A Study in Red Velvet
Title - A Study in Red Velvet
Author -
earlgreytea68
Rating - Teen
Pairing - Peter Carlisle/Rose Tyler
Spoilers - For both Blackpool and S2 of Doctor Who.
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 and Peter (ha!) have a spirited discussion about a certain interesting suit.
Author’s Notes - Hold onto your hats, everyone, because your world is about to turn upside-down. In a startling role reversal,
jlrpuckserved as my Peter/Rose beta this week. I know! Crazy! And it's a good thing she's such a phenomenal writer, because she turned out to be a rubbish beta. No, I'm joking, of course. She's actually an excellent beta, and was patient, supportive, and helpful when the first draft of this story was less than fabulous. In addition, as always, to being very funny. I must also thank her not only for the beta but for the dare/tease/goad/encouragement/generosity on her part that resulted in this fic being written in the first place. Finally, I'm fairly sure the idea for this story was brainstormed during e-mails with
bouncy_castle79(she may have even suggested the ending, although, as we are as one, I am not entirely sure), so thanks to her as well.
(Also, I apologize for the delay in your Monday morning fic, but
jlrpuckis crazy and there was no way I was getting up at 5 a.m. to do this. That is just one of the many ways I am lazier than
jlrpuck.)
“What are you wearing?” asked Rose. Sometimes she purred that question to him, on the other end of his mobile. He rather liked that question then.
She wasn’t purring it now. She was standing in the bedroom, dressed in a simple, pale blue dress, and her hands were on her hips.
He looked down at his outfit. “A suit,” he stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Which he rather thought it was.
Her eyes raked up and down his body. Again, not in the good way. “It’s velvet,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed, pleased she’d noticed, and ran a hand down the front of the coat. He liked the velvet, actually. When he’d selected the suit, the softness of the fabric had made him think Rose would find it nice, touchable.
“It’s…burgundy velvet,” she said.
He looked down at it again. “Wine-coloured, they said in the store. So yes, I suppose, a burgundy wine. A fine merlot.”
Rose stared at him. Then her lips twitched. “With an oaky finish?” she asked, clearly amused.
He wasn’t sure what the joke was, but he smiled back at her, because he couldn’t not smile back at her. Never in his life had he been prone to break out in sudden, unexpected smiles for no reason until Rose Tyler had started smiling at him. Now every curve of her lips made him grin like an idiot. “If you like,” he said.
“And a sparkling overtone of apricot,” she added, and then burst into full-fledged laughter.
He looked at her, bemused but willing to believe that something was funny.
As she caught her breath, she leaned over and kissed his cheek, over the dimple that was not currently in evidence. “That was lovely, Peter, thank you, I needed a good laugh.” She straightened. “Now hurry up and get ready.”
“Get ready?” he echoed, not understanding. “I am ready.”
She smiled indulgently. “Yes, I know. But seriously now: go put on another suit.”
He continued to stare at her. “But I left my other suits in London.”
“Ha ha,” said Rose. “Come on, now, hurry up, we’re going to be late.” She moved past him, toward the en-suite.
“Rose…” he said.
She paused by the bathroom door, turned, and stared at him. There was silence in the room for several seconds. “You’re not joking,” she realized.
“I’m not joking,” he affirmed, seriously.
“You really haven’t any suits here,” she gasped. “You really…” Her eyes looked him up and down again. “You’ve really only got that?”
Peter bristled. Truth be told, he liked the suit. He would never have bought it if he hadn’t. There was something about it that appealed to him, the lush invitation of the fabric to be touched and enjoyed. Rose had laughed at it, and was now insulting it. “What’s wrong with this suit?” he demanded.
She just stared at him, her eyes wide with what he read as disbelief. She couldn’t believe he was asking her this question, he thought. “It’s velvet,” she said.
“Let’s see how many times we can state the obvious,” he drawled, sarcastically.
“It’s burgundy velvet.”
“Well done,” he mocked.
“Peter,” she said, harshly. “You can’t…You can’t…You can’t bloody well wear that to Penny’s wedding!”
“Why not?”
It was another question she couldn’t comprehend. “Why not?” she repeated, shocked.
“You’re always saying that I wear the same thing always and always, that you’re tired of never seeing me in anything different, that I ought to wear more colour.”
“I thought maybe a nice green jumper, Peter, not…Not…You didn’t even think to consult me?”
“Now I can’t dress myself without checking with you first?” he asked, knowing it sounded petulant but unable to help himself. He’d really thought Rose would like the new suit. He had intended it to be a pleasant surprise for her, if he was honest.
“Apparently not,” she retorted.
He turned, pulling open the wardrobe door and staring into it, although he knew what he would see: an assortment of scattered clothing that he kept for the weekends when he and Rose would escape London for the quiet of Kendal. He doubted Rose would think there was anything there appropriate for the apparently impressive event of Penny’s wedding. “There,” he said, gesturing. “Pick something out.”
She peered into the wardrobe, frowning in disapproval. “Well, this is just ridiculous. What are you going to…Don’t you have a kilt anywhere? I mean, if you wanted to be different, couldn’t you have worn a kilt?”
“But...I don’t...I’d only...no. Not for this.”
“How can we go to the wedding with you looking like that? Or wearing jeans?”
“Ashamed to be seen with me, Ms. Tyler? Whatever would the tabloids say if the deadbeat D.I. showed up in clothing that his lover hadn’t bought for him?”
“What do the tabloids have to do with anything?” she snapped. “You’re so bloody obsessed with them I could shake you. Your less-than-stellar taste in clothes is all well and good, Peter, but every once in a while, is it wrong to ask that you just put a bit of effort into the whole thing?”
“Now you sound like Loreen,” he said. He heard himself say it, and wanted immediately to take it back. He didn’t mean it, not remotely. Nothing Rose ever said, even now when they were in the middle of a proper row, ever really sounded like Loreen. The problem was that Loreen had said things like that to him, cruelly and constantly and not at all with the consistent undercurrent of affection that pulsed under every thing, offhand or momentous, that Rose said to him. But nearly the same words. And standing in the bedroom in Kendal in a suit he’d thought would be well-received, he was remembering coming home with an antique bed, delighted with himself and meeting a frown.
All of these comparisons were immensely unfair and he meant none of them, and even out-of-sorts he knew it and knew he had to apologize. But instead of apologizing, his tongue stalled into silence. There was a long, frigid moment when he stood looking into the wardrobe, scared to look in Rose’s direction.
“I what?” she said, finally.
He looked at her then. “Rose-”
“Wear whatever you want,” she interrupted, stepping past him. “I’ll meet you there.”
He closed his eyes and mentally cursed, turning immediately to follow her. She was in full flight mode, and he was remembering that Rose was a world-class sprinter as he followed her down the stairs. “Rose, I-”
She grabbed her purse and the car keys. They only had one car in Kendal at the moment, so he wasn’t sure what she intended him to do to get to the wedding if she left without him. He didn’t think she much cared at the moment.
“Rose, wait,” he said, as she tugged the front door open.
He leaned past her, using his weight to force the door shut again. Rose stood staring at it for a moment, then said, icily, “You let go of this door, or I will make you let go of this door, which is not an experience I think you want, Carlisle.”
“You can’t just go running off,” he said.
“Oh, can’t I? Watch me.” She turned, her back against the door, to meet his eyes, and he took an automatic, reflexive step back at the amount of fury in them. “If I ever told you something like that-if I ever said that anything you did reminded me of the Doctor-I’d be treated to the Peter Carlisle Sarcasm Special for days-possibly months.”
True enough, he admitted, ruefully. “I know. I know. I’m sorry.” He lifted his hands in a gesture of apology. “I didn’t mean it, Rose.”
“You did mean it,” she accused.
“Not really. Not the way you think I…Not really, Rose. Honestly. I just…I thought you’d like the suit. I really did. You…It…I wasn’t thinking clearly and I sort of lashed out and-”
“She didn’t love you, Peter,” said Rose, sounding so close to tears that he stilled. “You’re this gem of a man and she didn’t love you and she didn’t appreciate you and how dare you think the same of me?” She swiped impatiently at a few tears that had leaked out, looking displeased with herself.
“I don’t think the same of you,” he promised her, aching. He cautiously lifted his hands to cup her face. She flinched but she didn’t move away. “I don’t.”
“I love you,” she told him, firmly. “I just don’t like your suit.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, and she allowed him to pull her against him.
She buried her face in the lapel of the burgundy velvet coat, then mumbled against him, “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings by…It’s a lovely suit, Peter. It’s just…very different. And not what I expected.”
“You don’t mean any of that,” he said into her hair.
“Not true.”
“You mean all of it but the part where you called it ‘lovely.’”
She was silent for a second. “Okay, yes. But if you want to wear the suit to the wedding, wear the suit to the wedding. I’m sorry I made a huge issue of it.”
“I’ve really nothing else to wear, Rose.”
She sighed. “Your wardrobe, Peter, it’s just…”
“Yes?” he prompted.
He felt her chuckle against him. “Sexy as hell.”
“Is it now?”
“Yes. That may have something to do with it being yours.” She rubbed her cheek against his coat. “It feels nice, this silly velvet.”
“See? It has its advantages.”
She breathed against his neck, brushed her nose against his skin. “You look good in it,” she murmured. He thought he ought to respond but he was bracing himself for the moment when she brushed his lips across him, which made him close his eyes. “You look good in everything,” she continued, kissing along his jaw line.
“Mmm, yes,” he agreed, as she kissed the corner of his mouth.
She hovered her lips over his, suspended for a breathless moment, before she kissed him. Hard. Harder than he’d expected of her, and he’d thought that the argument must have got her adrenaline flowing. He reached behind her, searching for the door he knew was there, so he could back her against it, focusing on the clever assault of her mouth and the tug of her hands through his hair and the way he always wanted her, even now, after so much time dating her, with an alarming immediacy.
He was shrugging out of the burgundy velvet coat when she reached out and pulled it back on him. He drew back, blinking dazedly, wondering if this was some fantasy of hers, possibly--making love to him while he was mostly dressed in a velvet suit.
She smiled at him, and he waited, tensed with thrilled anticipation, for her next move.
“Okay,” she said. “There. All made up and sealed with a kiss.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Let’s go.” She wriggled out from between him and the door. Which really did nothing to help the situation. “We’re going to be late as it is.”
He watched her as she leaned down to pick up her purse and car keys from the floor. When had she dropped those? Then he recalled that her hands had just been in his hair, so she had to have dropped them at some point during the kiss. “But…” he sputtered. “Aren’t we…”
“You’re blocking the door,” she said, mildly, looking at him. “Aren’t we what?”
“Aren’t we going to have angry, make-up sex against the wall?”
She wrinkled her nose. “’S getting a bit cliché, don’t you think?”
“Uh, no,” he said. “No, I don’t think so at all. Can sex get clichéd?”
“Come on,” she said, succeeding in nudging him out of the way so she could open the door. “We really are going to be appallingly late. With your hair looking the way it is, I would say that everyone will suspect we’ve been delayed for less than respectable reasons, except that your hair always looks a bit like that, so no need to stop and comb it.”
He watched her, astonished, while she walked down the front walk toward the car. “You’re serious about not having sex against the wall?”
She turned, walking backward now toward the car, and taunted him with that tongue-tip grin of hers. “There are other walls, Carlisle. In other places. Now, do you want to drive?”
He caught the keys she tossed to him.
Author -
earlgreytea68
Rating - Teen
Pairing - Peter Carlisle/Rose Tyler
Spoilers - For both Blackpool and S2 of Doctor Who.
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 and Peter (ha!) have a spirited discussion about a certain interesting suit.
Author’s Notes - Hold onto your hats, everyone, because your world is about to turn upside-down. In a startling role reversal,
jlrpuckserved as my Peter/Rose beta this week. I know! Crazy! And it's a good thing she's such a phenomenal writer, because she turned out to be a rubbish beta. No, I'm joking, of course. She's actually an excellent beta, and was patient, supportive, and helpful when the first draft of this story was less than fabulous. In addition, as always, to being very funny. I must also thank her not only for the beta but for the dare/tease/goad/encouragement/generosity on her part that resulted in this fic being written in the first place. Finally, I'm fairly sure the idea for this story was brainstormed during e-mails with
bouncy_castle79(she may have even suggested the ending, although, as we are as one, I am not entirely sure), so thanks to her as well.
(Also, I apologize for the delay in your Monday morning fic, but
jlrpuckis crazy and there was no way I was getting up at 5 a.m. to do this. That is just one of the many ways I am lazier than
jlrpuck.)
“What are you wearing?” asked Rose. Sometimes she purred that question to him, on the other end of his mobile. He rather liked that question then.
She wasn’t purring it now. She was standing in the bedroom, dressed in a simple, pale blue dress, and her hands were on her hips.
He looked down at his outfit. “A suit,” he stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Which he rather thought it was.
Her eyes raked up and down his body. Again, not in the good way. “It’s velvet,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed, pleased she’d noticed, and ran a hand down the front of the coat. He liked the velvet, actually. When he’d selected the suit, the softness of the fabric had made him think Rose would find it nice, touchable.
“It’s…burgundy velvet,” she said.
He looked down at it again. “Wine-coloured, they said in the store. So yes, I suppose, a burgundy wine. A fine merlot.”
Rose stared at him. Then her lips twitched. “With an oaky finish?” she asked, clearly amused.
He wasn’t sure what the joke was, but he smiled back at her, because he couldn’t not smile back at her. Never in his life had he been prone to break out in sudden, unexpected smiles for no reason until Rose Tyler had started smiling at him. Now every curve of her lips made him grin like an idiot. “If you like,” he said.
“And a sparkling overtone of apricot,” she added, and then burst into full-fledged laughter.
He looked at her, bemused but willing to believe that something was funny.
As she caught her breath, she leaned over and kissed his cheek, over the dimple that was not currently in evidence. “That was lovely, Peter, thank you, I needed a good laugh.” She straightened. “Now hurry up and get ready.”
“Get ready?” he echoed, not understanding. “I am ready.”
She smiled indulgently. “Yes, I know. But seriously now: go put on another suit.”
He continued to stare at her. “But I left my other suits in London.”
“Ha ha,” said Rose. “Come on, now, hurry up, we’re going to be late.” She moved past him, toward the en-suite.
“Rose…” he said.
She paused by the bathroom door, turned, and stared at him. There was silence in the room for several seconds. “You’re not joking,” she realized.
“I’m not joking,” he affirmed, seriously.
“You really haven’t any suits here,” she gasped. “You really…” Her eyes looked him up and down again. “You’ve really only got that?”
Peter bristled. Truth be told, he liked the suit. He would never have bought it if he hadn’t. There was something about it that appealed to him, the lush invitation of the fabric to be touched and enjoyed. Rose had laughed at it, and was now insulting it. “What’s wrong with this suit?” he demanded.
She just stared at him, her eyes wide with what he read as disbelief. She couldn’t believe he was asking her this question, he thought. “It’s velvet,” she said.
“Let’s see how many times we can state the obvious,” he drawled, sarcastically.
“It’s burgundy velvet.”
“Well done,” he mocked.
“Peter,” she said, harshly. “You can’t…You can’t…You can’t bloody well wear that to Penny’s wedding!”
“Why not?”
It was another question she couldn’t comprehend. “Why not?” she repeated, shocked.
“You’re always saying that I wear the same thing always and always, that you’re tired of never seeing me in anything different, that I ought to wear more colour.”
“I thought maybe a nice green jumper, Peter, not…Not…You didn’t even think to consult me?”
“Now I can’t dress myself without checking with you first?” he asked, knowing it sounded petulant but unable to help himself. He’d really thought Rose would like the new suit. He had intended it to be a pleasant surprise for her, if he was honest.
“Apparently not,” she retorted.
He turned, pulling open the wardrobe door and staring into it, although he knew what he would see: an assortment of scattered clothing that he kept for the weekends when he and Rose would escape London for the quiet of Kendal. He doubted Rose would think there was anything there appropriate for the apparently impressive event of Penny’s wedding. “There,” he said, gesturing. “Pick something out.”
She peered into the wardrobe, frowning in disapproval. “Well, this is just ridiculous. What are you going to…Don’t you have a kilt anywhere? I mean, if you wanted to be different, couldn’t you have worn a kilt?”
“But...I don’t...I’d only...no. Not for this.”
“How can we go to the wedding with you looking like that? Or wearing jeans?”
“Ashamed to be seen with me, Ms. Tyler? Whatever would the tabloids say if the deadbeat D.I. showed up in clothing that his lover hadn’t bought for him?”
“What do the tabloids have to do with anything?” she snapped. “You’re so bloody obsessed with them I could shake you. Your less-than-stellar taste in clothes is all well and good, Peter, but every once in a while, is it wrong to ask that you just put a bit of effort into the whole thing?”
“Now you sound like Loreen,” he said. He heard himself say it, and wanted immediately to take it back. He didn’t mean it, not remotely. Nothing Rose ever said, even now when they were in the middle of a proper row, ever really sounded like Loreen. The problem was that Loreen had said things like that to him, cruelly and constantly and not at all with the consistent undercurrent of affection that pulsed under every thing, offhand or momentous, that Rose said to him. But nearly the same words. And standing in the bedroom in Kendal in a suit he’d thought would be well-received, he was remembering coming home with an antique bed, delighted with himself and meeting a frown.
All of these comparisons were immensely unfair and he meant none of them, and even out-of-sorts he knew it and knew he had to apologize. But instead of apologizing, his tongue stalled into silence. There was a long, frigid moment when he stood looking into the wardrobe, scared to look in Rose’s direction.
“I what?” she said, finally.
He looked at her then. “Rose-”
“Wear whatever you want,” she interrupted, stepping past him. “I’ll meet you there.”
He closed his eyes and mentally cursed, turning immediately to follow her. She was in full flight mode, and he was remembering that Rose was a world-class sprinter as he followed her down the stairs. “Rose, I-”
She grabbed her purse and the car keys. They only had one car in Kendal at the moment, so he wasn’t sure what she intended him to do to get to the wedding if she left without him. He didn’t think she much cared at the moment.
“Rose, wait,” he said, as she tugged the front door open.
He leaned past her, using his weight to force the door shut again. Rose stood staring at it for a moment, then said, icily, “You let go of this door, or I will make you let go of this door, which is not an experience I think you want, Carlisle.”
“You can’t just go running off,” he said.
“Oh, can’t I? Watch me.” She turned, her back against the door, to meet his eyes, and he took an automatic, reflexive step back at the amount of fury in them. “If I ever told you something like that-if I ever said that anything you did reminded me of the Doctor-I’d be treated to the Peter Carlisle Sarcasm Special for days-possibly months.”
True enough, he admitted, ruefully. “I know. I know. I’m sorry.” He lifted his hands in a gesture of apology. “I didn’t mean it, Rose.”
“You did mean it,” she accused.
“Not really. Not the way you think I…Not really, Rose. Honestly. I just…I thought you’d like the suit. I really did. You…It…I wasn’t thinking clearly and I sort of lashed out and-”
“She didn’t love you, Peter,” said Rose, sounding so close to tears that he stilled. “You’re this gem of a man and she didn’t love you and she didn’t appreciate you and how dare you think the same of me?” She swiped impatiently at a few tears that had leaked out, looking displeased with herself.
“I don’t think the same of you,” he promised her, aching. He cautiously lifted his hands to cup her face. She flinched but she didn’t move away. “I don’t.”
“I love you,” she told him, firmly. “I just don’t like your suit.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, and she allowed him to pull her against him.
She buried her face in the lapel of the burgundy velvet coat, then mumbled against him, “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings by…It’s a lovely suit, Peter. It’s just…very different. And not what I expected.”
“You don’t mean any of that,” he said into her hair.
“Not true.”
“You mean all of it but the part where you called it ‘lovely.’”
She was silent for a second. “Okay, yes. But if you want to wear the suit to the wedding, wear the suit to the wedding. I’m sorry I made a huge issue of it.”
“I’ve really nothing else to wear, Rose.”
She sighed. “Your wardrobe, Peter, it’s just…”
“Yes?” he prompted.
He felt her chuckle against him. “Sexy as hell.”
“Is it now?”
“Yes. That may have something to do with it being yours.” She rubbed her cheek against his coat. “It feels nice, this silly velvet.”
“See? It has its advantages.”
She breathed against his neck, brushed her nose against his skin. “You look good in it,” she murmured. He thought he ought to respond but he was bracing himself for the moment when she brushed his lips across him, which made him close his eyes. “You look good in everything,” she continued, kissing along his jaw line.
“Mmm, yes,” he agreed, as she kissed the corner of his mouth.
She hovered her lips over his, suspended for a breathless moment, before she kissed him. Hard. Harder than he’d expected of her, and he’d thought that the argument must have got her adrenaline flowing. He reached behind her, searching for the door he knew was there, so he could back her against it, focusing on the clever assault of her mouth and the tug of her hands through his hair and the way he always wanted her, even now, after so much time dating her, with an alarming immediacy.
He was shrugging out of the burgundy velvet coat when she reached out and pulled it back on him. He drew back, blinking dazedly, wondering if this was some fantasy of hers, possibly--making love to him while he was mostly dressed in a velvet suit.
She smiled at him, and he waited, tensed with thrilled anticipation, for her next move.
“Okay,” she said. “There. All made up and sealed with a kiss.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Let’s go.” She wriggled out from between him and the door. Which really did nothing to help the situation. “We’re going to be late as it is.”
He watched her as she leaned down to pick up her purse and car keys from the floor. When had she dropped those? Then he recalled that her hands had just been in his hair, so she had to have dropped them at some point during the kiss. “But…” he sputtered. “Aren’t we…”
“You’re blocking the door,” she said, mildly, looking at him. “Aren’t we what?”
“Aren’t we going to have angry, make-up sex against the wall?”
She wrinkled her nose. “’S getting a bit cliché, don’t you think?”
“Uh, no,” he said. “No, I don’t think so at all. Can sex get clichéd?”
“Come on,” she said, succeeding in nudging him out of the way so she could open the door. “We really are going to be appallingly late. With your hair looking the way it is, I would say that everyone will suspect we’ve been delayed for less than respectable reasons, except that your hair always looks a bit like that, so no need to stop and comb it.”
He watched her, astonished, while she walked down the front walk toward the car. “You’re serious about not having sex against the wall?”
She turned, walking backward now toward the car, and taunted him with that tongue-tip grin of hers. “There are other walls, Carlisle. In other places. Now, do you want to drive?”
He caught the keys she tossed to him.