The Substance of Things Hoped For, 12/29
Title: The Substance of Things Hoped For (12/29)
Rating: T
Author: jlrpuck
Pairing: Rose Tyler, Peter Carlisle
Disclaimer: Characters from Doctor Who and Blackpool are the property of BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect; but Ruby, Elias, and Lucy are all mine. No personal profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary: Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. - Hebrews 11:1
Notes: Thank you to both
earlgreytea68 and
chicklet73 for their beta work-and to
chicklet73 for her encouragement and advice as this was written.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12
It was still blowing a gale when Peter awoke the next morning. Graeme had warned him that it was expected to last a few days, the storm whipping in from the north Atlantic, having had the plenty of time in which to build its fury. “Worst storm in years, they’re callin' it, which you’d know if you’d kept a telly in that cottage of yours.”
Peter still refused to keep a television in his sanctuary, but he did have a radio hidden somewhere…He and Rose really ought to have it on, to listen in case things really did get bad.
The bedroom was far darker than normal, a combination of the shuttered windows and the meagre light filtering through the thick grey clouds; at least the windows on the lee side of the house were unshuttered, and he tiptoed over to have a peek outside before setting to getting dressed for the day.
The grasses and trees going up the hill behind the cottage were bent almost parallel to the ground; it looked like waves of green rippling across the land as the wind paused, then blew anew. The rain, at least, seemed to have stopped for a bit-he might have time to pop out the back door and have a look round the side of the house before the back end of the storm came through.
At least the power had remained on; he sighed gratefully at the realization, and mentally thanked the government for taking the time to re-line much of the Ayrshire coast after a particularly vicious winter storm nearly a decade previous.
Rose was still asleep, wrapped in the blanket she kept on her side of the bed, her face peaceful in the weak light. His Rose; she was still beautiful to him, was still the most incredible person he knew.
It was almost hard to believe that she’d vanished; had it only been four days ago that she’d returned? He shook his head, disbelieving. It felt like a dream now-a horrible nightmare, really, something which had crept into his mind in the night and now, in the light of day, retreated back to its darkest recesses..
She’d told him, years and years before, that the one time she’d thought she’d lost him, she’d almost been prostrate with grief. It was when he’d been shot-the lone time, thankfully-the first night he was in hospital; Ruby had left for the evening, Jackie had gone to find tea or food. Rose had told him she’d fallen asleep, had had a vivid dream that he had gone into cardiac arrest and died right in front of her. She’d awoken, convinced that the machines beeping in front of her were the dream; it wasn’t until Jackie had found her in the middle of the night, hiccoughing, that she’d realized that his death had been the dream.
He felt a brief flash of panic-was this the dream? Was Rose, here in Croy with him, a way for his mind to cope with her loss? He ran his hand across his face, grimacing as he felt the stubble there. No, this wasn’t the dream-if it was, he’d be clean shaven.
He grinned ruefully at the thought, and slowly walked over to Rose. She was still completely out, would be for a while longer if he knew his wife. He had time enough to pull on some clothes, to hurry downstairs and check outside before making coffee and breakfast. He leaned down, brushing a kiss across her cheek, then set about finding some clothes.
It was bracingly cold outside, the wind swirling as he tugged the door shut behind him. He’d pulled on jeans and the heaviest jumper he had at the cottage; his Wellies made the denim bunch up around his calves, creating little eddies of cool air within the rubber of the boots. He grimaced-it wasn’t raining any longer, but the spray from the sea hung heavy in the air, the salt causing his eyes to sting as soon as he reached the corner of the house.
The car was covered with the salty spray, the only clean part the front corner of the driver’s side which sat in a small lee formed by the car body. Mercifully, the windows were all intact, and nothing appeared to have dented the vehicle. He continued on around to the front of the house, taking careful note of the condition of the shutters, glancing periodically to where the sea raged against the shore, a good thirty feet closer to the cottage than usual. The picnic table wasn’t visible; he heaved a reluctant sigh as it occurred to him that it might have been washed away during the night.
The wind pushed and pulled at him as he continued his circuit, making sure all was as well as could be expected with the cottage, as well as with the road they used. It started to rain as he stood, peering up the narrow track; it looked clear enough, at any rate, and it wasn’t as though they’d be using it for another day, and he hurried back through increasingly large-and surprisingly cold-raindrops to the safety of the cottage.
The silence was almost painful once he was back inside, the power of the wind reduced once more to a pitiful sounding whine as it swirled around the stones. He glanced ruefully at his clothes, completely soaked through; it would make sense to go upstairs with all due haste, to take a hot bath and put on dry things before making coffee.
He gave a small smirk as he ignored common sense, moving to put the kettle on. As the water warmed he removed his jumper then his jeans; he draped them over the back of a chair, next to where he’d shed his Wellies upon entering the house, then moved to the counter to measure coffee out into the cafetiere.
He’d thawed out, in large part, by the time he was ready to go upstairs; the freshly-filled cafetiere, two mugs, and sugar and milk were set on a tray, along with an apple and an orange. He took a quick glance around to make sure the stove was shut off, then carefully carried the tray towards the bedroom and-hopefully-a still-sleeping Rose.
She rolled over as he shouldered the door to the bedroom open; she was blinking her eyes slowly open as he reached the bed.
“Good morning,” he whispered, setting the tray on the bedside table, then pressing the coffee out.
Rose mumbled something which could have been good morning; he turned, smiling, pouring out her coffee and adding milk and sugar the way she liked.
“Coffee?” he asked, turning back to her.
She blearily pushed herself up, holding the sheet to her chest to preserve modesty. They’d slept naked together for at least a decade, and yet it was a habit she’d kept; he loved it, loved the reminder of the shyness she’d shown on their very first night together, so very long ago.
Rose took the mug from him, blowing across the surface of the hot liquid before taking a small sip; he moved to the loo, finding her bathrobe hanging over the door, and brought it back to the bed.
In a routine they’d long since perfected, she handed him her mug; he took it, silently handing her the robe, patiently waiting as she pulled it around herself and slipped her arms through the sleeves. She loosely belted it, sill sitting, and then held her hand out for her mug of coffee.
As Rose continued to sip at her beverage he prepared his own cup, mixing it just so, then walking around to his side of the bed. Rose moved over, giving him some room, and he joined her, unable to keep from sighing as he relaxed onto the warm sheets.
“Still blowin’, then?” Rose asked once he was sipping his own coffee.
“Aye. Like to for at least the rest of the day.”
“Lucy would have loved it,” Rose observed, glancing over to him with a smile.
“She’ll be getting a bit of this down at school, I’m sure.”
“But they’ll not let her run around in it.”
He gave Rose a small grin. “Are you suggesting I would have?”
She skated her glance back to him. “You’re the one who read that into the statement, Detective Chief Inspector Carlisle.”
He laughed, and took another sip of his coffee.
They spent the day snuggled together in bed; when breakfast-such as it was-was finished, Rose curled against him and fell back asleep. He lay there, staring at the roof above them, letting his mind wander, thinking of nothing and anything. When Rose awoke an hour later to use the loo, he took the dishes downstairs, then looked through the cupboards to find food which could be taken upstairs and eaten as they were hungry. He was only partially successful-there was more fruit, and a packet of biscuits; there were also some crackers, which went with the smelly, soft cheese Rose had exclaimed over during their visit to the market in Maybole. With a wrinkled nose he deposited the last food finds on the tray with everything else he’d found, then added two glasses and a pitcher of water.
Rose was back in bed when he carried the tray into the room; she’d turned on a lamp, at least, adding considerable cheer to the room.
“Bored, Peter?” she observed upon seeing the tray piled high with snacks.
“It’s easier than dashing up and down stairs-it’s bloody cold down in the kitchen.” He set the tray on one of the bedside tables then hastened into the bed, sliding his feet down to find Rose’s to prove his point. She yelped in protest, reaching to tickle him in retaliation; and they soon found themselves in a proper tickle fight, fingers dancing across skin, each of them squirming as the other found a particularly ticklish spot.
It was a draw, as their tickle fights usually were; but it felt good to laugh so unreservedly, to simply be able to act like a child again for a wee bit. Rose collapsed against him when they’d called truce, her breath heaving even as she still periodically giggled, and he wrapped his arm around her, holding her there.
He once again felt a deep wave of gratitude wash through him-thanks for not only finding Rose so long ago, but for having been lucky enough to marry her, to have a daughter with her; to have her back, after having thought her gone.
“Mo gradh,” he whispered against her hair once he’d properly caught his breath.
“Duine agam,” she replied, leaning back to look at him.
He paused a beat, surprised, then responded with a grin, “A’ bhean agam.” He leaned against the pillows, sliding his hand down her arm. “You clever woman-where’d ye learn that?”
Rose laughed. “Known it for a long while-just…just never felt quite right, sayin’ it.”
“Whyever not?”
She shrugged, blushing. “Dunno. Jus’…’s your language. Yours and Lucy’s.”
“Rose.” He’d dropped his voice, the single syllable infused with feeling. She slowly raised her eyes to his, and he gently said, “’s not ‘my’ language, or ‘Lucy’s’.”
Rose dropped her gaze; he continued. “I’m sorry if you feel that we’re excluding you, Rose.”
“I…” Rose huffed, shaking her head briefly, then looked at him. “’s not that. ‘s lovely, Peter; I love that you’ve taught it to her, that you’ve taken it up. I jus’…I feel bad that I haven’t learnt it-not well enough to speak it with her…or with you.”
He was genuinely surprised by the statement-Rose had always seemed to enjoy listening to him and Lucy, had never seemed to mind not knowing what he said, or they said; had never seemed inclined to try to learn, either.
“I…” He was about to apologize again, to tell Rose he was sorry he’d not thought to include her, when he opted for a different tack. “You can still learn, Rose. If you like.”He leaned down, whispering against her ear, “I’d be more than happy to teach you, you know.” He brushed a gentle kiss across the corner of her jaw to punctuate the statement, then pulled back.
Rose looked up at him, her eyes dark-and, to his delight, laughter lurking in them. “Will you teach me things that are fit for our daughter to know?”
“Eventually. If you’re a good student.”
Rose gave him a slow smile. “Oh, I’m a very good student.” She leaned up, kissing him, her hand sliding across his shoulder, up into his hair, pulling him down to her.
“Pòg,” he whispered when Rose broke the kiss, moving to straddle him.
She didn’t repeat it, simply leaned in and began kissing him again.
They made love as the storm continued to lash against the cottage; the image of Rose moving above him, the sound of her whispering to him, gasping as he moved within her, erased anything which might have existed outside the room. She watched him as she rocked against his hips, her hands dancing across his skin; and then she was sliding down, placing gentle kisses over his scars, then dragging her tongue down the trail of hair leading to his erection. She teased him mercilessly with her tongue, her hands doing one thing while her mouth did another, causing his hands to pull the sheets into his fists as he arched his back to meet her. And when he thought he could take it no longer she moved again, quickly shifting so she was over him, guiding him into her.
“Duine agam,” she whispered as she slid down, making a small circle with her hips as he was buried fully within her.
“Rose…”
“Peter, duine agam…” She rocked against him, slowly at first, then faster, then still faster, repeating the words like a mantra. His orgasm flashed through him, his world going white as he clenched his eyes shut, his body releasing into Rose as she continued to rock against him.
He heard her shout his name, once, gasping; he opened his eyes to the beautiful sight of her arching, her head thrown back as her own orgasm washed through her, her hips rocking erratically against his. He reached for her, pulled her towards him as she relaxed; the kiss he gave her was gentle, a way to share how he felt about her without speaking.
Rose moved, shifting so he slid out of her, stretching alongside him, all without breaking the kiss; as she lay down he raised up, turning them so she ended up lying on the mattress as he leaned over her, still kissing her.
He was aware again of the rain pounding against the cottage, and of the wind howling; was aware, too, that Rose was growing sleepy, her kisses increasingly languid. He pulled back, gently brushing his fingers across her cheek, teasing gently, “Tired again, Mrs. Carlisle?”
She gave him a soft grin. “Mmm, must have been the exercise.”
He placed a small kiss on her nose, causing her to wrinkle it. “We do have a small spot of lunch up here, if you wanted to eat before napping.”
She looked steadily up at him; he met the gaze, his fingers still stroking across her skin. “’d be nice,” she whispered after a moment, her hand reaching up to cup his jaw.
He leaned forward, pressing his lips against the apple of her cheek, feeling her sigh softly at the gesture; she slid her hands over his shoulders, and then pulled him to her in an embrace.
“Rose…are you alright?” he asked softly, worry flashing through him.
Rose tightened her hold on him, burying her face in the curve of his neck. He felt her take a deep, shuddering breath, felt his heart begin to race as he fought back panic.
“Rose,” he whispered once more. She burrowed against him, her arms tightening; he eased himself down, sliding an arm under her shoulders, pulling her to him as he lay on his side.
They lay like that for a long while, Rose clinging to him, not sobbing, but definitely crying; he gently stroked his hand over her back, his mind racing as he contemplated what might be the matter, knowing he’d have to wait until she was ready and able to speak. He mentally cursed Torchwood, thinking black thoughts about the organization that needed Rose’s field expertise so desperately. And he cursed himself, too, for making her think that she was anything other than a wonderful mum.
“One of these days, ‘ll stop cryin’,” she finally murmured against him, pulling back so he could see her, sniffling as she looked up at him.
“’s okay, Rose.” He was at a complete loss for what to say; she’d seemed like she’d been doing well, had been laughing and having fun-seemingly-not just that morning, but in the days since they’d come to Croy. “Do...d’ye want to talk? About it?”
He held his breath, watching Rose as she watched him; watched as she weighed his question, wrestling with whatever it was that she was trying to bury.
And then she nodded.
“’K,” he said softly. Rose scooted away, creating space between them so, he hoped, she could look at him; he hastily reached down and grabbed the duvet, pulling it up to cover the two of them. Rose gave him a small smile of thanks, snuggling under the duvet before she looked at him once more.
“I…I…” She dropped her gaze, staring at his chest before she continued. “I still feel guilty. Like…like nothin’ I can do’ll make up for what happened. Not always-I was fine yesterday, yeah? But…this mornin’, I woke up, and you weren’t in bed, and I had this thought that maybe…maybe you were angry with me, because of what’d happened, and maybe…maybe Lucy was, too. And I couldn’t blame you, not really, because I shouldn’t be goin’ out anymore and doin’ these things, not if it means I might not come home, but I still want t’do them, and I feel so selfish for it, for wantin’ to do what it is I’ve always done.”
She was still gazing at his chest, the words having poured out in a rush. Rose was breathing heavily; she had to be terrified of sharing those thoughts out-either of finding out they were true, or of him marginalizing them.
Peter swallowed, trying to work out how best to tell Rose not to worry, when clearly she needed more reassurance than that.
“I love you, Rose.”
She was surprised by that, her eyes flying to his. Making sure he had her attention, he continued, “I might be angry with you sometimes-but I’ll always love you. I…I was angry, when you came back-but I’m not now. Now…now I’m so happy. So happy; it’s like having a second chance, eh? Having the chance to see you with Lucy-you’re such a good mum, you really are-being lucky enough to still wake up with you, or go to sleep with you…” He glanced to her lips, adding, “And I don’t think you’re selfish for wanting to keep doing field work.” He quirked a smile. “At least, nae more selfish than I am for wanting to keep doing detective work when they’ve promoted me out of it.” He met her eyes again. “It’s nae selfish, Rose, if you’re good at it. And if you’re the only one who can do it-which, sometimes, you are.”
“But why should I have to be? Why can’t they?”
“Because they know you can, and you will.”
“Because I have to!”
“No, Rose-you don’t.” He kept his voice gentle, didn’t want to inject any of his personal opinion into the discussion. Rose had told him, when she was pregnant with Lucy, that he’d be happiest if she stayed home wrapped in cotton wool; it wasn’t strictly necessary, but he definitely would be happier if Rose didn't have to dash off into the unknown for stretches at a time. That didn’t mean that it was right for her, though.
Rose gazed at him, intently enough that he had the oddest feeling that she could look into his soul; he returned the gaze steadily, openly, the room filling with the sound of wind. The rain, he noted, had eased.
“I’d feel guilty if I stopped going out into the field,” Rose finally said in a small voice, her eyes shifting slightly away from his.
“I…Rose, I can’t tell you not to feel guilty. I don’t think you should-you do so much for them, would keep doing so much for them, and I don’t know that I agree with them for demanding so much of you. But that’s exactly why I can’t say that-guilty or nae. I’m not unbiased enough; none of us are, I think.” He cupped her jaw, his thumb brushing across her cheek. “I think, though, that you’re too hard on yourself. Far too hard. You want to make peace when perhaps there’s none to be made. You want everybody to live, every time.”
Rose blinked, her eyes flying back to his; he’d said something, some trigger for her, unknowingly. He knew that reaction, knew that it meant she was thinking of her time with the Doctor.
“I’m just like him,” she said softly, realization dawning in her eyes. Peter remained silent, watching her quietly. “Like the Doctor. Thinkin’ I have to meddle with everything, that I can’t take a day off…that, maybe, I don’t deserve to have what I’ve been given.” The last was said so softly he almost didn’t hear the words.
You do! he wanted to say, shaking her. You deserve it all. He instead remained quiet.
She laughed, a sad sort of sound. “The world doesn’t end ‘cause the Doctor dances.” Rose’s lips curved into a wry smile at the words; her eyes shifted, meeting his. “The world doesn’t end ‘cause Rose Carlisle dances,” she said, her smile fading.
“No, it doesn’t,” he said softly, remembering the story he’d heard in bits and pieces through the years-the one where Rose not only met the dashing American named Jack, but the one where everybody survived at the end.
“I deserve to be happy,” she said, looking at him, daring him to disagree.
“More than anyone else I know, Rose,” he replied sincerely.
“You deserve to be happy,” she added, once more daring him to demur.
“I…think I’m a very lucky man indeed, Rose, and I’m grateful for it.”
Rose slid her fingers over his chin, ghosting them across his stubble. “You deserve everything you’ve got, too, Peter.”
“Yes,” he sighed, his eyes fluttering shut as her fingers drifted gently down his neck.
~ - ~
Chapter 13
Duine agam - my husband
A’ bhean agam - my wife
Pòg - kiss
Rating: T
Author: jlrpuck
Pairing: Rose Tyler, Peter Carlisle
Disclaimer: Characters from Doctor Who and Blackpool are the property of BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect; but Ruby, Elias, and Lucy are all mine. No personal profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary: Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. - Hebrews 11:1
Notes: Thank you to both
earlgreytea68 and
chicklet73 for their beta work-and to
chicklet73 for her encouragement and advice as this was written.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12
It was still blowing a gale when Peter awoke the next morning. Graeme had warned him that it was expected to last a few days, the storm whipping in from the north Atlantic, having had the plenty of time in which to build its fury. “Worst storm in years, they’re callin' it, which you’d know if you’d kept a telly in that cottage of yours.”
Peter still refused to keep a television in his sanctuary, but he did have a radio hidden somewhere…He and Rose really ought to have it on, to listen in case things really did get bad.
The bedroom was far darker than normal, a combination of the shuttered windows and the meagre light filtering through the thick grey clouds; at least the windows on the lee side of the house were unshuttered, and he tiptoed over to have a peek outside before setting to getting dressed for the day.
The grasses and trees going up the hill behind the cottage were bent almost parallel to the ground; it looked like waves of green rippling across the land as the wind paused, then blew anew. The rain, at least, seemed to have stopped for a bit-he might have time to pop out the back door and have a look round the side of the house before the back end of the storm came through.
At least the power had remained on; he sighed gratefully at the realization, and mentally thanked the government for taking the time to re-line much of the Ayrshire coast after a particularly vicious winter storm nearly a decade previous.
Rose was still asleep, wrapped in the blanket she kept on her side of the bed, her face peaceful in the weak light. His Rose; she was still beautiful to him, was still the most incredible person he knew.
It was almost hard to believe that she’d vanished; had it only been four days ago that she’d returned? He shook his head, disbelieving. It felt like a dream now-a horrible nightmare, really, something which had crept into his mind in the night and now, in the light of day, retreated back to its darkest recesses..
She’d told him, years and years before, that the one time she’d thought she’d lost him, she’d almost been prostrate with grief. It was when he’d been shot-the lone time, thankfully-the first night he was in hospital; Ruby had left for the evening, Jackie had gone to find tea or food. Rose had told him she’d fallen asleep, had had a vivid dream that he had gone into cardiac arrest and died right in front of her. She’d awoken, convinced that the machines beeping in front of her were the dream; it wasn’t until Jackie had found her in the middle of the night, hiccoughing, that she’d realized that his death had been the dream.
He felt a brief flash of panic-was this the dream? Was Rose, here in Croy with him, a way for his mind to cope with her loss? He ran his hand across his face, grimacing as he felt the stubble there. No, this wasn’t the dream-if it was, he’d be clean shaven.
He grinned ruefully at the thought, and slowly walked over to Rose. She was still completely out, would be for a while longer if he knew his wife. He had time enough to pull on some clothes, to hurry downstairs and check outside before making coffee and breakfast. He leaned down, brushing a kiss across her cheek, then set about finding some clothes.
It was bracingly cold outside, the wind swirling as he tugged the door shut behind him. He’d pulled on jeans and the heaviest jumper he had at the cottage; his Wellies made the denim bunch up around his calves, creating little eddies of cool air within the rubber of the boots. He grimaced-it wasn’t raining any longer, but the spray from the sea hung heavy in the air, the salt causing his eyes to sting as soon as he reached the corner of the house.
The car was covered with the salty spray, the only clean part the front corner of the driver’s side which sat in a small lee formed by the car body. Mercifully, the windows were all intact, and nothing appeared to have dented the vehicle. He continued on around to the front of the house, taking careful note of the condition of the shutters, glancing periodically to where the sea raged against the shore, a good thirty feet closer to the cottage than usual. The picnic table wasn’t visible; he heaved a reluctant sigh as it occurred to him that it might have been washed away during the night.
The wind pushed and pulled at him as he continued his circuit, making sure all was as well as could be expected with the cottage, as well as with the road they used. It started to rain as he stood, peering up the narrow track; it looked clear enough, at any rate, and it wasn’t as though they’d be using it for another day, and he hurried back through increasingly large-and surprisingly cold-raindrops to the safety of the cottage.
The silence was almost painful once he was back inside, the power of the wind reduced once more to a pitiful sounding whine as it swirled around the stones. He glanced ruefully at his clothes, completely soaked through; it would make sense to go upstairs with all due haste, to take a hot bath and put on dry things before making coffee.
He gave a small smirk as he ignored common sense, moving to put the kettle on. As the water warmed he removed his jumper then his jeans; he draped them over the back of a chair, next to where he’d shed his Wellies upon entering the house, then moved to the counter to measure coffee out into the cafetiere.
He’d thawed out, in large part, by the time he was ready to go upstairs; the freshly-filled cafetiere, two mugs, and sugar and milk were set on a tray, along with an apple and an orange. He took a quick glance around to make sure the stove was shut off, then carefully carried the tray towards the bedroom and-hopefully-a still-sleeping Rose.
She rolled over as he shouldered the door to the bedroom open; she was blinking her eyes slowly open as he reached the bed.
“Good morning,” he whispered, setting the tray on the bedside table, then pressing the coffee out.
Rose mumbled something which could have been good morning; he turned, smiling, pouring out her coffee and adding milk and sugar the way she liked.
“Coffee?” he asked, turning back to her.
She blearily pushed herself up, holding the sheet to her chest to preserve modesty. They’d slept naked together for at least a decade, and yet it was a habit she’d kept; he loved it, loved the reminder of the shyness she’d shown on their very first night together, so very long ago.
Rose took the mug from him, blowing across the surface of the hot liquid before taking a small sip; he moved to the loo, finding her bathrobe hanging over the door, and brought it back to the bed.
In a routine they’d long since perfected, she handed him her mug; he took it, silently handing her the robe, patiently waiting as she pulled it around herself and slipped her arms through the sleeves. She loosely belted it, sill sitting, and then held her hand out for her mug of coffee.
As Rose continued to sip at her beverage he prepared his own cup, mixing it just so, then walking around to his side of the bed. Rose moved over, giving him some room, and he joined her, unable to keep from sighing as he relaxed onto the warm sheets.
“Still blowin’, then?” Rose asked once he was sipping his own coffee.
“Aye. Like to for at least the rest of the day.”
“Lucy would have loved it,” Rose observed, glancing over to him with a smile.
“She’ll be getting a bit of this down at school, I’m sure.”
“But they’ll not let her run around in it.”
He gave Rose a small grin. “Are you suggesting I would have?”
She skated her glance back to him. “You’re the one who read that into the statement, Detective Chief Inspector Carlisle.”
He laughed, and took another sip of his coffee.
They spent the day snuggled together in bed; when breakfast-such as it was-was finished, Rose curled against him and fell back asleep. He lay there, staring at the roof above them, letting his mind wander, thinking of nothing and anything. When Rose awoke an hour later to use the loo, he took the dishes downstairs, then looked through the cupboards to find food which could be taken upstairs and eaten as they were hungry. He was only partially successful-there was more fruit, and a packet of biscuits; there were also some crackers, which went with the smelly, soft cheese Rose had exclaimed over during their visit to the market in Maybole. With a wrinkled nose he deposited the last food finds on the tray with everything else he’d found, then added two glasses and a pitcher of water.
Rose was back in bed when he carried the tray into the room; she’d turned on a lamp, at least, adding considerable cheer to the room.
“Bored, Peter?” she observed upon seeing the tray piled high with snacks.
“It’s easier than dashing up and down stairs-it’s bloody cold down in the kitchen.” He set the tray on one of the bedside tables then hastened into the bed, sliding his feet down to find Rose’s to prove his point. She yelped in protest, reaching to tickle him in retaliation; and they soon found themselves in a proper tickle fight, fingers dancing across skin, each of them squirming as the other found a particularly ticklish spot.
It was a draw, as their tickle fights usually were; but it felt good to laugh so unreservedly, to simply be able to act like a child again for a wee bit. Rose collapsed against him when they’d called truce, her breath heaving even as she still periodically giggled, and he wrapped his arm around her, holding her there.
He once again felt a deep wave of gratitude wash through him-thanks for not only finding Rose so long ago, but for having been lucky enough to marry her, to have a daughter with her; to have her back, after having thought her gone.
“Mo gradh,” he whispered against her hair once he’d properly caught his breath.
“Duine agam,” she replied, leaning back to look at him.
He paused a beat, surprised, then responded with a grin, “A’ bhean agam.” He leaned against the pillows, sliding his hand down her arm. “You clever woman-where’d ye learn that?”
Rose laughed. “Known it for a long while-just…just never felt quite right, sayin’ it.”
“Whyever not?”
She shrugged, blushing. “Dunno. Jus’…’s your language. Yours and Lucy’s.”
“Rose.” He’d dropped his voice, the single syllable infused with feeling. She slowly raised her eyes to his, and he gently said, “’s not ‘my’ language, or ‘Lucy’s’.”
Rose dropped her gaze; he continued. “I’m sorry if you feel that we’re excluding you, Rose.”
“I…” Rose huffed, shaking her head briefly, then looked at him. “’s not that. ‘s lovely, Peter; I love that you’ve taught it to her, that you’ve taken it up. I jus’…I feel bad that I haven’t learnt it-not well enough to speak it with her…or with you.”
He was genuinely surprised by the statement-Rose had always seemed to enjoy listening to him and Lucy, had never seemed to mind not knowing what he said, or they said; had never seemed inclined to try to learn, either.
“I…” He was about to apologize again, to tell Rose he was sorry he’d not thought to include her, when he opted for a different tack. “You can still learn, Rose. If you like.”He leaned down, whispering against her ear, “I’d be more than happy to teach you, you know.” He brushed a gentle kiss across the corner of her jaw to punctuate the statement, then pulled back.
Rose looked up at him, her eyes dark-and, to his delight, laughter lurking in them. “Will you teach me things that are fit for our daughter to know?”
“Eventually. If you’re a good student.”
Rose gave him a slow smile. “Oh, I’m a very good student.” She leaned up, kissing him, her hand sliding across his shoulder, up into his hair, pulling him down to her.
“Pòg,” he whispered when Rose broke the kiss, moving to straddle him.
She didn’t repeat it, simply leaned in and began kissing him again.
They made love as the storm continued to lash against the cottage; the image of Rose moving above him, the sound of her whispering to him, gasping as he moved within her, erased anything which might have existed outside the room. She watched him as she rocked against his hips, her hands dancing across his skin; and then she was sliding down, placing gentle kisses over his scars, then dragging her tongue down the trail of hair leading to his erection. She teased him mercilessly with her tongue, her hands doing one thing while her mouth did another, causing his hands to pull the sheets into his fists as he arched his back to meet her. And when he thought he could take it no longer she moved again, quickly shifting so she was over him, guiding him into her.
“Duine agam,” she whispered as she slid down, making a small circle with her hips as he was buried fully within her.
“Rose…”
“Peter, duine agam…” She rocked against him, slowly at first, then faster, then still faster, repeating the words like a mantra. His orgasm flashed through him, his world going white as he clenched his eyes shut, his body releasing into Rose as she continued to rock against him.
He heard her shout his name, once, gasping; he opened his eyes to the beautiful sight of her arching, her head thrown back as her own orgasm washed through her, her hips rocking erratically against his. He reached for her, pulled her towards him as she relaxed; the kiss he gave her was gentle, a way to share how he felt about her without speaking.
Rose moved, shifting so he slid out of her, stretching alongside him, all without breaking the kiss; as she lay down he raised up, turning them so she ended up lying on the mattress as he leaned over her, still kissing her.
He was aware again of the rain pounding against the cottage, and of the wind howling; was aware, too, that Rose was growing sleepy, her kisses increasingly languid. He pulled back, gently brushing his fingers across her cheek, teasing gently, “Tired again, Mrs. Carlisle?”
She gave him a soft grin. “Mmm, must have been the exercise.”
He placed a small kiss on her nose, causing her to wrinkle it. “We do have a small spot of lunch up here, if you wanted to eat before napping.”
She looked steadily up at him; he met the gaze, his fingers still stroking across her skin. “’d be nice,” she whispered after a moment, her hand reaching up to cup his jaw.
He leaned forward, pressing his lips against the apple of her cheek, feeling her sigh softly at the gesture; she slid her hands over his shoulders, and then pulled him to her in an embrace.
“Rose…are you alright?” he asked softly, worry flashing through him.
Rose tightened her hold on him, burying her face in the curve of his neck. He felt her take a deep, shuddering breath, felt his heart begin to race as he fought back panic.
“Rose,” he whispered once more. She burrowed against him, her arms tightening; he eased himself down, sliding an arm under her shoulders, pulling her to him as he lay on his side.
They lay like that for a long while, Rose clinging to him, not sobbing, but definitely crying; he gently stroked his hand over her back, his mind racing as he contemplated what might be the matter, knowing he’d have to wait until she was ready and able to speak. He mentally cursed Torchwood, thinking black thoughts about the organization that needed Rose’s field expertise so desperately. And he cursed himself, too, for making her think that she was anything other than a wonderful mum.
“One of these days, ‘ll stop cryin’,” she finally murmured against him, pulling back so he could see her, sniffling as she looked up at him.
“’s okay, Rose.” He was at a complete loss for what to say; she’d seemed like she’d been doing well, had been laughing and having fun-seemingly-not just that morning, but in the days since they’d come to Croy. “Do...d’ye want to talk? About it?”
He held his breath, watching Rose as she watched him; watched as she weighed his question, wrestling with whatever it was that she was trying to bury.
And then she nodded.
“’K,” he said softly. Rose scooted away, creating space between them so, he hoped, she could look at him; he hastily reached down and grabbed the duvet, pulling it up to cover the two of them. Rose gave him a small smile of thanks, snuggling under the duvet before she looked at him once more.
“I…I…” She dropped her gaze, staring at his chest before she continued. “I still feel guilty. Like…like nothin’ I can do’ll make up for what happened. Not always-I was fine yesterday, yeah? But…this mornin’, I woke up, and you weren’t in bed, and I had this thought that maybe…maybe you were angry with me, because of what’d happened, and maybe…maybe Lucy was, too. And I couldn’t blame you, not really, because I shouldn’t be goin’ out anymore and doin’ these things, not if it means I might not come home, but I still want t’do them, and I feel so selfish for it, for wantin’ to do what it is I’ve always done.”
She was still gazing at his chest, the words having poured out in a rush. Rose was breathing heavily; she had to be terrified of sharing those thoughts out-either of finding out they were true, or of him marginalizing them.
Peter swallowed, trying to work out how best to tell Rose not to worry, when clearly she needed more reassurance than that.
“I love you, Rose.”
She was surprised by that, her eyes flying to his. Making sure he had her attention, he continued, “I might be angry with you sometimes-but I’ll always love you. I…I was angry, when you came back-but I’m not now. Now…now I’m so happy. So happy; it’s like having a second chance, eh? Having the chance to see you with Lucy-you’re such a good mum, you really are-being lucky enough to still wake up with you, or go to sleep with you…” He glanced to her lips, adding, “And I don’t think you’re selfish for wanting to keep doing field work.” He quirked a smile. “At least, nae more selfish than I am for wanting to keep doing detective work when they’ve promoted me out of it.” He met her eyes again. “It’s nae selfish, Rose, if you’re good at it. And if you’re the only one who can do it-which, sometimes, you are.”
“But why should I have to be? Why can’t they?”
“Because they know you can, and you will.”
“Because I have to!”
“No, Rose-you don’t.” He kept his voice gentle, didn’t want to inject any of his personal opinion into the discussion. Rose had told him, when she was pregnant with Lucy, that he’d be happiest if she stayed home wrapped in cotton wool; it wasn’t strictly necessary, but he definitely would be happier if Rose didn't have to dash off into the unknown for stretches at a time. That didn’t mean that it was right for her, though.
Rose gazed at him, intently enough that he had the oddest feeling that she could look into his soul; he returned the gaze steadily, openly, the room filling with the sound of wind. The rain, he noted, had eased.
“I’d feel guilty if I stopped going out into the field,” Rose finally said in a small voice, her eyes shifting slightly away from his.
“I…Rose, I can’t tell you not to feel guilty. I don’t think you should-you do so much for them, would keep doing so much for them, and I don’t know that I agree with them for demanding so much of you. But that’s exactly why I can’t say that-guilty or nae. I’m not unbiased enough; none of us are, I think.” He cupped her jaw, his thumb brushing across her cheek. “I think, though, that you’re too hard on yourself. Far too hard. You want to make peace when perhaps there’s none to be made. You want everybody to live, every time.”
Rose blinked, her eyes flying back to his; he’d said something, some trigger for her, unknowingly. He knew that reaction, knew that it meant she was thinking of her time with the Doctor.
“I’m just like him,” she said softly, realization dawning in her eyes. Peter remained silent, watching her quietly. “Like the Doctor. Thinkin’ I have to meddle with everything, that I can’t take a day off…that, maybe, I don’t deserve to have what I’ve been given.” The last was said so softly he almost didn’t hear the words.
You do! he wanted to say, shaking her. You deserve it all. He instead remained quiet.
She laughed, a sad sort of sound. “The world doesn’t end ‘cause the Doctor dances.” Rose’s lips curved into a wry smile at the words; her eyes shifted, meeting his. “The world doesn’t end ‘cause Rose Carlisle dances,” she said, her smile fading.
“No, it doesn’t,” he said softly, remembering the story he’d heard in bits and pieces through the years-the one where Rose not only met the dashing American named Jack, but the one where everybody survived at the end.
“I deserve to be happy,” she said, looking at him, daring him to disagree.
“More than anyone else I know, Rose,” he replied sincerely.
“You deserve to be happy,” she added, once more daring him to demur.
“I…think I’m a very lucky man indeed, Rose, and I’m grateful for it.”
Rose slid her fingers over his chin, ghosting them across his stubble. “You deserve everything you’ve got, too, Peter.”
“Yes,” he sighed, his eyes fluttering shut as her fingers drifted gently down his neck.
~ - ~
Chapter 13
Duine agam - my husband
A’ bhean agam - my wife
Pòg - kiss