able to arrest and charge the main suspect the following week-just in time for Penington to come down with whatever Peter had had. With Penny on sick leave, now, Peter found his desk once more became the repository for petty crimes and missing pets.
And then, finally, it was time for his holiday leave. As expected, his request for leave the week before New Years had been met with curious glances and shaken heads. Still, at the end of the day it had been approved-after all, he was one of the more senior DI’s, and had untold hours of leave which had been unused for years. The DCI’s desire to have him out of the way for days or weeks remained the key motivator in the approval of his leave requests; he didn’t care, so long as they were approved.
Thus it was that on the twenty-third of December, he found himself waiting for Rose at the train station, bundled up against the still-sharp cold, eagerly looking down the tracks for the train. She was his for two weeks-two weeks of doing nothing but sleeping, and making love, and curling up in front of the fire and reading.
The train finally crept into sight, five minutes late; he leaned nonchalantly against one of the lamp posts, watching for Rose to step off the train. She did, carrying a small suitcase; she turned, looking for him, and he couldn’t help the smile that burst out as she turned to find him watching her.
He sauntered over to her, his hands in his pockets right up until he reached her, at which point he pulled her to him for a hug and a lingering kiss.
“Hi, you,” she said, pulling back with a smile. “Feeling better?”
“Oh yes, especially now you’re here.”
“Good. I’ve plans for you.”
“Have you, now?” He leaned into her, the words a low growl against her ear.
“Most definitely. But not here.” She kissed him again, gently, before pulling back. “’s too cold here!” she grinned, turning for her suitcase.
“And a bit too public, I expect.” He took her suitcase from her, carrying it in one hand whilst holding her hand with the other.
“Just a bit,” she laughed, swinging their clasped hands as they walked to his car.
It was the next day that he was introduced to the frankly bizarre ‘tradition’ of cutting down a tree. The Neo Druids, he thought, would be horrified at the habit, and he wondered how the adherents of that particular faith had reconciled themselves to what Rose insisted was a worldwide habit in her universe. He did have to concede that the tree added character to his otherwise dull parlour, and that the fresh scent of evergreen was a nice change from the usual stuffiness of the room-but he still thought it one of the sillier ways he’d ever seen to celebrate a holiday.
And then, on the morning of the twenty-fifth, Rose had managed to find a whole new way to render him speechless.
“A Twelfth-Night’s Tale?” he whispered, gazing at the aged book in his hand. His favourite story, a tale of hope on the darkest of nights; his gran had read it to him for his sixth birthday, and he’d read it every January sixth ever since.
She nodded, excited. “First edition.”
He’d almost laughed when she’d asked if he owned it; she surely knew that he would have found a way to talk himself out of buying it, even if he had discovered it whilst roaming a bookseller’s stall. He fought down the irrational urge to giggle, instead saying, “A first edition ‘A Twelfth Night’s Tale?’ No, Rose-I don’t have one.”
He could still hear the awe in his voice as he said it. It wasn’t just the book-although it was a precious gift. It was that she had taken the time to look for it, had spent months, apparently, hunting for it. For him.
And then he had a horrifying thought-he’d not bought her anything. “What do you want for Christmas?” He didn’t have the faintest idea what to buy her-what could she need, or want, that she wouldn’t be able to buy herself?
"I...already have everything I could possibly want." She ducked her head, her eyes skating to the side as her cheeks flushed from her candour.
He really had been ridiculously lucky.
They spent the majority of that day sprawled on the blanket in front of the fireplace, his head propped on pillows whilst Rose’s head lay against his chest. He read to her from the folio, his fingers gently ghosting across the vellum with every turn of the page; he had to hunt for his glasses several pages in, the print too small for him to otherwise read reliably.
Dinner was a simple picnic on the blanket, the book safely set aside on the coffee table. He was reaching for the light switch, two plates of food balanced in his hand, when Rose’s voice softly carried across the room. “Don’t. Please?”
He pulled his hand away, walking across to where she sat on the blanket. “If you like.”
She reached up for the plates, placing them on the blanket as he settled into a sitting position. “I do. I like the firelight.”
He smiled. “We’ll run out of wood, soon, the way we’re burning through it.”
Her eyes glinted in the light. “Well. We’ll just have to go upstairs at that point, won’t we?”
“Yes.”
He awoke the next morning, his legs tangled with Rose’s, her naked body pressed against his. She was restless, her forehead wrinkling, her mouth a frown; she’d periodically shake her head. He rubbed his hand over her back, trying to soothe her, unsure of whether to wake her, or let the dream run its course. His decision was made for him when she started to shout.
“Rose!”
“No! You can’t!” She was pushing against him, now, fighting whatever she was seeing in her dreams.
“Rose, wake up!” He grabbed her wrists, holding them with one hand while his other cupped her cheek, trying to keep her still. “Rose, it’s Peter. Wake up.”
“No!” She shrieked the word. “’s my mum!”
“Rose!” He moved his hands to her shoulders, shaking her now. “Wake up. It’s alright. Jackie’s fine.”
He kept calling Rose’s name, even as her cries grew less distinct and more frantic. She stopped struggling, and he wrapped her in his arms and pulled her to him, rocking her back and forth, trying to bring her some measure of comfort. She was crying, now, still asleep, and he brushed gentle kisses across her hair as he continued to rock her.
“It’s alright, Rose. It’s fine, your mum is fine,” he whispered, willing her to wake up, to find a way free of the terror she was experiencing.
“Peter...” she murmured, her voice thick.
“Rose. Yes. I’m here. It’s fine.” He placed a lingering kiss on the crown of her head, still holding her tightly against him.
“Peter!” She wrapped her arms around him, returning his hug frantically, her embrace tight.
“I’m here, Rose. You’re safe. Your mum is safe. Everyone’s fine.”
She clung to him, silent, for several minutes; as he waited for her to speak, he felt a knot of worry grow in his stomach. What would Rose have to dream about to be so terrified, even after waking?
She finally loosened her grip on him; he in turn relaxed his arms, allowing her to pull away from him. “You’re alright?” he whispered.
“Will be, yeah.” Her voice was still soft. She raised her eyes to his, her gaze haunted, and he reached his hand forward to cradle her jaw.
“You care to talk about it?” He brushed his thumb across her cheek, repeating the gentle motion while she thought about her answer.
Her eyes drifted downwards as she thought, as she re-lived what she’d seen while asleep. After a moment she took a deep breath, raising her gaze back to his. “Yeah.”
“’k.”
Rose scooted against him, tucking her head against his chest; he moved to lay on his back, cradling her to him.
“I dreamt...” Her voice caught, and she took another deep breath. “I dreamt...about the first time I was here. In this universe. About when they took Pete’s first wife. Only I dreamt it was Mum, not...not his first wife. And...and...” Her hand, splayed across his chest, balled into a fist. “I dreamt they had you,” she whispered, her body rigid.
He swallowed, his arm gently stroking up and down her arm.
“And...I couldn’t stop them. I...I...”
“Shhh,” he whispered, kissing her head. She tilted her chin, looking up at him, her eyes filled once again with tears; he moved to pull her up to him as she leaned upwards, desperate to kiss him.
“I’m here, Rose,” he whispered around their kiss, his hands buried in her hair. “I’m not leaving you.”
She didn’t answer, only kissed him harder; he could feel her lingering panic, and he deepened their kiss.
He allowed Rose to dictate the pace of the lovemaking that morning, allowed her to take charge, rocking against him as she straddled him, driving him into her over and over again. He rested his hands on his hips, watching her, arching to meet her as she slammed against him, whispering her name, over and over again as she drove them towards orgasm.
He came first, Rose watching him from heavy-lidded eyes as she continued to ride him; he reached between them, teasing her clit, gently begging her to come undone; she cried his name out, sharply, as she reached orgasm, her body pulsing around his.
There was still a lingering hint of fear in her eyes when she met his gaze as they lay together, afterwards, Rose’s body sprawled across his.
“I’m here, Rose. Really, truly, here.”
She rested her chin on his chest, gazing at him. “Yes.”
“I’ve no plans to go anywhere.”
“No one ever does.”
“Then let’s not worry about where the road leads, Rose-let’s just enjoy things as they happen.”
She brushed a kiss across his pectoral, her breath tickling him as she exhaled. “I know.”
They lapsed into silence again.
“I wish I could make the dreams go away,” he whispered some time later, stroking his hand across Rose’s back.
“They’re memories, as much as dreams. And...they made me who I am.”
“You lived through it-you shouldn’t have to dream about it, as well.”
“Pete tells me it’s how we process the truly terrible things we’ve lived through.”
“Pete is a wise man.” He took a deep breath, plunged on. “I used to dream about Natalie-about what happened to her-all of the time. Would wake up in the middle of the night, certain she’d not left, that they’d only just taken her away. It took me ages to make it through the night without waking up, or it making some sort of appearance.”
Rose tilted her head to look at him again, her eyes dark in the filtered light from the windows.
“I...I don’t think I’ll ever get past it. I don’t know that I’d change it, either, which fills me with shameful guilt. But...if she hadn’t died, Rose, I don’t know that I’d be here, with you. And...and I can’t think of anyplace else I’d rather be. It terrifies me to think that I’d have missed this.”
Rose laid her head back on his chest. “I love you,” she whispered, her breath warm against his skin.
He brought his arms around her, holding her in an embrace. “I’m glad. So, so glad.”
They spent that day hidden away in the house, Rose’s dream casting a dark shadow across the merriment of the week. He missed seeing Rose’s ready smile, or even the mischievous twinkle in her eye as she gazed at him; but he felt closer to her, knowing that even she had bad dreams sometimes.
He wished she didn’t. She’d been through enough, in her life.
The next morning, Rose seemed to have shaken most of the dream from her mind. She was already awake when he finally blinked his eyes open, and her smile was back.
“Sleep well?” he asked immediately, lingering concern filling him as he struggled awake.
“Yes.” Her voice was soft, and she leaned in to brush a kiss over his jaw. “Thank you.”
“I’m glad.” He smiled.
They spent the day out exploring, taking advantage of the day being a few degrees warmer than normal, the sun shining from the clear blue sky. He took her to an old abbey, well south of Kendal on the Furness peninsula; the red sandstone ruins were set in a vale, sheltered from any wind there might have been, and they had the place to themselves for almost the entirety of their visit.
It was also sheltered from mobile phone coverage, and when they returned to the main road late in the afternoon, he found he had a message waiting. The message notification teased him for the entirety of the drive back to Kendal, and he dialled his voice mail as soon as he put the car into park in front of the house.
“Peter, it’s Annie. I...I don’t know if Rose will be with you for Twelfth Night. But if she is-if she’s up early-I’d like to have you both for tea. Ring me, love.”
He clicked the phone shut with a grin; Rose was gazing at him, bemused at his evident excitement. “How would you feel about tea?”
“Where?” she asked, cautiously.
“Heatherfield. With Annie.”
“I...when?”
“I’m not sure-I need to ring her back. But would you? Have tea? I’m desperate to have you two meet.”
Rose paused, dropping her gaze to her hands. “If it will make you happy, yes.”
“It would, Rose.” He reached forward, taking her hands in his. “I truly think you’ll get on.”
She squared her shoulders, raising her eyes to his. “Then I’d love to, Peter.”
~ - ~
Chapter 29 (to be posted Sunday)