A Near Thing, 3/4
Title- A Near Thing (3/4)
Author- jlrpuck
Rating - M
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 - Rose’s job is dangerous-but so is Peter’s.
Author’s Notes - Beta’d with flair by both chicklet73 and earlgreytea68; thank you so much to both of them for their suggestions, encouragement, and assistance. Do please spare a kind thought for EGT, who today begins the Business Trip from hell.
O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear!
In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!
- Robert Burns, In the Prospect of Death
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
“Good morning.”
Rose watched as Peter’s eyelids fluttered open, as his deep brown eyes focused on her in the morning light.
It had been nearly two weeks since he’d had rather a close encounter with the wrong end of a firearm. She’d nearly fallen apart in those early days, when it was a bit touch-and-go; had clung to Ruby that first night when Peter’s future was so uncertain. Elias had joined in the vigil as soon as he’d been released from the hospital-as soon as he’d finished telling his fellow officers what had happened so the case could continue in his and Peter’s absence-and had stayed with her and Ruby in-between sneaking into the Yard to keep an eye on the investigation and pursuit of the man who’d pulled the trigger.
Left to her own devices, it was entirely possible that Rose would have spent some time away from the hospital, hunting down the man who’d done this thing to Peter; Pete, however, had made it explicitly clear that neither she, nor any of her team-nor, indeed, any Torchwood assets or resources-were to be used to find the person Elias referred to as ‘Nonnie’. “The shooting of a Scotland Yard detective is the business of Scotland Yard, and I’ll not have staff haring about interfering with their investigation-not unless asked,” Pete had said, not unkindly; that hadn’t kept her from trying to arrange for something to be done. Pete had not been amused by the disobeying of his orders, and had had a stern, serious talk with Rose about the importance of not using Torchwood resources for a personal vendetta, no matter how understandable the temptation.
Time had seemed to creep by as Peter healed-watching Peter as first he woke, then as he slowly healed; as he went from meekly obeying the direction of the nurses to full-on intransigence as he grew healthier. She’d known he’d be fine the day he told her to sod off and stop coddling him, offering a scathing opinion on government employees and heiresses to boot; and as she’d laughed with relief at seeing her husband back to himself, he’d simply stewed until he, too, began to laugh.
He’d finally come home the day before and was getting used to sleeping in their bed again, used to the way it made his healing wounds hurt in a new way, and used to the lack of noise at night. He’d confessed to her as they lay in bed that he’d come to find the steady beep of the heart monitor comforting; that the hum and whir of the machines, which had surrounded him when he finally awoke after three days in the balance and which had then surrounded him every day and night since, had been soothing.
And so, as he lay next to her in their bed, struggling to fall asleep, she told him of the TARDIS; of how it felt to fall asleep on that magnificent ship, of the little odd noises which had come to represent home to her, and of how difficult it had been to learn to sleep without them. She’d stroked his hair the entire time, speaking gently until he fell asleep, then fell asleep herself in the quiet dark of their bedroom.
And now Peter was awake, next to her, in their bed.
“How’d you sleep?” Rose reached forward, gently stroking his cheek. He’d not shaved in weeks-not since he’d been injured.
“Better,” he replied, his voice thick with sleep.
“You want anything?” she asked, her fingers drifting over his beard.
“You,” he answered without hesitation, his voice clear but still low.
She smiled. “You’ve got me.”
He reached for her, wincing as he remembered that he couldn’t quite move his arm like that, not yet. She paused for a beat, watching to make sure he’d not hurt anything-at least, not further-then shifted her focus to his face. He looked…frustrated.
“I want you, Rose,” he said, his voice strained. “Want to make love to you, not lay here in bed like a sack of bloody potatoes, waiting for this bloody aching to stop.”
She sighed, her fingers drifting across his beard, her eyes drifting to his lips. “Doctor Cornwall said just another few days…and you could go back to doing everything you did before.”
“I don’t want to wait,” he said, sulking-or pretending to. She didn’t miss how he was watching her, waiting to see if she’d take pity on him; she’d seen her brothers pull the same trick when they were denied something they wanted.
“You learn that pout from Matthew?” she asked, leaning forward and placing a teasing kiss on his cheek. “It won’t work.” She smiled as she pulled back, her fingers brushing his hair back from his forehead.
“Meanie,” Peter said, still pretending to sulk but ruining the effect with the laughter in his eyes.
“Oh yes,” she replied before kissing him gently.
~ - ~
Peter was able to get up and around on his own, at least for short bursts of activity-he was still recovering from the blood loss he’d experienced, as well as the concussion he’d received when he’d fallen after being shot-but the doctor had been very firm in his orders that Peter Carlisle not take a shower. Or, the doctor had said before they left the hospital, if he did, someone had to be in the room with him in case he fainted.
Peter was adamant about taking a shower, sick to death of days of sponge-baths. And so it was that for the first time in what felt like ages Rose found herself preparing for a shower with Peter with absolutely no intention of seducing him or being seduced herself. She watched Peter as he slowly pushed himself out of bed, as he carefully stood; he’d slept naked, as he usually did, and she couldn’t help but notice how very pale he was, yet another indication of the ordeal he’d been through. The dressings covering his wounds were covered with waterproof material, the white of the medical tape stark even against his fair skin, a reminder of what might have been.
“Rose.” Peter’s voice was gentle, and she pulled herself back into the present-into the reality of her husband standing before her, very much alive, his eyes full of concern.
“Sorry.” She gave him a weak grin and stood, reaching for his hand.
He took it, but did not move with her to the en suite. “You’re alright?” he asked, forcing her to stop, to turn to look at him.
“No,” she confessed, meeting his gaze.
He gave her a sympathetic smile, his dimple briefly appearing; he brought his left hand up to cup her cheek, his thumb rubbing across the apple. “I’ll be fine, Rose. You know that.”
“Yeah,” she sighed, her eyes drifting shut as she relaxed against his hand.
“And it’ll not happen again.” He’d leaned into her, his mouth now mere centimeters from hers.
“No,” she replied, hearing the waver in her own voice.
He kissed her, his beard almost soft against her skin. She sighed into him, her hands sliding through his hair to pull him to her as she deepened the kiss. He moaned, his arm now wrapping around her waist and pulling her flush against his body; she could feel the press of his hardening erection, and moved her arms to pull him even closer.
She felt him tense just before he let out a grunt of pain; she’d somehow placed her hand exactly on top of one of his dressings, the one covering the lone exit wound. All ardour left her, a chill washing through her body as she broke the kiss, as she dropped her hands and took a step back. “Oh my god. Peter, I’m so sorry.”
His face was pinched in pain, his jaw clenched; she felt awful, but didn’t know what to say to him other than to ask in a whisper, “Are you ok?”
He opened his eyes, relaxed his jaw. He took a step towards her, taking her hand before replying, “I’ll be alright, Rose.” He gave her a wry smile as he added, “I’ll not break, at any rate. ‘s just going to take a wee bit.”
She reached towards him with her free hand, her fingers just brushing over the dressings on his chest. They’d had to operate on him, trying to find the second bullet; it was evidence, after all, and they’d needed it no matter what Peter’s final fate was.
She’d not needed her dad, or the surgeon, to tell her that Peter was a very lucky man; that while he’d lost quite a bit of blood and had suffered some muscle damage, the bullet hadn’t struck anything that would result in lasting harm. Looking at the white tape pulling at his skin, protecting the small series of stitches…the medical system in this world wasn’t nearly as good as the one she’d grown up with; people died from colds, from cuts, from simply tripping, sometimes, in this world. That Peter had survived a shooting, and a prolonged stay in hospital…it was remarkable, really.
“I’ll be fine. Right as rain.” His fingers slipped under her chin, tilting her head up so she couldn’t look at his chest but instead had to look at him.
“I don’ know what I woulda done if I’d lost you.”
“Fortunately, you won’t have to find out,” he assured her.
“Yeah,” she replied, feeling a tear slip down her cheek.
His gaze shifted, his thumb moving to capture the drop before it reached her chin. “Love thou hast pleasures, and deep hae I lov'd; Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae I prov'd,” he whispered before leaning forward, kissing the spot where he’d stopped the tear.
“Burns?”
“Burns,” he confirmed, giving her a small smile. “Now, Rose; shall we shower?” He slid his hand down, capturing hers, and led her towards the en-suite.
The water warmed quickly, and he sighed in pleasure as he stepped into the stall, standing under running water for the first time in weeks. Rose stepped in after him, pulling the door shut before simply watching her husband. His eyes were closed, and his lips were curved in a smile as he tilted his head back, letting the water sluice across his skin. It was beading up on his beard, rapidly dripping off, while rivulets of water cascaded from his hair, across his shoulders, down his chest.
He was gorgeous.
She was unable to stop from reaching forward, from ghosting her fingers across his shoulder, leaning forward into the spray to place a kiss at the curve of his neck. She had no intention of seducing him-she didn’t want him to lose consciousness in the shower, not with the unforgiving tile all around them-but she had every intention of staying in contact with him as much as possible.
“Mmmm,” he murmured, his eyes still closed.
“Bit of a treat, that?”
“You have no idea.” He raised his head out of the spray, and blinked the water from his eyes.
She refrained from telling him she might just have an idea, after all: he didn’t need to hear more tales from the TARDIS at that particular moment.
“Mm. Here-” She reached around him, finding the shampoo. “Tilt your head down.”
He stood under the water, the spray pounding at his shoulders as she washed his hair, then as she gently ran the soap across his skin. She didn’t miss the effect her touch was having on him-it would have been impossible to-but she steadfastly focused on the task at hand, on soaping Peter, then making sure the lather was washed clean.
“My turn,” he said when she was finished, stepping out from under the water and guiding her to take his place.
“Peter-”
“Rose, I’m not broken!” The words were said sharply, and rang around the small space. She stood still, not speaking, watching Peter as he closed his eyes and gave a weary sigh. “Tha mi duilich,” he said softly, opening his eyes to look at her.
“’s okay.”
“No, Rose, it’s not. I’m just…tired. Very, very tired.”
And he suddenly looked it, the colour draining from his face. She hurriedly shut off the water, shoved the door to the stall open hard enough that it vibrated after clanging off the wall. Peter leaned against the stall, and she snapped a towel from the rack, wrapping him in it before leading him out of the small space, out of the en-suite entirely, and over to their bed.
“Here you are,” she said, guiding him to sit. His hair was still dripping wet, the drops landing with soft ‘splat’s on the now-soaked towel covering his shoulders.
“Thanks,” he said, giving her a weary smile.
“Get some sleep, Peter,” she said, her fingers drifting across his cheek. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
He didn’t protest, instead simply lying down with a sigh, and was out almost immediately, his face relaxing as sleep took him. She brushed a kiss across his forehead, then set to wrestling the duvet out from under his legs. She removed the wet towel-fortunately, draped around Peter’s front-and wrapped it around herself before tucking him under the warm duvet. The deep red set off his features, enhancing the dark and light, and-as she always did when she saw her husband tucked under the familiar fabric-she smiled at the memories she associated with him and the duvet.
~ - ~
The pattern repeated itself for several more days, Peter always wanting to do more than he was physically capable of, Rose always helping him when the exhaustion overtook him.
“I hate this,” he spat out one afternoon as she helped him to sit on the bed.
“Yeah,” she offered sympathetically. “But you’re doin’ better. Almost made it to supper today.”
He glowered at her. “Don’t patronize me.”
She gazed steadily at him, unwilling to humour his sulks now that he was healthier. “I’ll be out in the lounge, reading. Let me know if you need anything before supper.”
His hand shot out, catching hers as she turned to go. “You.”
She furrowed her brows, confused. “I what?”
“I need you.” His eyes had darkened, and his cheeks had some colour to them again.
She faced him, unaware of her actions; he moved so he was holding her hands in his. He was gazing up at her, a supplicant begging for a gift.
“Peter…”
“I’m doing better, Rose, you said so yourself.”
“And then you said not to patronize you.”
He watched as he brushed his thumbs across the backs of her hands. “Aye, well…” He looked up at her from under his lashes-a look she knew meant he was either actively seducing her, or having her on.
Sometimes, it meant both.
She released a huff, desperately tempted to take what he was offering, but terrified still of hurting him, of pressing on one of his wounds or aggravating his concussion.
“Please?” He whispered the word, infusing it with hope and love, his dark eyes gleaming.
She crouched, looking up at him; brought each of his hands to her lips for a soft kiss. “You have to promise me, Peter-promise me-that if you don’t feel well, or if I hurt you…”
“You’ll know. I promise.” He wasn’t smiling as he said it-wasn’t simply humouring her. If he started to feel unwell, he’d keep his word and tell her.
“’k.”
“’k” he replied. A small smile curved across his lips, and he leaned forward. “My Rose,” he whispered, before closing the distance between them.
It had been nearly a month since they’d made love-a long four weeks made all the more frustrating by having Peter so near, but in no condition for any sort of physical relationship. She loved the frequency of their lovemaking; loved being so closely connected to him, still striving to create a baby together after years of trying, and she had found she missed it terribly. She didn’t fault him for it, didn’t begrudge him; but she almost painfully ached for him, now that he was kissing her.
She shifted, kneeling without breaking the kiss, moving so she was between his legs, pressing as close to him as she could, her hands drifting to rest on his thighs. She frowned briefly as she felt thin cotton beneath her palms, not bare skin.
“Trust you to wear the jim-jams tonight,” she whispered, her lips following the line of his beard across his cheek. He’d pulled pyjamas on before settling into bed-the first time he’d donned sleepwear in years, an irony which wasn’t lost on her.
“Poor planning, I admit it,” he gasped, his hands moving to brace himself upright.
She teased him, pulling his earlobe into her mouth as one of her hands slid up his thigh. “For shame, Inspector,” she chided, her hand now resting on his groin. He let out a soft groan as she gently squeezed him; she shifted, her hand staying in place as she began to drift kisses across his shoulders.
His breathing was ragged as she danced her tongue across his chest; she closed her eyes, not wanting to see the white tape holding his bandages in place as she brushed her lips over his skin. She finally reached a point where it was physically impossible to kiss any lower, and she hastily scooted backwards. “You. Out of those. Now,” she commanded, standing with alacrity and beginning to strip off clothing.
Peter opened his eyes and stood, weaving a bit; she stopped, watching him carefully to be sure he was fine. Peter straightened, giving her a lazy wink, before moving to divest himself of his pyjamas.
She couldn’t get out of the rest of her clothes fast enough.
Peter stepped towards her once he was naked; reaching for her as she practically tore her knickers off, pulling her towards him for a kiss. His hands slid from her upper arms, around her back, holding her to him; she buried her hands in his hair, trying to press her body against every available centimeter of his skin whilst avoiding hurting him.
He began murmuring to her in Gaelic, whispering the endearments she was familiar with along with words or phrases she’d never heard. His lips brushed against her skin, interspersing the words with soft kisses, his hands now drifting down her back over and over again. She closed her eyes, let the dizziness from the sensation wash through her, and tilted her head back.
“Rose,” Peter growled, leaning forward, nipping at her neck. She tightened her hands in his hair, and he gently sucked at her skin, then swirled his tongue around the spot.
“I want you, Peter.” She pulled him up, her hands holding him to her as she kissed him fiercely. He slid his hands from her back, bringing them up to cup her jaw as he deepened, then gentled, the kiss.
“Tiugainn leam.” He took a step back, his hand sliding down to capture hers.
She followed him the short distance to the bed, joining him on the mattress; he lay on his back, finding a comfortable position while she lay on her side, watching, her hand drifting across his chest. Once he was settled he reached for her, guiding her to straddle him.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, pulling her down for a kiss.
“’ve missed you,” she murmured. She shifted, sighing as he slid into her, almost weeping from the feeling. “H’lo, stranger,” she said softly, pulling back so she could see him.
He murmured something in Gaelic, watching her as she began to rock above him; she, in turn, watched him, watched his lips move as he spoke to her in his musical language, watched his eyes darken further, flitting between her lips, her eyes, and where they were joined.
She was surprised, then, when a flash of pain crossed his face. “Rose-” he gasped, wincing, his eyes clenching shut.
“Peter!” She stopped immediately, debating between staying where she was and moving to his side, unsure of which would cause him the least amount of pain.
He opened his eyes, and put a calming hand on her leg. “Nae, dinnae move. Just…be still.” He levered himself up, grimacing briefly as he moved; first propping his weight on his elbows, then raising himself into a sitting position. “Jus’ bring your legs around…,” he said finally, gazing calmly at her.
They were soon re-positioned, both sitting, Rose’s legs wrapped around him, his arms holding her to him and keeping him upright. She wasn’t sure that it didn’t hurt for him to do that, but he insisted he was fine, that it was far more comfortable.
“Now, where were we?” he asked, guiding her to him for a kiss.
It took her a few moments to rediscover her ardour; Peter, for his part, seemed not to have lost his at all. He slipped a hand between them, wiggling his fingers down to where they were joined; Rose brought her arms around his shoulders, taking care not to press against the nearly-healed wound on his back.
“Ah, my Rose,” he whispered, his fingers sliding against her, dipping briefly to where they were joined before sliding up to her clit.
She felt a flash pass through her, began to rock against him; she could feel her orgasm begin to build, picking up from where she had left off minutes earlier.
“Peter…my Peter…” She panted the words as she moved, rocking against him, trying to bring him further into her.
He was peppering kisses across her skin, his fingers working to bring her to completion; she bit her lip, concentrating, focusing on the feeling of Peter in her, teasing her, on feeling the coil wind tighter. Not long now…
“Look at me, Rose.” The command was firm, and she opened her eyes, meeting Peter’s dark gaze. He was focused entirely on her, on driving her to orgasm; she let out a gasp as the sensation washed through her, then clenched her teeth as the sensation intensified under Peter’s continued ministrations.
She leaned forward as the feeling began to recede, running her tongue around the shell of his ear before whispering, “Your turn.” She turned, finding his lips, kissing him; she felt him bring both arms around her, could feel him arching into her. She rocked against him, her tongue stroking the roof of his mouth with each motion.
He pulled back from the kiss, shouting as he came, his entire body quivering with the effort. She continued to move against him, playing out his orgasm, feeling her body clench around him again, until he finally slumped against her.
She could feel his breath against her skin, and felt a soft smile pull at her lips as he nuzzled into the curve of her neck. “Y’okay?” she asked softly, stroking her hands across his hair.
“Mmm,” he hummed contentedly in response. She could feel him smiling against her skin, and she placed a brisk kiss against his temple.
“Why don’t we lie down, then?”
He tightened his hold on her. “Don’ wanna let ye go,” he mumbled.
“Alright,” she replied, continuing to stroke his hair, brushing a kiss over the damp strands. Her leg was falling asleep, but she was powerless to deny Peter anything at that moment.
She felt him begin to drowse after a few minutes, and finally decided it was time to move. “C’mon, love,” she whispered, shifting her hips so he slipped out of her. He once more tightened his hold, and she placed a gentle kiss over his ear. “’m not goin’ anywhere. Just wanna lie down with you. ‘k?”
He finally nodded, releasing her; she pulled back, trying to hide her delight at being able to stretch. Peter’s eyes were heavy with sleep as he lay down, his hair completely on end, and she couldn’t help but smile indulgently at him.
“See? Right here,” she said, snuggling against him. He brought an arm around her, pulling her tight against him; she placed a kiss on his pectoral, her hand coming to rest on his sternum.
“’love you,” he whispered, nearly asleep.
“Love you, too,” she replied, her eyes drifting shut.
~ - ~
Tha mi duilich - I’m sorry
Tiugainn leam - Come with me
Author- jlrpuck
Rating - M
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 - Rose’s job is dangerous-but so is Peter’s.
Author’s Notes - Beta’d with flair by both chicklet73 and earlgreytea68; thank you so much to both of them for their suggestions, encouragement, and assistance. Do please spare a kind thought for EGT, who today begins the Business Trip from hell.
O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear!
In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!
- Robert Burns, In the Prospect of Death
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
“Good morning.”
Rose watched as Peter’s eyelids fluttered open, as his deep brown eyes focused on her in the morning light.
It had been nearly two weeks since he’d had rather a close encounter with the wrong end of a firearm. She’d nearly fallen apart in those early days, when it was a bit touch-and-go; had clung to Ruby that first night when Peter’s future was so uncertain. Elias had joined in the vigil as soon as he’d been released from the hospital-as soon as he’d finished telling his fellow officers what had happened so the case could continue in his and Peter’s absence-and had stayed with her and Ruby in-between sneaking into the Yard to keep an eye on the investigation and pursuit of the man who’d pulled the trigger.
Left to her own devices, it was entirely possible that Rose would have spent some time away from the hospital, hunting down the man who’d done this thing to Peter; Pete, however, had made it explicitly clear that neither she, nor any of her team-nor, indeed, any Torchwood assets or resources-were to be used to find the person Elias referred to as ‘Nonnie’. “The shooting of a Scotland Yard detective is the business of Scotland Yard, and I’ll not have staff haring about interfering with their investigation-not unless asked,” Pete had said, not unkindly; that hadn’t kept her from trying to arrange for something to be done. Pete had not been amused by the disobeying of his orders, and had had a stern, serious talk with Rose about the importance of not using Torchwood resources for a personal vendetta, no matter how understandable the temptation.
Time had seemed to creep by as Peter healed-watching Peter as first he woke, then as he slowly healed; as he went from meekly obeying the direction of the nurses to full-on intransigence as he grew healthier. She’d known he’d be fine the day he told her to sod off and stop coddling him, offering a scathing opinion on government employees and heiresses to boot; and as she’d laughed with relief at seeing her husband back to himself, he’d simply stewed until he, too, began to laugh.
He’d finally come home the day before and was getting used to sleeping in their bed again, used to the way it made his healing wounds hurt in a new way, and used to the lack of noise at night. He’d confessed to her as they lay in bed that he’d come to find the steady beep of the heart monitor comforting; that the hum and whir of the machines, which had surrounded him when he finally awoke after three days in the balance and which had then surrounded him every day and night since, had been soothing.
And so, as he lay next to her in their bed, struggling to fall asleep, she told him of the TARDIS; of how it felt to fall asleep on that magnificent ship, of the little odd noises which had come to represent home to her, and of how difficult it had been to learn to sleep without them. She’d stroked his hair the entire time, speaking gently until he fell asleep, then fell asleep herself in the quiet dark of their bedroom.
And now Peter was awake, next to her, in their bed.
“How’d you sleep?” Rose reached forward, gently stroking his cheek. He’d not shaved in weeks-not since he’d been injured.
“Better,” he replied, his voice thick with sleep.
“You want anything?” she asked, her fingers drifting over his beard.
“You,” he answered without hesitation, his voice clear but still low.
She smiled. “You’ve got me.”
He reached for her, wincing as he remembered that he couldn’t quite move his arm like that, not yet. She paused for a beat, watching to make sure he’d not hurt anything-at least, not further-then shifted her focus to his face. He looked…frustrated.
“I want you, Rose,” he said, his voice strained. “Want to make love to you, not lay here in bed like a sack of bloody potatoes, waiting for this bloody aching to stop.”
She sighed, her fingers drifting across his beard, her eyes drifting to his lips. “Doctor Cornwall said just another few days…and you could go back to doing everything you did before.”
“I don’t want to wait,” he said, sulking-or pretending to. She didn’t miss how he was watching her, waiting to see if she’d take pity on him; she’d seen her brothers pull the same trick when they were denied something they wanted.
“You learn that pout from Matthew?” she asked, leaning forward and placing a teasing kiss on his cheek. “It won’t work.” She smiled as she pulled back, her fingers brushing his hair back from his forehead.
“Meanie,” Peter said, still pretending to sulk but ruining the effect with the laughter in his eyes.
“Oh yes,” she replied before kissing him gently.
~ - ~
Peter was able to get up and around on his own, at least for short bursts of activity-he was still recovering from the blood loss he’d experienced, as well as the concussion he’d received when he’d fallen after being shot-but the doctor had been very firm in his orders that Peter Carlisle not take a shower. Or, the doctor had said before they left the hospital, if he did, someone had to be in the room with him in case he fainted.
Peter was adamant about taking a shower, sick to death of days of sponge-baths. And so it was that for the first time in what felt like ages Rose found herself preparing for a shower with Peter with absolutely no intention of seducing him or being seduced herself. She watched Peter as he slowly pushed himself out of bed, as he carefully stood; he’d slept naked, as he usually did, and she couldn’t help but notice how very pale he was, yet another indication of the ordeal he’d been through. The dressings covering his wounds were covered with waterproof material, the white of the medical tape stark even against his fair skin, a reminder of what might have been.
“Rose.” Peter’s voice was gentle, and she pulled herself back into the present-into the reality of her husband standing before her, very much alive, his eyes full of concern.
“Sorry.” She gave him a weak grin and stood, reaching for his hand.
He took it, but did not move with her to the en suite. “You’re alright?” he asked, forcing her to stop, to turn to look at him.
“No,” she confessed, meeting his gaze.
He gave her a sympathetic smile, his dimple briefly appearing; he brought his left hand up to cup her cheek, his thumb rubbing across the apple. “I’ll be fine, Rose. You know that.”
“Yeah,” she sighed, her eyes drifting shut as she relaxed against his hand.
“And it’ll not happen again.” He’d leaned into her, his mouth now mere centimeters from hers.
“No,” she replied, hearing the waver in her own voice.
He kissed her, his beard almost soft against her skin. She sighed into him, her hands sliding through his hair to pull him to her as she deepened the kiss. He moaned, his arm now wrapping around her waist and pulling her flush against his body; she could feel the press of his hardening erection, and moved her arms to pull him even closer.
She felt him tense just before he let out a grunt of pain; she’d somehow placed her hand exactly on top of one of his dressings, the one covering the lone exit wound. All ardour left her, a chill washing through her body as she broke the kiss, as she dropped her hands and took a step back. “Oh my god. Peter, I’m so sorry.”
His face was pinched in pain, his jaw clenched; she felt awful, but didn’t know what to say to him other than to ask in a whisper, “Are you ok?”
He opened his eyes, relaxed his jaw. He took a step towards her, taking her hand before replying, “I’ll be alright, Rose.” He gave her a wry smile as he added, “I’ll not break, at any rate. ‘s just going to take a wee bit.”
She reached towards him with her free hand, her fingers just brushing over the dressings on his chest. They’d had to operate on him, trying to find the second bullet; it was evidence, after all, and they’d needed it no matter what Peter’s final fate was.
She’d not needed her dad, or the surgeon, to tell her that Peter was a very lucky man; that while he’d lost quite a bit of blood and had suffered some muscle damage, the bullet hadn’t struck anything that would result in lasting harm. Looking at the white tape pulling at his skin, protecting the small series of stitches…the medical system in this world wasn’t nearly as good as the one she’d grown up with; people died from colds, from cuts, from simply tripping, sometimes, in this world. That Peter had survived a shooting, and a prolonged stay in hospital…it was remarkable, really.
“I’ll be fine. Right as rain.” His fingers slipped under her chin, tilting her head up so she couldn’t look at his chest but instead had to look at him.
“I don’ know what I woulda done if I’d lost you.”
“Fortunately, you won’t have to find out,” he assured her.
“Yeah,” she replied, feeling a tear slip down her cheek.
His gaze shifted, his thumb moving to capture the drop before it reached her chin. “Love thou hast pleasures, and deep hae I lov'd; Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae I prov'd,” he whispered before leaning forward, kissing the spot where he’d stopped the tear.
“Burns?”
“Burns,” he confirmed, giving her a small smile. “Now, Rose; shall we shower?” He slid his hand down, capturing hers, and led her towards the en-suite.
The water warmed quickly, and he sighed in pleasure as he stepped into the stall, standing under running water for the first time in weeks. Rose stepped in after him, pulling the door shut before simply watching her husband. His eyes were closed, and his lips were curved in a smile as he tilted his head back, letting the water sluice across his skin. It was beading up on his beard, rapidly dripping off, while rivulets of water cascaded from his hair, across his shoulders, down his chest.
He was gorgeous.
She was unable to stop from reaching forward, from ghosting her fingers across his shoulder, leaning forward into the spray to place a kiss at the curve of his neck. She had no intention of seducing him-she didn’t want him to lose consciousness in the shower, not with the unforgiving tile all around them-but she had every intention of staying in contact with him as much as possible.
“Mmmm,” he murmured, his eyes still closed.
“Bit of a treat, that?”
“You have no idea.” He raised his head out of the spray, and blinked the water from his eyes.
She refrained from telling him she might just have an idea, after all: he didn’t need to hear more tales from the TARDIS at that particular moment.
“Mm. Here-” She reached around him, finding the shampoo. “Tilt your head down.”
He stood under the water, the spray pounding at his shoulders as she washed his hair, then as she gently ran the soap across his skin. She didn’t miss the effect her touch was having on him-it would have been impossible to-but she steadfastly focused on the task at hand, on soaping Peter, then making sure the lather was washed clean.
“My turn,” he said when she was finished, stepping out from under the water and guiding her to take his place.
“Peter-”
“Rose, I’m not broken!” The words were said sharply, and rang around the small space. She stood still, not speaking, watching Peter as he closed his eyes and gave a weary sigh. “Tha mi duilich,” he said softly, opening his eyes to look at her.
“’s okay.”
“No, Rose, it’s not. I’m just…tired. Very, very tired.”
And he suddenly looked it, the colour draining from his face. She hurriedly shut off the water, shoved the door to the stall open hard enough that it vibrated after clanging off the wall. Peter leaned against the stall, and she snapped a towel from the rack, wrapping him in it before leading him out of the small space, out of the en-suite entirely, and over to their bed.
“Here you are,” she said, guiding him to sit. His hair was still dripping wet, the drops landing with soft ‘splat’s on the now-soaked towel covering his shoulders.
“Thanks,” he said, giving her a weary smile.
“Get some sleep, Peter,” she said, her fingers drifting across his cheek. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
He didn’t protest, instead simply lying down with a sigh, and was out almost immediately, his face relaxing as sleep took him. She brushed a kiss across his forehead, then set to wrestling the duvet out from under his legs. She removed the wet towel-fortunately, draped around Peter’s front-and wrapped it around herself before tucking him under the warm duvet. The deep red set off his features, enhancing the dark and light, and-as she always did when she saw her husband tucked under the familiar fabric-she smiled at the memories she associated with him and the duvet.
~ - ~
The pattern repeated itself for several more days, Peter always wanting to do more than he was physically capable of, Rose always helping him when the exhaustion overtook him.
“I hate this,” he spat out one afternoon as she helped him to sit on the bed.
“Yeah,” she offered sympathetically. “But you’re doin’ better. Almost made it to supper today.”
He glowered at her. “Don’t patronize me.”
She gazed steadily at him, unwilling to humour his sulks now that he was healthier. “I’ll be out in the lounge, reading. Let me know if you need anything before supper.”
His hand shot out, catching hers as she turned to go. “You.”
She furrowed her brows, confused. “I what?”
“I need you.” His eyes had darkened, and his cheeks had some colour to them again.
She faced him, unaware of her actions; he moved so he was holding her hands in his. He was gazing up at her, a supplicant begging for a gift.
“Peter…”
“I’m doing better, Rose, you said so yourself.”
“And then you said not to patronize you.”
He watched as he brushed his thumbs across the backs of her hands. “Aye, well…” He looked up at her from under his lashes-a look she knew meant he was either actively seducing her, or having her on.
Sometimes, it meant both.
She released a huff, desperately tempted to take what he was offering, but terrified still of hurting him, of pressing on one of his wounds or aggravating his concussion.
“Please?” He whispered the word, infusing it with hope and love, his dark eyes gleaming.
She crouched, looking up at him; brought each of his hands to her lips for a soft kiss. “You have to promise me, Peter-promise me-that if you don’t feel well, or if I hurt you…”
“You’ll know. I promise.” He wasn’t smiling as he said it-wasn’t simply humouring her. If he started to feel unwell, he’d keep his word and tell her.
“’k.”
“’k” he replied. A small smile curved across his lips, and he leaned forward. “My Rose,” he whispered, before closing the distance between them.
It had been nearly a month since they’d made love-a long four weeks made all the more frustrating by having Peter so near, but in no condition for any sort of physical relationship. She loved the frequency of their lovemaking; loved being so closely connected to him, still striving to create a baby together after years of trying, and she had found she missed it terribly. She didn’t fault him for it, didn’t begrudge him; but she almost painfully ached for him, now that he was kissing her.
She shifted, kneeling without breaking the kiss, moving so she was between his legs, pressing as close to him as she could, her hands drifting to rest on his thighs. She frowned briefly as she felt thin cotton beneath her palms, not bare skin.
“Trust you to wear the jim-jams tonight,” she whispered, her lips following the line of his beard across his cheek. He’d pulled pyjamas on before settling into bed-the first time he’d donned sleepwear in years, an irony which wasn’t lost on her.
“Poor planning, I admit it,” he gasped, his hands moving to brace himself upright.
She teased him, pulling his earlobe into her mouth as one of her hands slid up his thigh. “For shame, Inspector,” she chided, her hand now resting on his groin. He let out a soft groan as she gently squeezed him; she shifted, her hand staying in place as she began to drift kisses across his shoulders.
His breathing was ragged as she danced her tongue across his chest; she closed her eyes, not wanting to see the white tape holding his bandages in place as she brushed her lips over his skin. She finally reached a point where it was physically impossible to kiss any lower, and she hastily scooted backwards. “You. Out of those. Now,” she commanded, standing with alacrity and beginning to strip off clothing.
Peter opened his eyes and stood, weaving a bit; she stopped, watching him carefully to be sure he was fine. Peter straightened, giving her a lazy wink, before moving to divest himself of his pyjamas.
She couldn’t get out of the rest of her clothes fast enough.
Peter stepped towards her once he was naked; reaching for her as she practically tore her knickers off, pulling her towards him for a kiss. His hands slid from her upper arms, around her back, holding her to him; she buried her hands in his hair, trying to press her body against every available centimeter of his skin whilst avoiding hurting him.
He began murmuring to her in Gaelic, whispering the endearments she was familiar with along with words or phrases she’d never heard. His lips brushed against her skin, interspersing the words with soft kisses, his hands now drifting down her back over and over again. She closed her eyes, let the dizziness from the sensation wash through her, and tilted her head back.
“Rose,” Peter growled, leaning forward, nipping at her neck. She tightened her hands in his hair, and he gently sucked at her skin, then swirled his tongue around the spot.
“I want you, Peter.” She pulled him up, her hands holding him to her as she kissed him fiercely. He slid his hands from her back, bringing them up to cup her jaw as he deepened, then gentled, the kiss.
“Tiugainn leam.” He took a step back, his hand sliding down to capture hers.
She followed him the short distance to the bed, joining him on the mattress; he lay on his back, finding a comfortable position while she lay on her side, watching, her hand drifting across his chest. Once he was settled he reached for her, guiding her to straddle him.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, pulling her down for a kiss.
“’ve missed you,” she murmured. She shifted, sighing as he slid into her, almost weeping from the feeling. “H’lo, stranger,” she said softly, pulling back so she could see him.
He murmured something in Gaelic, watching her as she began to rock above him; she, in turn, watched him, watched his lips move as he spoke to her in his musical language, watched his eyes darken further, flitting between her lips, her eyes, and where they were joined.
She was surprised, then, when a flash of pain crossed his face. “Rose-” he gasped, wincing, his eyes clenching shut.
“Peter!” She stopped immediately, debating between staying where she was and moving to his side, unsure of which would cause him the least amount of pain.
He opened his eyes, and put a calming hand on her leg. “Nae, dinnae move. Just…be still.” He levered himself up, grimacing briefly as he moved; first propping his weight on his elbows, then raising himself into a sitting position. “Jus’ bring your legs around…,” he said finally, gazing calmly at her.
They were soon re-positioned, both sitting, Rose’s legs wrapped around him, his arms holding her to him and keeping him upright. She wasn’t sure that it didn’t hurt for him to do that, but he insisted he was fine, that it was far more comfortable.
“Now, where were we?” he asked, guiding her to him for a kiss.
It took her a few moments to rediscover her ardour; Peter, for his part, seemed not to have lost his at all. He slipped a hand between them, wiggling his fingers down to where they were joined; Rose brought her arms around his shoulders, taking care not to press against the nearly-healed wound on his back.
“Ah, my Rose,” he whispered, his fingers sliding against her, dipping briefly to where they were joined before sliding up to her clit.
She felt a flash pass through her, began to rock against him; she could feel her orgasm begin to build, picking up from where she had left off minutes earlier.
“Peter…my Peter…” She panted the words as she moved, rocking against him, trying to bring him further into her.
He was peppering kisses across her skin, his fingers working to bring her to completion; she bit her lip, concentrating, focusing on the feeling of Peter in her, teasing her, on feeling the coil wind tighter. Not long now…
“Look at me, Rose.” The command was firm, and she opened her eyes, meeting Peter’s dark gaze. He was focused entirely on her, on driving her to orgasm; she let out a gasp as the sensation washed through her, then clenched her teeth as the sensation intensified under Peter’s continued ministrations.
She leaned forward as the feeling began to recede, running her tongue around the shell of his ear before whispering, “Your turn.” She turned, finding his lips, kissing him; she felt him bring both arms around her, could feel him arching into her. She rocked against him, her tongue stroking the roof of his mouth with each motion.
He pulled back from the kiss, shouting as he came, his entire body quivering with the effort. She continued to move against him, playing out his orgasm, feeling her body clench around him again, until he finally slumped against her.
She could feel his breath against her skin, and felt a soft smile pull at her lips as he nuzzled into the curve of her neck. “Y’okay?” she asked softly, stroking her hands across his hair.
“Mmm,” he hummed contentedly in response. She could feel him smiling against her skin, and she placed a brisk kiss against his temple.
“Why don’t we lie down, then?”
He tightened his hold on her. “Don’ wanna let ye go,” he mumbled.
“Alright,” she replied, continuing to stroke his hair, brushing a kiss over the damp strands. Her leg was falling asleep, but she was powerless to deny Peter anything at that moment.
She felt him begin to drowse after a few minutes, and finally decided it was time to move. “C’mon, love,” she whispered, shifting her hips so he slipped out of her. He once more tightened his hold, and she placed a gentle kiss over his ear. “’m not goin’ anywhere. Just wanna lie down with you. ‘k?”
He finally nodded, releasing her; she pulled back, trying to hide her delight at being able to stretch. Peter’s eyes were heavy with sleep as he lay down, his hair completely on end, and she couldn’t help but smile indulgently at him.
“See? Right here,” she said, snuggling against him. He brought an arm around her, pulling her tight against him; she placed a kiss on his pectoral, her hand coming to rest on his sternum.
“’love you,” he whispered, nearly asleep.
“Love you, too,” she replied, her eyes drifting shut.
~ - ~
Tha mi duilich - I’m sorry
Tiugainn leam - Come with me