A Quiet Thing (1/1)
Title: A Quiet Thing (1/1)
Rating: K
Characters: Rose Tyler, Peter Carlisle
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.
Summary: Rose finds Peter after a long night at work.
Notes: Inspired by swankkat.
I wrote this on Monday, so many, many thanks to earlgreytea68 and chicklet73 for their quickfire beta of this. Any errors in the story are mine, and mine alone.
A Quiet Thing
Rose woke suddenly, disoriented, wondering what it was that had pulled her from deep sleep. She rolled over, noting that Peter’s side of the bed was still empty; he was still working, then, another long night in a series of long nights.
She sighed, her hand gently stroking across where he would have lain, the sunlight spilling across his pillow. He’d been pushing himself hard on his latest case-the murder of a young orphan--and the lack of anyone in the neighbourhood seeming to care only fuelled Peter and Elias’s determination to find out who’d deemed the lad a liability. The two men had been following their main suspect, a small-time fixer in one of the seedier parts of town, going into work as the sun set, and often not returning until well after she’d left for work. It had been a week since she’d had more than a half-hour with her husband; and it appeared that he’d not even have a weekend day off from the case.
She stiffened as she heard an odd noise in the house; she closed her eyes, straining, and heard it again. It sounded like it was coming from the en-suite, and she slowly sat up, her eyes skipping first to the hall door-wide open, the hall beyond dark-then to the door to the en-suite.
It was mostly closed, which was a decided departure from how she had left it when she’d gone to bed the night before. She felt a brief flash of fear that someone had managed to break in to the house, then tucked it away-they had state-of-the-art security on the house, courtesy of Torchwood and Pete’s concern; and if someone was going to go to the trouble to break in, she had serious doubts that the first place they’d go would be the en-suite.
She threw the covers back, swinging her legs over the side of the bed; she’d left her robe in the loo, and slowly crossed to the wardrobe to find a shirt. She tripped over a discarded jumper-Peter’s, without question-and felt a small smile flicker across her face. It was the jumper he’d been wearing as he’d run out the door the night before.
It appeared Peter was home, after all-and that he’d stripped as he crossed the room.
She glanced over, noting his shirt hanging off the end of the bed, tossed there as he made his way across the room. Picking it up, she gave it a quick once-over to make sure it was clean enough, and slowly pulled it on as she moved to the door to the en-suite. She heard a soft sigh, and the equally soft lapping of water, and she gently pushed the door open.
Peter was, as she’d suspected, in the bath. He was reclining against the head of the tub, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. His hair clung damply to his forehead-he’d no doubt slipped into the water, had run his hands through his hair, and then had relaxed. The water was almost still, and steam gently curled off it, catching the diffuse light coming from the window directly above the bath. He’d opened the window to let the early summer breeze in while he bathed, and the sheer curtain gently wafted in the fresh air.
Her thoughts of berating him for doing something as dangerous as taking a bath when he was exhausted slipped away as she stood and simply gazed him. She noted he needed to shave again, and considered that perhaps he’d let her do it for him that morning-it would be something to suggest, once he’d slept for a bit. He looked so peaceful, dozing in the warm water; even his shoulders, which usually carried so much of his tension, had relaxed, and she let her gaze linger on the fair freckled skin before moving on. Water droplets glistened in the hair on his chest , small diamonds emphasizing the planes of his torso, making her want to lean over and gently run her tongue across his skin, collecting the beads of moisture. His hands floated in the water, and it occurred to Rose that his arms must have slipped from the edge of the tub as sleep overtook him.
They’d taken to keeping an old, straight-back chair in the en-suite-the room was large enough to accommodate it, and the piece of furniture was useful for holding clothing whilst one or both of them bathed. It was, fortunately, clear of anything at the moment, and she tiptoed over to where it stood at the head of the tub.
Peter continued to sleep as she sat down, perched on the edge of the chair. The water had finally stilled, and Peter’s body was visible under the surface, his long legs not quite straight as they reached towards the other end of the bath. It was a rare blessing indeed to have the chance to see Peter so completely relaxed and unguarded, and she took a moment to simply admire him-his gorgeous body, the long lean lines she adored, the whole of the man she loved.
Peter let out a soft sigh, settling further into sleep, and Rose tentatively reached forward, her fingertips ghosting across his cool, damp hair. Peter let out another little sigh, causing her to smile; she braced her right hand on the edge of the tub, and leaned forward to ghost the fingers of her left hand up his neck, around the shell of his ear, and into his hair. She drifted her knuckles across the crown of his head, and then slipped her fingers back down through the silken strands.
She set a steady rhythm, gently stroking his hair, periodically brushing her fingers across his forehead, slowly willing the last remnant of his tension-the furrow in his brow-to relax away. The dark crescents of Peter’s eyelashes were almost auburn in the brightening light, and she slowly drifted her fingertip across his cheek, trying to draw a line connecting his freckles.
He wrinkled his nose at the irritation, and she hastily returned her hand to his hair, smoothing it down. Peter made a small noise, released another sigh; and then his eyes slowly fluttered as he awoke.
“Shhh,” she whispered, still stroking her hand across his hair.
Peter’s lips gently curved upwards, but he remained silent. His hands moved slowly, stirring the water; Rose saw goose bumps prickle across his skin as the cooler water mixed with the remaining warm water in eddies against his body, and she leaned down to place a kiss against his hair before resuming the motion of her hand.
Peter rolled to his side, curling his right hand to his chest as though he were tucking up against a pillow, his left hand finding her right where it rested on the edge of the bath, and he pushed himself up the end of the tub just enough to rest his cheek on the bathtub’s edge. Rose smiled as it occurred to her that Peter was rather like a cat at that moment, tilting his head so she would stroke a different part of his hair, and she had a brief image of Peter purring. She slipped her fingers through the wet hair at the back of his head, spreading her fingers out until she found the nape of his neck and then pulling them back upwards to rest against her palm.
She thought Peter might have fallen asleep again as she repeated the motion, over and over again, always moving at a slow but steady pace, never breaking rhythm. He needed a haircut-his hair was not only covering his ears, but the brown strands where he rested his head hung over the edge-but she loved it when it was this length, enough to cover her fingers as they skated along his scalp; enough to bunch in her fist when they made love.
His hair was drying quickly in the breeze from the window, but the water had to be almost cold as he continued to lay, curled on his side in the tub, and she finally decided that it would be best to get him out, dried off, and into bed so he could sleep properly.
“Love,” she whispered, leaning forward, her fingers now gently kneading the nape of his neck.
He didn’t respond, and she placed a kiss across the crown of his head. “Peter,” she whispered into his hair before pulling back.
“Mmmmm?” came the sleepy response.
“Y’wanna go to bed?”
His lips curved upwards into a contented smile.
“Then let’s get y’out of the tub, yeah?”
His hand tightened on hers, and she stilled.
“Peter, the water’s freezin’-“
He sighed, then slowly opened his eyes and tilted his head to look up at her. “K,” he said thickly, still sleep-fogged.
“K. ‘M gonna get you a towel, yeah? If you can get up out of the bath?”
He squeezed her hand, then released it; she leaned down, kissing his temple, then rose to grab a towel from the towel rack. She heard the soft slosh of water behind her, and turned around to watch Peter roll, duck under the water in the tub, then slowly stand. The water ran down his body, splashing where it landed around his knees, and he pushed his dripping hair back from his forehead before looking up to her.
She stood by the mat, waiting for him to step out of the tub; he quirked a small smile at her, letting her gaze openly at him for a few moments. A gust of wind then blew in through the window and she watched as a chill passed through him, spurring him out of the tub and into the towel held in her arms. She wrapped it around him, letting out a squeak as he rested his head on her shoulder, soaking the shirt she wore; she felt him chuckle, right before he looked up at her.
“You terrible man,” she chastised, fighting down a laugh.
“And so I am,” he acknowledged, taking the towel from her and drying off fully. He finished by rubbing it vigorously over his hair, ensuring it stood on end when he pulled the towel away.
“And incorrigible.”
“Aye.” He glanced to the side, tossing the towel onto the chair, then looked back to her as he moved to cup her jaw. “But you love it.”
“Yes,” she sighed, her eyes fluttering shut as he brushed his thumb over her cheeks.
“I’m sorry I woke you.” He placed a kiss against the corner of her mouth, then stepped back.
“Don’t be. You should have woken me up when you got home.”
“Why? You were slumbering peacefully-and I just wanted to clean up a wee bit before joining you.”
“Silly man-you know you shouldn’t-“
“Take a bath when I’m tired. But I needed a soak, Rose.” He grimaced as he stretched, then rubbed his right hand across his left bicep. “Took a bit of a beating last night. This morning, really.”
Her gaze sharpened, focusing on where his hand moved across his arm. A bruise was starting to form there-it looked like he’d been grabbed-and then she noted that his right hand, too, had suffered. She was surprised she’d not noticed the injury while he was in the bath, then considered that she’d been distracted by the whole of having a naked Peter resting peacefully before her.
She reached for his hand, gently pulling it away from his arm, cradling it in her own hands before continuing to examine the damage he’d incurred. Peter remained quiet as she gently ghosted her fingers across his knuckles, tracing the scratches and cuts, noting the redness where his joints had been particularly abused. She gently guided his fingers so they were straight, his hand now fully flexed where it rested on her palm, and she drifted her fingers across his, looking for injury, waiting for him to flinch or wince in pain from a hidden hurt.
“You’re lucky you didn’t break your hand,” she observed quietly when she was satisfied he was unharmed.
“I do know how to throw a punch, you know,” Peter replied, amusement in his tone.
“Or two, at a guess.” She punctuated the observation by bringing his hand to her lips and gently kissing his knuckles.
She released his hand, then moved around him in order to look over his back and see what other damage he might have suffered. As she suspected, there was further evidence that whomever they’d arrested had not gone quietly. She frowned at the large bruise forming on the back of his left thigh-probably from a kick-as well as a smaller one on his lower back, where someone had most likely tried to kidney punch him.
“I hope you gave as good as you got,” she said, her voice clipped; she moved to once again stand in front of Peter, gazing up at him.
“I think it’s safe to say that Elias and I both repaid him in kind, yes.” His tone was deceptively mild, and his eyes held a hardness she only rarely saw.
“Good.”
“You can understand the bath?” His gaze warmed, and the corner of his mouth quirked slightly upwards.
“Yeah,” she replied, her voice softening. “C’mon.” She slipped her hand into his, leading him out of the en-suite and back into their bedroom. She walked him to his side of the bed, folding the duvet back, guiding him to sit; he glanced up at her, bemused but compliant.
“I can take care of myself, y’know.”
“I know.” She tapped his legs, encouraging him to slip them under the covers, then pulled the duvet up over his hips.
“Y’goin to join me in our bed?” His voice was laced with amusement as he watched her.
“What do you think?” she rejoined, her fingers briefly finding his sides and tickling him before she skipped backwards out of his reach.
“Good.” He was grinning now, his eyes riveted to her.
She walked to her side of the bed, unbuttoning Peter’s shirt before letting it slide from her shoulders.
“Nice shirt,” he observed, watching her, an arm tucked under his head.
“Thanks.” She slipped under the covers and immediately scooted to curl against him. He slipped his arm under her shoulders, pulling her to him, leaning down to kiss her forehead.
“Missed you,” he whispered into her hair.
“Missed you, too.” She slid her arm across his chest, and looked up to him. “You’re done?”
He gave her a small smile. “Aye, barring the ubiquitous paperwork which seems to plague my job.”
“Was it just him?” Peter couldn’t always tell her the particulars of his cases-but she always asked, always wanted him to know that she was happy to listen, if he was willing or able to talk.
Peter sighed, looking up to the ceiling. “No, but then it rarely is. Was him, and a few of his underlings. All we had to do was corral him, though; he put up a fair fight, but we got him, and then we got him to rather neatly give up the people who’d done his dirty work for him.”
“And now you’ve got him not only for manslaughter-“
“Murder,” Peter corrected, absently.
“Murder,” she amended, trying not to smile, “as well as assault of officers of the police.”
“Indeed we do.”
“Good.”
“Indeed.” He smiled, looking back at her. “And now I have the rest of the weekend in which to catch up on sleeping with my wife.”
“Just sleeping?” She gave him a sly smile.
“For now, Rose, just sleeping. But when I wake up...well, who knows?” His eyes were already growing heavy, his smile sleepy, and Rose placed a kiss against his chest.
“Well, then-let’s get you to sleep, shall we?”
“I’d like that,” he replied softly.
She pulled the duvet up over them both, and watched as his eyes fluttered shut.
“G’night, Peter,” she whispered, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder.
“Night, Rose,” he murmured in response.
She felt his body relax, and smiled as his breathing evened out a few moments later. Closing her eyes, she let the steady beat of his heart lull her back to sleep.
~fin~
Rating: K
Characters: Rose Tyler, Peter Carlisle
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.
Summary: Rose finds Peter after a long night at work.
Notes: Inspired by swankkat.
I wrote this on Monday, so many, many thanks to earlgreytea68 and chicklet73 for their quickfire beta of this. Any errors in the story are mine, and mine alone.
A Quiet Thing
Rose woke suddenly, disoriented, wondering what it was that had pulled her from deep sleep. She rolled over, noting that Peter’s side of the bed was still empty; he was still working, then, another long night in a series of long nights.
She sighed, her hand gently stroking across where he would have lain, the sunlight spilling across his pillow. He’d been pushing himself hard on his latest case-the murder of a young orphan--and the lack of anyone in the neighbourhood seeming to care only fuelled Peter and Elias’s determination to find out who’d deemed the lad a liability. The two men had been following their main suspect, a small-time fixer in one of the seedier parts of town, going into work as the sun set, and often not returning until well after she’d left for work. It had been a week since she’d had more than a half-hour with her husband; and it appeared that he’d not even have a weekend day off from the case.
She stiffened as she heard an odd noise in the house; she closed her eyes, straining, and heard it again. It sounded like it was coming from the en-suite, and she slowly sat up, her eyes skipping first to the hall door-wide open, the hall beyond dark-then to the door to the en-suite.
It was mostly closed, which was a decided departure from how she had left it when she’d gone to bed the night before. She felt a brief flash of fear that someone had managed to break in to the house, then tucked it away-they had state-of-the-art security on the house, courtesy of Torchwood and Pete’s concern; and if someone was going to go to the trouble to break in, she had serious doubts that the first place they’d go would be the en-suite.
She threw the covers back, swinging her legs over the side of the bed; she’d left her robe in the loo, and slowly crossed to the wardrobe to find a shirt. She tripped over a discarded jumper-Peter’s, without question-and felt a small smile flicker across her face. It was the jumper he’d been wearing as he’d run out the door the night before.
It appeared Peter was home, after all-and that he’d stripped as he crossed the room.
She glanced over, noting his shirt hanging off the end of the bed, tossed there as he made his way across the room. Picking it up, she gave it a quick once-over to make sure it was clean enough, and slowly pulled it on as she moved to the door to the en-suite. She heard a soft sigh, and the equally soft lapping of water, and she gently pushed the door open.
Peter was, as she’d suspected, in the bath. He was reclining against the head of the tub, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. His hair clung damply to his forehead-he’d no doubt slipped into the water, had run his hands through his hair, and then had relaxed. The water was almost still, and steam gently curled off it, catching the diffuse light coming from the window directly above the bath. He’d opened the window to let the early summer breeze in while he bathed, and the sheer curtain gently wafted in the fresh air.
Her thoughts of berating him for doing something as dangerous as taking a bath when he was exhausted slipped away as she stood and simply gazed him. She noted he needed to shave again, and considered that perhaps he’d let her do it for him that morning-it would be something to suggest, once he’d slept for a bit. He looked so peaceful, dozing in the warm water; even his shoulders, which usually carried so much of his tension, had relaxed, and she let her gaze linger on the fair freckled skin before moving on. Water droplets glistened in the hair on his chest , small diamonds emphasizing the planes of his torso, making her want to lean over and gently run her tongue across his skin, collecting the beads of moisture. His hands floated in the water, and it occurred to Rose that his arms must have slipped from the edge of the tub as sleep overtook him.
They’d taken to keeping an old, straight-back chair in the en-suite-the room was large enough to accommodate it, and the piece of furniture was useful for holding clothing whilst one or both of them bathed. It was, fortunately, clear of anything at the moment, and she tiptoed over to where it stood at the head of the tub.
Peter continued to sleep as she sat down, perched on the edge of the chair. The water had finally stilled, and Peter’s body was visible under the surface, his long legs not quite straight as they reached towards the other end of the bath. It was a rare blessing indeed to have the chance to see Peter so completely relaxed and unguarded, and she took a moment to simply admire him-his gorgeous body, the long lean lines she adored, the whole of the man she loved.
Peter let out a soft sigh, settling further into sleep, and Rose tentatively reached forward, her fingertips ghosting across his cool, damp hair. Peter let out another little sigh, causing her to smile; she braced her right hand on the edge of the tub, and leaned forward to ghost the fingers of her left hand up his neck, around the shell of his ear, and into his hair. She drifted her knuckles across the crown of his head, and then slipped her fingers back down through the silken strands.
She set a steady rhythm, gently stroking his hair, periodically brushing her fingers across his forehead, slowly willing the last remnant of his tension-the furrow in his brow-to relax away. The dark crescents of Peter’s eyelashes were almost auburn in the brightening light, and she slowly drifted her fingertip across his cheek, trying to draw a line connecting his freckles.
He wrinkled his nose at the irritation, and she hastily returned her hand to his hair, smoothing it down. Peter made a small noise, released another sigh; and then his eyes slowly fluttered as he awoke.
“Shhh,” she whispered, still stroking her hand across his hair.
Peter’s lips gently curved upwards, but he remained silent. His hands moved slowly, stirring the water; Rose saw goose bumps prickle across his skin as the cooler water mixed with the remaining warm water in eddies against his body, and she leaned down to place a kiss against his hair before resuming the motion of her hand.
Peter rolled to his side, curling his right hand to his chest as though he were tucking up against a pillow, his left hand finding her right where it rested on the edge of the bath, and he pushed himself up the end of the tub just enough to rest his cheek on the bathtub’s edge. Rose smiled as it occurred to her that Peter was rather like a cat at that moment, tilting his head so she would stroke a different part of his hair, and she had a brief image of Peter purring. She slipped her fingers through the wet hair at the back of his head, spreading her fingers out until she found the nape of his neck and then pulling them back upwards to rest against her palm.
She thought Peter might have fallen asleep again as she repeated the motion, over and over again, always moving at a slow but steady pace, never breaking rhythm. He needed a haircut-his hair was not only covering his ears, but the brown strands where he rested his head hung over the edge-but she loved it when it was this length, enough to cover her fingers as they skated along his scalp; enough to bunch in her fist when they made love.
His hair was drying quickly in the breeze from the window, but the water had to be almost cold as he continued to lay, curled on his side in the tub, and she finally decided that it would be best to get him out, dried off, and into bed so he could sleep properly.
“Love,” she whispered, leaning forward, her fingers now gently kneading the nape of his neck.
He didn’t respond, and she placed a kiss across the crown of his head. “Peter,” she whispered into his hair before pulling back.
“Mmmmm?” came the sleepy response.
“Y’wanna go to bed?”
His lips curved upwards into a contented smile.
“Then let’s get y’out of the tub, yeah?”
His hand tightened on hers, and she stilled.
“Peter, the water’s freezin’-“
He sighed, then slowly opened his eyes and tilted his head to look up at her. “K,” he said thickly, still sleep-fogged.
“K. ‘M gonna get you a towel, yeah? If you can get up out of the bath?”
He squeezed her hand, then released it; she leaned down, kissing his temple, then rose to grab a towel from the towel rack. She heard the soft slosh of water behind her, and turned around to watch Peter roll, duck under the water in the tub, then slowly stand. The water ran down his body, splashing where it landed around his knees, and he pushed his dripping hair back from his forehead before looking up to her.
She stood by the mat, waiting for him to step out of the tub; he quirked a small smile at her, letting her gaze openly at him for a few moments. A gust of wind then blew in through the window and she watched as a chill passed through him, spurring him out of the tub and into the towel held in her arms. She wrapped it around him, letting out a squeak as he rested his head on her shoulder, soaking the shirt she wore; she felt him chuckle, right before he looked up at her.
“You terrible man,” she chastised, fighting down a laugh.
“And so I am,” he acknowledged, taking the towel from her and drying off fully. He finished by rubbing it vigorously over his hair, ensuring it stood on end when he pulled the towel away.
“And incorrigible.”
“Aye.” He glanced to the side, tossing the towel onto the chair, then looked back to her as he moved to cup her jaw. “But you love it.”
“Yes,” she sighed, her eyes fluttering shut as he brushed his thumb over her cheeks.
“I’m sorry I woke you.” He placed a kiss against the corner of her mouth, then stepped back.
“Don’t be. You should have woken me up when you got home.”
“Why? You were slumbering peacefully-and I just wanted to clean up a wee bit before joining you.”
“Silly man-you know you shouldn’t-“
“Take a bath when I’m tired. But I needed a soak, Rose.” He grimaced as he stretched, then rubbed his right hand across his left bicep. “Took a bit of a beating last night. This morning, really.”
Her gaze sharpened, focusing on where his hand moved across his arm. A bruise was starting to form there-it looked like he’d been grabbed-and then she noted that his right hand, too, had suffered. She was surprised she’d not noticed the injury while he was in the bath, then considered that she’d been distracted by the whole of having a naked Peter resting peacefully before her.
She reached for his hand, gently pulling it away from his arm, cradling it in her own hands before continuing to examine the damage he’d incurred. Peter remained quiet as she gently ghosted her fingers across his knuckles, tracing the scratches and cuts, noting the redness where his joints had been particularly abused. She gently guided his fingers so they were straight, his hand now fully flexed where it rested on her palm, and she drifted her fingers across his, looking for injury, waiting for him to flinch or wince in pain from a hidden hurt.
“You’re lucky you didn’t break your hand,” she observed quietly when she was satisfied he was unharmed.
“I do know how to throw a punch, you know,” Peter replied, amusement in his tone.
“Or two, at a guess.” She punctuated the observation by bringing his hand to her lips and gently kissing his knuckles.
She released his hand, then moved around him in order to look over his back and see what other damage he might have suffered. As she suspected, there was further evidence that whomever they’d arrested had not gone quietly. She frowned at the large bruise forming on the back of his left thigh-probably from a kick-as well as a smaller one on his lower back, where someone had most likely tried to kidney punch him.
“I hope you gave as good as you got,” she said, her voice clipped; she moved to once again stand in front of Peter, gazing up at him.
“I think it’s safe to say that Elias and I both repaid him in kind, yes.” His tone was deceptively mild, and his eyes held a hardness she only rarely saw.
“Good.”
“You can understand the bath?” His gaze warmed, and the corner of his mouth quirked slightly upwards.
“Yeah,” she replied, her voice softening. “C’mon.” She slipped her hand into his, leading him out of the en-suite and back into their bedroom. She walked him to his side of the bed, folding the duvet back, guiding him to sit; he glanced up at her, bemused but compliant.
“I can take care of myself, y’know.”
“I know.” She tapped his legs, encouraging him to slip them under the covers, then pulled the duvet up over his hips.
“Y’goin to join me in our bed?” His voice was laced with amusement as he watched her.
“What do you think?” she rejoined, her fingers briefly finding his sides and tickling him before she skipped backwards out of his reach.
“Good.” He was grinning now, his eyes riveted to her.
She walked to her side of the bed, unbuttoning Peter’s shirt before letting it slide from her shoulders.
“Nice shirt,” he observed, watching her, an arm tucked under his head.
“Thanks.” She slipped under the covers and immediately scooted to curl against him. He slipped his arm under her shoulders, pulling her to him, leaning down to kiss her forehead.
“Missed you,” he whispered into her hair.
“Missed you, too.” She slid her arm across his chest, and looked up to him. “You’re done?”
He gave her a small smile. “Aye, barring the ubiquitous paperwork which seems to plague my job.”
“Was it just him?” Peter couldn’t always tell her the particulars of his cases-but she always asked, always wanted him to know that she was happy to listen, if he was willing or able to talk.
Peter sighed, looking up to the ceiling. “No, but then it rarely is. Was him, and a few of his underlings. All we had to do was corral him, though; he put up a fair fight, but we got him, and then we got him to rather neatly give up the people who’d done his dirty work for him.”
“And now you’ve got him not only for manslaughter-“
“Murder,” Peter corrected, absently.
“Murder,” she amended, trying not to smile, “as well as assault of officers of the police.”
“Indeed we do.”
“Good.”
“Indeed.” He smiled, looking back at her. “And now I have the rest of the weekend in which to catch up on sleeping with my wife.”
“Just sleeping?” She gave him a sly smile.
“For now, Rose, just sleeping. But when I wake up...well, who knows?” His eyes were already growing heavy, his smile sleepy, and Rose placed a kiss against his chest.
“Well, then-let’s get you to sleep, shall we?”
“I’d like that,” he replied softly.
She pulled the duvet up over them both, and watched as his eyes fluttered shut.
“G’night, Peter,” she whispered, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder.
“Night, Rose,” he murmured in response.
She felt his body relax, and smiled as his breathing evened out a few moments later. Closing her eyes, she let the steady beat of his heart lull her back to sleep.
~fin~