A Tinn Thing - Epilogue (1/1)
Title: A Tinn Thing - Epilogue
Rating: K
Characters: Peter Carlisle/Rose Tyler
Disclaimer: Characters from Blackpool and Doctor Who are the property of BBC, are are used with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Written for: kellywiag
Prompt: I would like to request a wee bitty a few hours after a Tinn Thing if I can be so bold
Notes: Written for the timestamp meme over at my LJ.
Many thanks to both earlgreytea68 and chicklet73 for their quick beta!
A Tinn Thing - Epilogue
Peter slowly awoke, conscious first of feeling a bit manky from the sheen of sweat covering his body, then of the fact that he had a lurking headache. He muttered a curse as the reality hit him.
Still ill, then.
He fought back a sigh of annoyance: he hated being sick, the moreso because it so rarely happened. He knew his employers wouldn’t begrudge him time off, if he needed it-especially if it meant that whatever lurgy he had would keep from spreading further around the Pen-but he was conditioned from years of working in Kendal to believe that coming down ill was a sign of failure.
Not for the first time, he cursed Williams’ name.
He felt movement next to him, and realized that part of the reason he was so warm was because Rose had stayed in bed with him. She was still sleeping, dressed in the loungewear she often preferred when lazing about the house, and her body was pressed up against his as though seeking warmth.
He’d asked her to stay with him when he fell asleep-he hated falling asleep alone, now-and she had. He smiled, gently rubbing his hand over her shoulder.
She stirred, waking; he felt her pull back, knew that meant she was trying to look at him in the near-darkness of the room, and then heard her sleepily whisper, “How’re y’feelin’?”
“Better.” He winced, the word putting the lie to the statement; his throat hurt, and talking actually made his head hurt more.
He was going to kill Elias for this. Without question, just as soon as he didn’t feel like death warmed over.
Rose propped herself up on her elbow, and he felt her rest a hand on his forehead. It felt lovely and cool, and he was unable to stifle a sigh.
“Still runnin’ a fever.”
“Aye,” he replied wearily. He knew he was sick, didn’t feel like talking about it. What he really wanted, at that exact moment, was some more of the divine juice Rose had procured at some point that day.
He rolled away from Rose, kicking the duvet off of his feet; he heard Rose moving behind him as he stood. The world tipped ever-so-briefly as he straightened, but righted itself quickly enough, and he moved to the curtains covering the windows to pull them back.
The lights of the city twinkled merrily in front of him, life continuing on apace outside the glass. He and Rose could be out there, having dinner, perhaps even going dancing…
He frowned as he realized that his brain might be a little off from the illness; he hated dancing, really.
“D’you want a drink?” Rose had come to stand next to him, her hand finding his and gently clasping it.
He turned his head, meeting her steady gaze. “Yeah. And perhaps a bit more paracetamol.”
He didn’t miss the brief flash of surprise which crossed her face; if he’d not been watching her, he’d never have known that his statement had caught her off-guard. “You’re sure?” she finally asked, gazing intently at him.
“It does work, Rose; and I’ve no plans to eat the entire bottle of it. Just enough to knock the fever down, and perhaps get rid of my bloody headache.”
“You need to drink more. Water, or maybe juice. And have a snack.”
He felt a flash of annoyance-he knew he needed to do all of those things, and resented being told, as though he were incapable of looking after himself.
He must have said some of what he thought-that, or his expression was painfully transparent. Rose’s expression had changed from one of concern to one of hurt, and she’d pulled back from him a little ways. “’m jus’ tryin’ t’help,” she said softly, her attention now focused on the city in front of them.
“I know,” he said softly, guilt washing through him. “I-I’m not used to it, Rose. Not completely.” He squeezed her hand, continuing, “It’s been far too long since I’ve had someone around to coddle me when I’m ill.”
Rose glanced over to him, pausing for a beat before replying. “Are y’sayin’ Louise didn’t coddle you?”
He felt himself blush. “I…I’ve never really taken leave, Rose. Not for illness.” Not personal illness, at any rate.
“Ever?”
“Not in recent memory, no.”
She was going to say something-had taken a breath to do so, in fact-but stopped short. After a moment, she ventured, “You’re takin’ t’morrow off, though, yeah?”
At his pause, she pressed on. “Tomorrow, and as long as you need to get well.” Her voice had changed from inquisitive to firm, and he suddenly realized he’d not have a choice.
“Aye.” Weariness stole through him at the statement, at the admission that he was ill enough to require a day away from work. He sagged, and Rose moved to stand close to him, offering support should he want it.
“Well, then. Let’s get you a bit of juice, and something salty-maybe your crisps? And then we’ll go back to bed together, k?”
He determined to not be upset by Rose’s mothering, and instead focused on the benefits of it: of being the centre of her attention, and knowing he’d have her entirely to himself for a bit. He smiled, gave her hand a squeeze, and agreed. “If you insist.”
“I do, you stubborn man.” Rose turned, and began walking towards the hall.
“You love it.” He started to follow her, his hand still clasped in hers.
She stopped suddenly, turning, making sure he could see her expression in the light. “I do, you know. Love you; love you even when you’re tired and stubborn and a right pain in the arse.”
He felt lightheaded, the admission not containing anything he didn’t know, but still stunning in its unexpectedness.
Rose stepped towards him, her empty hand moving to cup his jaw. “You do know that, right?” she asked softly.
“Aye,” he replied breathlessly, his eyes drifting shut.
“Good.” Rose rocked up, placing a kiss across his cheek-across where his dimple would have been had he been frowning.
She moved to pull back; he brought his arm around her, holding her to him. “I do know it, Rose; and I love you, even when I’m being grumpy and antisocial and just generally…maladjusted.”
He wanted to kiss her, badly, in spite of feeling dreadful still; he instead had to satisfy himself with wrapping her in a proper hug, burying his face against the curve of her neck. He was still amazed-and terrified-by how very much he loved her. Not just when things were going well-when they were both laughing over supper, or giggling together over some absurdity-but when things weren’t going so well, when they were rowing with each other, or were tired after a bad day at work.
“You’re not maladjusted,” she whispered, her hands splayed across his upper back.
“No?”
He felt her smile against his chest. “No. You’re just…prickly.”
“Prickly? Like a cactus?”
“Like a cactus.” She leaned back in his embrace, catching his eye. “My cactus.”
He winced, unable to hide the smile pulling at his lips. “I dearly hope that’s not to be a permanent endearment. I don’t know that I could live with it.”
She slowly grinned. “Well. We’ll just have to see what kind of patient you make, then, won’t we?”
He groaned, releasing her from the hug. “Well-played, Agent Tyler.”
Her grin faded, her gaze intensifying. “I do mean it, though, Peter. All of it.”
“Me, too.” He cupped her jaw, brushing his thumb over her cheek.
Rose stretched, brushing a kiss across his jaw. “Let’s got get you some crisps-and then get you tucked back into bed.”
He gave her a weary sigh, ruining the effect with a smile, and followed her as she led him out of the bedroom.
~ fin ~
Rating: K
Characters: Peter Carlisle/Rose Tyler
Disclaimer: Characters from Blackpool and Doctor Who are the property of BBC, are are used with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Written for: kellywiag
Prompt: I would like to request a wee bitty a few hours after a Tinn Thing if I can be so bold
Notes: Written for the timestamp meme over at my LJ.
Many thanks to both earlgreytea68 and chicklet73 for their quick beta!
A Tinn Thing - Epilogue
Peter slowly awoke, conscious first of feeling a bit manky from the sheen of sweat covering his body, then of the fact that he had a lurking headache. He muttered a curse as the reality hit him.
Still ill, then.
He fought back a sigh of annoyance: he hated being sick, the moreso because it so rarely happened. He knew his employers wouldn’t begrudge him time off, if he needed it-especially if it meant that whatever lurgy he had would keep from spreading further around the Pen-but he was conditioned from years of working in Kendal to believe that coming down ill was a sign of failure.
Not for the first time, he cursed Williams’ name.
He felt movement next to him, and realized that part of the reason he was so warm was because Rose had stayed in bed with him. She was still sleeping, dressed in the loungewear she often preferred when lazing about the house, and her body was pressed up against his as though seeking warmth.
He’d asked her to stay with him when he fell asleep-he hated falling asleep alone, now-and she had. He smiled, gently rubbing his hand over her shoulder.
She stirred, waking; he felt her pull back, knew that meant she was trying to look at him in the near-darkness of the room, and then heard her sleepily whisper, “How’re y’feelin’?”
“Better.” He winced, the word putting the lie to the statement; his throat hurt, and talking actually made his head hurt more.
He was going to kill Elias for this. Without question, just as soon as he didn’t feel like death warmed over.
Rose propped herself up on her elbow, and he felt her rest a hand on his forehead. It felt lovely and cool, and he was unable to stifle a sigh.
“Still runnin’ a fever.”
“Aye,” he replied wearily. He knew he was sick, didn’t feel like talking about it. What he really wanted, at that exact moment, was some more of the divine juice Rose had procured at some point that day.
He rolled away from Rose, kicking the duvet off of his feet; he heard Rose moving behind him as he stood. The world tipped ever-so-briefly as he straightened, but righted itself quickly enough, and he moved to the curtains covering the windows to pull them back.
The lights of the city twinkled merrily in front of him, life continuing on apace outside the glass. He and Rose could be out there, having dinner, perhaps even going dancing…
He frowned as he realized that his brain might be a little off from the illness; he hated dancing, really.
“D’you want a drink?” Rose had come to stand next to him, her hand finding his and gently clasping it.
He turned his head, meeting her steady gaze. “Yeah. And perhaps a bit more paracetamol.”
He didn’t miss the brief flash of surprise which crossed her face; if he’d not been watching her, he’d never have known that his statement had caught her off-guard. “You’re sure?” she finally asked, gazing intently at him.
“It does work, Rose; and I’ve no plans to eat the entire bottle of it. Just enough to knock the fever down, and perhaps get rid of my bloody headache.”
“You need to drink more. Water, or maybe juice. And have a snack.”
He felt a flash of annoyance-he knew he needed to do all of those things, and resented being told, as though he were incapable of looking after himself.
He must have said some of what he thought-that, or his expression was painfully transparent. Rose’s expression had changed from one of concern to one of hurt, and she’d pulled back from him a little ways. “’m jus’ tryin’ t’help,” she said softly, her attention now focused on the city in front of them.
“I know,” he said softly, guilt washing through him. “I-I’m not used to it, Rose. Not completely.” He squeezed her hand, continuing, “It’s been far too long since I’ve had someone around to coddle me when I’m ill.”
Rose glanced over to him, pausing for a beat before replying. “Are y’sayin’ Louise didn’t coddle you?”
He felt himself blush. “I…I’ve never really taken leave, Rose. Not for illness.” Not personal illness, at any rate.
“Ever?”
“Not in recent memory, no.”
She was going to say something-had taken a breath to do so, in fact-but stopped short. After a moment, she ventured, “You’re takin’ t’morrow off, though, yeah?”
At his pause, she pressed on. “Tomorrow, and as long as you need to get well.” Her voice had changed from inquisitive to firm, and he suddenly realized he’d not have a choice.
“Aye.” Weariness stole through him at the statement, at the admission that he was ill enough to require a day away from work. He sagged, and Rose moved to stand close to him, offering support should he want it.
“Well, then. Let’s get you a bit of juice, and something salty-maybe your crisps? And then we’ll go back to bed together, k?”
He determined to not be upset by Rose’s mothering, and instead focused on the benefits of it: of being the centre of her attention, and knowing he’d have her entirely to himself for a bit. He smiled, gave her hand a squeeze, and agreed. “If you insist.”
“I do, you stubborn man.” Rose turned, and began walking towards the hall.
“You love it.” He started to follow her, his hand still clasped in hers.
She stopped suddenly, turning, making sure he could see her expression in the light. “I do, you know. Love you; love you even when you’re tired and stubborn and a right pain in the arse.”
He felt lightheaded, the admission not containing anything he didn’t know, but still stunning in its unexpectedness.
Rose stepped towards him, her empty hand moving to cup his jaw. “You do know that, right?” she asked softly.
“Aye,” he replied breathlessly, his eyes drifting shut.
“Good.” Rose rocked up, placing a kiss across his cheek-across where his dimple would have been had he been frowning.
She moved to pull back; he brought his arm around her, holding her to him. “I do know it, Rose; and I love you, even when I’m being grumpy and antisocial and just generally…maladjusted.”
He wanted to kiss her, badly, in spite of feeling dreadful still; he instead had to satisfy himself with wrapping her in a proper hug, burying his face against the curve of her neck. He was still amazed-and terrified-by how very much he loved her. Not just when things were going well-when they were both laughing over supper, or giggling together over some absurdity-but when things weren’t going so well, when they were rowing with each other, or were tired after a bad day at work.
“You’re not maladjusted,” she whispered, her hands splayed across his upper back.
“No?”
He felt her smile against his chest. “No. You’re just…prickly.”
“Prickly? Like a cactus?”
“Like a cactus.” She leaned back in his embrace, catching his eye. “My cactus.”
He winced, unable to hide the smile pulling at his lips. “I dearly hope that’s not to be a permanent endearment. I don’t know that I could live with it.”
She slowly grinned. “Well. We’ll just have to see what kind of patient you make, then, won’t we?”
He groaned, releasing her from the hug. “Well-played, Agent Tyler.”
Her grin faded, her gaze intensifying. “I do mean it, though, Peter. All of it.”
“Me, too.” He cupped her jaw, brushing his thumb over her cheek.
Rose stretched, brushing a kiss across his jaw. “Let’s got get you some crisps-and then get you tucked back into bed.”
He gave her a weary sigh, ruining the effect with a smile, and followed her as she led him out of the bedroom.
~ fin ~