A Contemplative Thing
Peter awoke early, consciousness coming to him as though a switch had been thrown. He had been asleep, dreaming about...something involving cars and Pennington and a skein of wool...and then suddenly he was awake, very aware of the woman asleep in his arms, of the chill of the room against his exposed skin.
Two thoughts immediately came to mind: first, that he’d have to feed the fire in the fireplace and get the room warmed up; second-and, perhaps more importantly-just how thankful he was that Rose was there, in his arms.
He closed his eyes, wanting desperately to go back to sleep, to savour the feeling of Rose curled against him; his mind, however, was already racing. He opened his eyes after a few unsuccessful minutes of trying to relax, and slowly slid his arm out from under Rose. She shifted only once, remaining solidly asleep as he rolled away from her.
It was still dark, but the low orange glow from the remaining coals in the fireplace helped to light his way as he stepped out onto the cold planks of the floor. He fought back a hiss as the cold began to creep up through his feet, hurrying over to the fireplace and gently placing a log on the coals. He took a step back, making sure that the log would stay put, before walking the short distance to the loo.
He did hiss as his feet came in contact with the icy cold of the tile; he’d forgotten to lay towels down the night before, and did so hurriedly before taking care of his needs. He loved the cottage dearly, but it could be achingly cold those first few nights in it, as he once again grew acclimated to the chill it always seemed to house.
Small tendrils of flame were beginning to lick around the log as he returned to the room, and Rose had rolled over to face where he would be sleeping were he still in bed. By the pale flicker of the light, he could just make out her features-peaceful, calm, beautiful; the woman he loved, sound asleep in his bed, completely trusting that she was safe.
He loved her, so fiercely it never failed to amaze him; but now, intermingled with that love, was the remaining ache and worry from what had happened the day before.
He had thought it such a brilliant idea, bringing her up to the cottage. She’d sounded tired on the phone, and he knew that the cottage was the one place guaranteed to give him the time and space he needed to recuperate after a bad week-he had hoped it would offer the same comfort for her. It was also the single place he considered home; not his childhood home in Glasgow, not even the house in Kendal, in spite of the wonderful memories he now had of time there with Rose. The cottage was his true emotional centre, and he’d felt an overwhelming urge to share it with Rose, to invite her into something that so few people had seen.
Of course he’d had the thought that it would be a perfectly romantic spot, as well; evenings together in the bed, making love by the firelight; perhaps even a lazy morning shag as their bodies slowly came awake, or-if it was warm enough-a romantic picnic on the shore, away from prying eyes, where who-knew-what might happen. That was all secondary, however, to simply bringing Rose to Croy, to inviting her into this secret piece of his life.
It had been going so well, too. And then he had had to open his mouth, had to mention Loreen even as he was in bed with Rose, naked, savouring the sensation of having just made love. The look on Rose’s face...He shivered remembering it, the crushed hope that had flitted across her features after he’d tensed, as he always did when he said his ex-wife’s name.
He stealthily crossed the room once more, avoiding the floorboards that creaked, and selected some clothes out of the wardrobe. The sweater Rose had worn when she’d returned to him the afternoon before was folded neatly on a shelf, and he pulled it on over his other clothes before silently closing the doors.
She was still soundly sleeping as he walked back to the bed, the growing firelight bathing her in gold. He leaned down, brushing a light kiss over Rose’s cheek, whispering “I’m sorry” even as he thought “I love you.” He ghosted a hand across her hair, drifting his fingers across her cheek, before turning and leaving the room.
The cottage faced west, but Peter had learned during many sleepless nights years before that the sunrise could be just as spectacular facing that direction. He enjoyed watching the sky slowly lighten, going from black to grey to blue, the sea changing colour as the light increased. He had brewed a pot of coffee, stoked the fire in the parlour, and finally slipped on shoes to walk outside and over to the bench just as the sky began to lighten. It was chilly, although the breeze had finally died down, and he settled down contentedly to sip his coffee and watch the sun rise.
The day before he’d been furious when he finally made it back into the cottage after helping Graeme unload the wood. Rose had snuck off, stealing out of the back door like a thief; he’d stared at the unfastened chain and unlocked bolt, dumbfounded, for several minutes before collecting himself. The produce Graeme’s wife had so carefully packaged for him was thrown on the table, and he’d run upstairs to dress himself properly before setting out to find Rose.
It hadn’t been difficult to work out where she’d gone; the path was seldom used, after all-and was made of sand. He knew she’d have stayed as far out of sight as possible, and it took no effort at all to walk along the trail behind the cottage, following her footprints. Childhood memories of playing hide-and-seek with Martin, learning how to work out where his brother had gone using the same methods, flooded his mind even as he slowly walked southwards, seeking Rose.
He’d stayed on the shore path and eventually caught up to her; she was on the beach proper, sitting, her arms wrapped around her knees, her body speaking of despair. He’d stood, watching her, unsure of what to do or say while fighting back anger: She had no idea where she was, what dangers could be lurking about, and she’d once again run away from him instead of staying to hear his piece.
He was only about ten feet behind her, and watched as she turned her head, resting her cheek on the arm of...his sweater. She’d had enough awareness, at least, to grab something warm; and he felt his anger fade as he watched her take a sniff of the heavy wool, her eyes fluttering shut as she inhaled.
She needed time to think-time alone. She’d done that before, most notably after she’d told him about the Doctor; it was as Rose as could be, wanting to get away for a bit to sort through her thoughts. He’d much rather she had stayed so they could talk right away, but he had a feeling that she’d not appreciate him sauntering up to her at just that moment, interrupting whatever it was that was going through her head. She’d return to him when she was ready to talk; he’d need to be patient, and trust that it would be soon.
He’d made his way back to the cottage, considering what he could possibly tell Rose when she returned. There was no way to take the timing of the words back, so what could he tell her to help her understand?
He’d still been at a loss when, a half-hour later, Rose had slowly made her way back to him, her eyes cautious and her body tense. He’d opened his mouth, not really knowing what he’d say, but certain he needed to say something, to explain to her why it was he’d said what he said when he said it. And the words had just come, all of them. He wasn’t entirely sure whether they had been the right or wrong things to say, but-as he had told Rose-life wasn’t a quiz and there weren’t really and right and wrong answers. He thought, at any rate, that he could definitely have picked worse words than the ones he’d used to explain it. He’d somehow, miraculously, woken that morning to Rose in his arms. He somehow, miraculously, had time with which to fix everything, to find the right words for her, and the right moment in which to broach them.
The cry of a gull brought him out of his memories, reminding him of the gorgeous day starting in front of him. He took a long sip of coffee, watching a tern wheel above the water. Yesterday hadn’t gone quite as he would have hoped...but it occurred to him it might not have been such a bad thing, in the end. After all, far better that he and Rose get their issues of trust and secrets out in the open than let them stew on, lurking but never discussed, always threatening their relationship. It had been such a near thing the day before, they’d come so close to losing what they had; when she’d asked to go home, he’d felt as though he’d been punched in the gut, his breath leaving him in a whoosh and a sick ache taking up residence in his chest. But as he sat there nursing his rapidly cooling coffee and watching the sky lighten, it occurred to him that what had happened between them, in that same spot, had been something necessary. He might still suffer from disbelief that Rose was with him, was interested in him-but he needed to work through that, to come to trust her at her word for things not just work-related. And she...she needed to learn to trust him, too; she was far more impacted by whatever had happened between her and her swashbuckling alien than he’d have ever guessed. As Rose had said, though-they needed to work through those things together.
As well, it was far better for Rose to hear about Loreen from his lips than from the tabloids, even if the timing had exceptionally bad. He hated his ex-hated the power she still held over him, even a decade removed from their marriage. He wanted nothing more than never to think of her again, but she simply had a knack for turning up at the wrong time. She’d been there when he’d first been passed over for promotion, smirking on the arm of the man she’d left him for, who’d been transferred out and promoted; she’d been there after Natalie had left him, her voice gloating at the other end of the line.
And she’d been there, threatening, on the other end of the line two days previous. “I see you’ve moved on yet again, Peter,” she’d purred over the phone, her voice holding no warmth and only steel. “Does the little heiress know about your real past? About the misery you’ve caused, about what a failure you are?” The thought of Loreen threatening what he had with Rose, the feelings he had for her, the way she made him feel...
He slammed his coffee mug down on the weathered wood of the table, his shoulders aching with tension. He wished he’d thought of a thousand other ways to tell Rose about Loreen, but he couldn’t regret her finding out from him.
He thought at first the wind had picked up, lightly ghosting across his hair; he closed his eyes as he realized it was Rose, her fingers slowly sliding through his hair, gently brushing through the strands. He’d been so focused on the past, on the power his ex-wife still had over him, that he’d missed her approach.
“Good morning,” she finally whispered, walking around to sit next to him. She was wearing a pair of his pyjama bottoms and an impossibly thick sweater, with a pair of wellies on her feet-he hadn’t thought there were wellies in the house, but Rose was incredibly resourceful and no doubt had dragged them from somewhere. She smiled at him as she set a thermos down on the table next to his mug, shifting her gaze to the small container as she worked to unscrew the lid. “Thought you might need some more coffee-you’d left the package out on the counter.”
“Thank you-and good morning.” He had thought to lean in, to give her a soft kiss, but he hesitated as she turned once more to meet his eyes. They’d been comfortable enough, the night before, once he’d started reading to her, and had fallen asleep curled in each other’s embrace-but there was still a bit of awkwardness, of uncertain formality between them-and he wasn’t quite sure if it would be acceptable to kiss her.
He might have a decade of experience on Rose, but he’d never yet had a healthy relationship. And he had no idea what to do.
Rose solved the problem for him, leaning forward and gently brushing her lips over his. “You’re welcome.” She sat back, and set about pouring out coffee, making sure his cup was filled before taking the thermos lid and pouring some for herself. She’d added milk and sugar-his first cup had been straight black, a sure sign that he was preoccupied-and he took a grateful sip as she turned to look out across the sea. “Aren’t you freezing out here?” She wrapped her hands around her coffee before bringing it to her lips.
“In this lovely weather? It’s practically balmy, this time of year. I’d given thought to perhaps going for a swim later on, should the weather stay fine.”
He skated his eyes sideways, waiting for her reaction. He wasn’t disappointed as she turned to him in disbelief. “Swimming?! You’re mad.”
He grinned, taking another sip of the blessed brew. “I am but mad nor’ norwest.”
She continued to look at him, before turning back to the view in front of them. “Well, you are facing that way. A bit.”
He turned to her in exaggerated disbelief. “Rose Tyler! That was hardly nice.”
“Never said I was nice, Carlisle.” Rose grinned as she took a sip of coffee, and for a moment the familiar tease made everything seem perfect, before she rapidly sobered. She brought the cup of coffee down, cradling it in her lap. “Peter...I...I’m sorry. For running away yesterday.”
He took a long sip from his mug, debating: he could tell her it was nothing, that it was forgotten. But how true would that be? They’d been honest with each other the day before; he needed to learn to continue to be so with her, to trust that she’d be able to accept it, or have the courage to call him out if she thought he was in the wrong. “I...Rose. It...” He sighed, his warm breath turning to mist as he exhaled, and turned, setting the mug on the table. “I was a bit upset yesterday, that you ran off. More than a bit, really. I...I didn’t know where you’d gone; I worried, ever so briefly, that you’d found a way to leave me, for good.”
She took a breath to speak, but he needed to continue, to get this out. “I know you didn’t; I know you said you wouldn’t. But at the time, I was in a panic. You’d run off without a word; when I returned to find the cottage empty, of course I panicked. I...I did follow you, you know, I...didn’t…I wanted to make sure you were safe, and when I saw you were I came back here.”
The cup of coffee in Rose’s lap was perilously close to spilling, and he gently reached down and took it from her. A wry grin twitched at her lips. “How very...paternalistic of you, Peter.”
“I’m sorry I told you the way I did, Rose. I really am. I’m not sorry, though, if you think following you, making sure you’re safe, is paternalistic.”
She sighed, her eyes remaining locked on the distant horizon. “Peter, I...you need to know, about me. When...when things like that happen-like yesterday?-I just...I do better. When I can think for a bit. I’ve said too many things I regret in the heat of the moment; I don’t want that to happen with you. With us.”
He sighed, taking a moment to collect his thoughts as he turned to top off their respective cups of coffee. “I know,” he finally said, unsure of what else to say. He was still learning about Rose, as much as she was learning about him; as she had said the day before, it was a process.
She took the coffee he handed her, and they sat together, sipping from their steaming cups, as the sky continued to brighten.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
The coffee had finally run out-and Rose had finally said she was chilled through-and they returned to the cottage shortly before seven. Rose had offered to make breakfast for him and he felt that the least he could do was accept her offer graciously, regardless of the danger she might pose to his gran’s beloved kitchen. Rose, by her own admission, was rubbish at making supper, but she wasn’t half bad at breakfast (barring the horribly scalded milk she’d tried to make for cocoa), and it was an hour later that he found himself on dish duty for the first time in ages.
He could hear Rose moving around upstairs as he scrubbed eggs from the skillet, could hear the running water as she drew a bath; he wanted, desperately, to go upstairs, to join her in the bath, to make love to her. It was still too soon, though-they were still too awkward around each other, the memory of the day before still far too recent and painful.
He gently placed the dripping skillet on the drying rack, giving the sink a quick rinse before turning the water off. He’d not really had any plans for that day, figuring-when he’d planned the trip-that he and Rose could quite conceivably spend their entire day in bed. He heard the water upstairs shut off, and forced himself to walk into the parlour and not up the stairs. If Rose wanted him to join her, she’d ask.
He passed the time in the parlour working out what to do for the day. A picnic might not be a bad idea, somewhere north of the cottage. Further, Graeme had mentioned he had some beef curing over at the farm, and would be happy to bring some cuts over for their supper. Peter wasn’t quite sure where he’d be without Graeme and Eirlys-he’d known them since his gran had lived in the cottage, and they’d looked after him while he lived there, as he got his life together after his father’s death, and again after Uni. They were looking after him again-although Graeme had also seemed intent on gathering information to take back to Eirlys the day before, asking all sorts of questions about whether he was really dating Rose Tyler, and what she was like. He strongly suspected Graeme might bring his wife with him that afternoon when he dropped the beef off.
He dozed off as he waited for Rose, and was awoken by the sensation of Rose’s fingertips rasping against his stubble.
“How’d you sleep last night?” she asked as he opened his eyes, her voice holding concern.
“Fine. Barring the odd dream. You?”
“Quite well, all things considered,” she said, slowly standing.
He sat up, rubbing his hand over his chin. “Had you any idea of what you might like to do today?”
Rose settled next to him, the smell of the violet soap she’d used washing over him. He closed his eyes and inhaled appreciatively.
“No. I...Peter, I haven’t a clue where we are, you realize?”
He opened his eyes, turning to her in surprise. Of course she wouldn’t-he’d not had the chance to tell her before things fell apart. “We’re on the southwest coast of Scotland, a bit away from Glasgow. The Isle of Arran is some ten miles west of us, and Kendal is a world away.”
She gave one of the soft smiles she reserved only for him, and he felt his heart flutter. “Well, then, Mr. Carlisle-what would you suggest we do today?”
Her cheeks flamed, making it apparent one thought immediately crossed her mind-again, a reminder of just how much they used innuendo to work through the awkward bits. He needed to be more careful about that tendency.
“I had thought maybe a walk? And a picnic? If it’s not too cold for you?”
Rose made a great show of peering out the window-as though the clear blue sky and the deep green sea could answer the question-before turning back to him. “I think I’ll be fine, Peter.”
“Right. I suppose I’ll just get cleaned up, then?” He stood, moving towards the stairs; Rose caught his hand, placing a soft kiss on the palm.
“I’ll be waiting here for you,” she said softly, her eyes not quite meeting his.
“Ok.” His voice was thick, and he moved towards the stairs with alacrity.
He never shaved when he was at the cottage, and decided to honour the tradition; he enjoyed the ability to just be when he was there, and hoped Rose would appreciate the sentiment. It took no time at all to bathe, and he returned downstairs a scant fifteen minutes later, clad in jeans, a heavy shirt, and an even heavier sweater.
Rose arched an eyebrow at his unshaven state but said nothing, a small smile pulling at her lips. He grinned, and enlisted her help in packing a knapsack for their picnic. The day was slowly warming up as they finally ventured outside, and Peter took Rose’s hand eagerly before leading her north along the shoreline.
They walked slowly, talking periodically but more often just strolling together in silence, hands clasped and swinging in between them, learning to find that level of complete comfort that had come so easily the day before. Shortly before noon Peter led her to one of his favourite hiding spots, a small glen in the woods just off of the beach-found, as with so many things along that coast, during a summer with his gran years earlier. The sun shone down into it, providing warmth, and the sound of the waves against the shore could be just heard-but it was well-hidden by the sheer quantity of vegetation around it. Rose looked up and around them as he finally led her into it, her face filled with awe. She met his eyes, and simply said, “Thank you, Peter” before leaning forward to place a kiss against his lips.
They spent several hours there, sprawled on the faded plaid blanket, simply talking. Rose had told him quite a bit about her life but she’d not told him everything, and the conversation ranged from a discussion of the Constitutional Monarchy in which she’d grown up, to a deeply personal anecdote about coming home as a teenager, terrified that she was pregnant, unsure of what to do or where to turn.
“That was...that’s when I learned that Mum could be the best friend I ever had,” Rose finished softly, her cheeks pink with the intimacy of what she’d shared with him. Her eyes were focused on the blanket, her fingers idly tracing the pattern woven into the fabric, and he leaned forward, using his hand to gently raise her chin.
“Your mum sounds fantastic, Rose.”
“She is.”
He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and told Rose about his mum-about losing her, about what it had really done to his father, to his brother, to him. About how her death in a silly, stupid accident had done so much damage beyond the immediate effects...and how his gran had been the one to step in, to make him feel loved and appreciated.
He was exhausted when he finally stopped, and took solace in the fact that Rose’s hand was stroking his, her body leaning against his. Once the dam had burst he found he’d been unable to stop talking, and he was reminded of a joke Rose had made, months ago, her first night at the house. “Blimey, Rose-what’d you sneak into lunch? Truth serum?”
She heard the humour in his voice, and looked at him questioningly; he stared evenly at her, and smiled when the line finally clicked. “You remember the oddest things, Peter,” she finally replied, smiling slyly at him.
“You never know what might be important, down the line,” he answered, grinning.
“I hardly think that counts as important,” she said, drily, before breaking once more into a smile.
He moved on to telling her the history of the coast, of how it had been bombed sporadically during the various wars-most recently during the Great Atlantic War; she confessed, then, that such a thing had never happened, where she was from, and so he’d told her of it; of how a single sunken ship in April of 1912 had set into motion the events that would lead to a world-changing war; to the alliances that had toppled governments and created new countries.
Rose, in turn, had told him of World War Two, of how she had had the chance to see part of it during her travels; that, in turn, had led to her sharing tales of her time ‘travelling’, of a man named, oddly, “Captain Jack” (she’d told him his name was Jack Harkness, but when she got swept up in storytelling, she reverted to Captain Jack). He’d not missed the melancholy that crossed her face as she finished telling him about visiting Cardiff with the Doctor, Mickey, and Captain Jack, and he’d pulled her to him, holding her against his chest as they lay in the dappled sunlight, giving her comfort for something he couldn’t begin to fathom.
They made their way back to the cottage not long after that, once more walking along the shoreline hand-in-hand, watching the sun begin to make its downward descent over the water. The day had remained clear and calm and, as they neared the cottage, he began to tell Rose of the many gales he’d experienced holed up in the cottage, wondering if it would stand up to the wind or if the high tide would finally reach the doorstep and sweep the structure away.
“I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight, you realize?” Rose offered wryly when he finished telling of one particularly harrowing night.
“Rose, it’s survived for well on two centuries. I think, at this point, it’ll be fine.”
“Then why were you worried?” she challenged, turning to him.
She had him there; he conceded defeat, and she smiled before skipping ahead of him merrily.
They returned to the cottage to find Graeme had stopped by in their absence, leaving dinner on the counter along with a note inviting them along for tea the next day. He grinned as he told Rose of the invitation, of Eirlys’s eagerness to meet her; she looked bemused, but agreed that she’d be happy to go.
He made dinner as Rose went upstairs, wanting “to wash the salt off” of her. He again tried not to think about Rose in the bath, instead channelling all of his energies and attention into cooking the steak, into preparing the simply lovely vegetables. He had just enough time for a quick wash, once Rose returned below stairs; she surprised him by having the fire going in the dining room fireplace by the time he re-joined her, as well as having set the table for a proper supper.
He had made sure to bring wine along and they had a leisurely dinner together, sat at the table in front of the fireplace, once again simply content to enjoy each other’s company.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Dessert was a simple bar of chocolate, split between them; Rose smiled appreciatively as she savoured her half, taking small nibbles and letting them melt in her mouth before allowing herself more. He told her about Graeme and Eirlys, about how they purchased the farm from his gran when he was a wee lad, how they now looked after the cottage whenever he was away. They were like an aunt and uncle to him; he was part of their family, and he wanted her to know just how much it meant to him that they had invited her to tea, and that she had accepted simply because she knew it would make him happy.
They lapsed back into silence afterwards, the room charged with feeling; Peter was feeling a bit overwhelmed at the sheer volume of information he’d shared with Rose in that single day. As his mind wandered, he became distracted by watching her slowly eat her dessert, her lips surrounding the chocolate, her tongue darting out to taste it; he neglected his own bar, and was only called back to reality by Rose asking, “You goin’ to eat that, Peter?”
He glanced down, blushing. “Oh! Ah...would you like it?”
She laughed. “No, I think I’ve had plenty. Just wanted to make sure you were still there, though-you had the thousand-mile stare going for a bit.”
“Sorry-got lost in my thoughts.”
She pushed back from the table, reaching her hand out. “Well, then-can’t have that. C’mon.”
He stood, taking her hand, and she led him towards the parlour. He looked back at the dishes, curious as to what she had in mind; she laughed. “They’ll still be there later; I’ll get them clean before bed, I promise.”
She led him to the sofa, gently guiding him to sit; he did, confused, and watched as she moved around the room, adding wood to the fire before moving to sit next to him.
“Now, then. Shall I read to you, Peter?” Her voice was light; her eyes, however, held not a little trepidation.
He felt his heart skip a beat; did she know what it meant, when he read to her? Did she know that he only did that for her? Was she trying to tell him she felt the same, by doing it for him?
She held his gaze, her eyes still looking at him with a mixture of hope and worry, and he smiled. “That would be delightful, Rose.”
She smiled in return, her face lighting up, and he was once again hit by how very much he loved the woman in front of him.
There was some confusion as she looked for Pride and Prejudice; he had a habit of hiding the books he was reading to her, not wanting her to ‘cheat’ and skip ahead. He made her promise to close her eyes; she did, and he took his time, sneaking the book from its hiding place behind the bookcase before walking around the first floor of the cottage in the hopes that she’d not work out where it had been secreted away.
She read to him, telling him of Jane’s stay at Netherfield, of the arrival of Mister Collins; he closed his eyes as he lay against her, listening to the calming rise and fall of her voice, trying not to laugh as she attempted to do voices for each of the characters.
They went to bed shortly after the sun set, the fires downstairs banked down for the evening and the dishes drying in the rack by the sink; the fireplace in the bedroom held a small fire that warmed the room nicely. Rose changed whilst he was in the en suite, and he fought back a sigh; he had to remind himself of her words, that this was a process, not a fight-and-be-done-with-it thing. She was going to have to learn to be comfortable with him again; he’d simply have to be patient.
He changed out of his clothes, donning his pyjamas, and snuggled under the covers as he waited for her to finish getting ready for bed. She eventually emerged from the loo, hurrying over to the bed and sliding with a sigh under the covers. Her cold feet came into contact with his warm ones, and he yelped.
She laughed, before saying, “That’s with the towels on the floor-imagine if you’d not put them down!”
“It was a bit icy in there this morning,” he conceded, shifting so his arm slid under her, pulling her to him. She happily scooted against him, the cold cotton of her pyjamas slowly warming as it rested between his body and hers.
They lay together, quietly, for quite some time; Peter was beginning to wonder if she was asleep, when Rose’s sleepy voice whispered, “Thank you, Peter.”
He brushed a kiss over her hair before replying, “You’re welcome.” He’d no idea what she was thanking him for, and he honestly wasn’t sure that, in this case, it mattered. Rose’s breath evened out shortly after that, her body relaxing fully into his as she fell asleep.
It wasn’t much later that he joined her in peaceful slumber.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Peter awoke late, consciousness slowly come to him as his mind dragged itself away from his dreams. He hadn’t a clue what he’d dreamt about, just knew that he felt deeply relaxed and more content than he had in ages. He gradually became aware of a warm body along his, of his arms wrapped around the soft warmth in front of him, and as he took a breath and inhaled the scent of violets, it finally clicked that he was still in bed, with Rose, curled together as they were whenever she slept over.
He wondered if the heat had gone out, the room was so bloody cold, and he blearily opened an eye to check the clock on the bedside table to see if the power had failed at some point. It took him a minute to realize that they weren’t in Kendal, and were instead in the cottage-which explained the freezing temperature of the room. He thought of getting out of bed, of hurrying over to get a fire going in the fireplace, but the warmth of Rose curled against him was far, far too great a temptation. The fire would wait.
He dozed off, the scent of Rose lulling him back to sleep, his mind happily wandering through the possibilities presented by having Rose with him in the cottage.
He was awoken a second time by the feeling of something tickling his lips. He swatted at it, ineffectually, and was rewarded by the sound of a soft laugh. He blinked his eyes open, wincing briefly at the brightness of the room, and eventually focused on the smiling face of Rose, looking at him.
“Good morning, sleepyhead.”
He mumbled something in response, sleep once more pulling him back into its embrace.
He felt the tickling along his lips again, and opened one eye, glaring at Rose. She was still smiling at him, propped on an elbow. “Someone was having good dreams.”
“’bout making love to you,” he mumbled, trying to kiss the finger that was dancing over his lips.
Rose looked surprised briefly. “Is that so?”
“Mmmm,” he replied, finally reaching a hand out from under the covers to capture her wrist, holding it still so he could kiss the finger that had been tickling him.
He finally awoke fully, opening both eyes as he realized with horror that he’d told her exactly what he’d dreamt. He released her hand, watching her warily as she gave him a thoughtful look.
She raised her eyes to his, finally, holding his gaze as she leaned forward, slowly closing the distance between them. He held his breath, uncertain if this was still part of his dream or if Rose really was about to kiss him; as her lips met his, her eyes fluttering shut right before his did, he decided he really didn’t care.
Her hand slid through his hair, pulling him towards her; he sighed at the sensation. She took it as her invitation to deepen the kiss, and Peter groaned as her tongue lightly brushed his lips before crossing to touch his.
His body reacted instantly, blood flowing to his groin as he worked to remain passive, laying under Rose, kissing her back but letting her dictate how far she wanted to go. If she stopped--if she rolled over and said she couldn’t do this just yet--he might have to make a hasty retreat to the en-suite. He hoped she wouldn’t be that cruel.
She continued to kiss him, sliding her hand from his hair, along his jaw. Her fingers rasped along the two day-old stubble there; he felt her smile before her hand continued along his neck, coming to rest on his chest. He rolled onto his back, his hands holding Rose to him before slowly drifting down her back, coming to rest just above the curve of her bum.
They kissed languidly, as though learning one another all over again-Peter ghosting his hands over Rose’s back or cupping her jaw as she changed angles, Rose resting her hand on his chest, over his heart, her fingers periodically flexing as he lightly ran his tongue along hers.
She pulled back, finally, panting as she opened her eyes and met his gaze. He watched her, silent, unsure of what to say, of whether he was meant to carry on, to move things along, or to stop.
Rose’s eyes shifted to his lips, her hand moving from his chest to once again play with the stubble along his jaw. Her lips curved in a small smile as she rasped her nails against it, and he felt his eyes close involuntarily at the sensation.
“Like that, do you?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he replied, softly, unable to say more than that, his entire body savouring the feeling. It had only been a day, but oh he’d missed this.
She stopped, shifting her body; he opened his eyes and immediately closed them again as he felt her hand begin to stroke down from the waist of his pyjamas. Her fingers followed a straight path, her fingernail drawing a line through the fabric along the length of his shaft.
“Rose...” he ground out, desperate for her to do something, anything. He was still muddle-headed, but knew that he wanted nothing more than to make love to her.
She leaned in, ran her tongue over his lips as she continued to stroke him. He moved to kiss her, felt her pull back; he opened his eyes to see her looking at him, her hand now resting along the waist of his pyjamas. He was surprised at the vulnerability he saw; she looked so young, so scared.
He reached his hand up, cupped her jaw as he ran his thumb along her cheek. “Rose. I...I want to make love to you. So badly.” He paused, catching his breath before adding, “May I?”
He didn’t miss the flash of surprise that crossed her face, followed quickly by the thoughtfulness. “Yes,” she answered, slowly.
He was so tempted to reach up, to roll them over so he was on top of her, so he could press against her. He didn’t, instead pulling her slowly towards him, placing a gentle kiss on her lips. She sighed against him this time; he deepened the kiss, taking care to be gentle, to let her dictate the pace of things.
Rose’s hand moved, sliding under the waist of his pyjamas, tentatively drifting down towards his groin; he almost wept when she finally touched him, gently encircling his erection. “God, Rose,” he choked out, relief evident in his voice.
She tightened her grip, stroked upwards once before releasing him and breaking the kiss.
He opened his eyes, confused; she met his gaze, her eyes intense as she sat up and moved down the bed, both hands reaching for his pyjamas and beginning to pull them off of him. He raised his hips, helping, and he was soon sprawled in front of her, naked on the bed.
She paused, looking at him; he held his breath, wondering what on earth she was going to do. He saw her nod once, as though coming to a decision, and watched in awe as she hastily removed her top, as she lay down and wiggled out of her shorts.
He clenched his hands, forcing himself to not reach out and touch, to wait for her lead; she sat up once more, looking at him, her eyes dark. She leaned onto one arm, bringing the other forward so she could brush her knuckles along his jaw. “You’re beautiful, Peter,” she whispered, holding his gaze as she continued to rasp her skin along his growing beard. “I don’t think you know how beautiful you are.”
He felt his heart clench almost painfully; he still didn’t believe her, but held his tongue. She continued, slowly moving her hand along the column of his neck. “I...you look so peaceful when you sleep.” Her fingers slid along his clavicle. “And you’re beautiful then, too. But when you’re awake...”
She ducked her eyes away, then, watching her hand as she traced downwards along his sternum. “When you’re awake, you’re...I can’t describe it, Peter.” She glanced up at him, hastily, as though sneaking a peek of something forbidden, before returning to watching her hand as it moved along his torso. “Your eyes are this amazing brown, so full of life and smarts. And I’m always desperate to run my hands through your hair, to feel it against my skin. Your lips...your lips...” She shifted her gaze to his lips, licking hers as she contemplated them. “They’re soft and perfect and I can’t tell you enough how much I love the feel of them against mine.” She swallowed. “I see you, and I worry that one day you’ll wake up and realize that you’re with me, and wonder what on earth you’re doing.”
Her eyes had shifted, staring now at the bedclothes beneath him; her hand had stopped at his belly button as she said the last, and he felt an ache build in his chest. He wanted to tell her, so badly-wanted to kiss her, to make love to her-make her cry out his name-and whisper into her ear how much he loved her, how he’d never wake up and realize he’d made a mistake, because there’d been no mistake made.
Instead, he propped himself up on an elbow, reached a hand forward to bring her to look at him. “Rose.”
She met his eyes. “I can’t believe how incredibly lucky I am to have found you.” Her voice was soft, overflowing with feeling; he couldn’t believe how very close they’d come to losing this on the beach two days before, and he felt a brief flash of horror at the idea.
He sat up, pulling her to him for a kiss; he tried to pour everything he felt into it, to let her know how much he loved her. Instead, he finally drifted his lips across her jaw, pulling her to him for an embrace as he whispered, “I’m so lucky to have found you, too.”
She pulled back, watching him; he smiled softly at her, adding, “It’s true.”
They moved towards each other then, meeting for a kiss; he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her with him as he lay back down. She shifted, moving one leg so she was straddling him, and he felt a flash of heat pass through him at the feeling of her against his skin, her torso pressed against his, the dampness between her legs resting just above his erection.
She brushed her tongue along the roof of his mouth, and he arched upwards into her; he wanted to bury himself in her, to feel that completeness that only came from making love to Rose. She continued to kiss him, doing things with her tongue that were driving him mad; she’d distracted him so successfully that he was surprised when she pulled back, sitting upright and holding a condom packet in front of her like a long-lost treasure.
“What...where...” He was terribly addled, and also confused-how had she done that?
She smiled slowly, the tip of her tongue peeping teasingly out of her mouth as she opened the packet, as she shifted so she could put it on him. An embarrassing noise escaped his mouth as she touched him, her cold skin erotic against his warm flesh. She grinned outright at that, shifting before leaning down. “You don’t tell me where you hide the books, I won’t tell you where I hide the condoms.”
His reply died on his lips as she moved, hitching her hips so he slid into her as she rocked back. She opened her eyes once he was fully sheathed in her, her bum pressing against his balls; she did something that had to be illegal with her hips, and he felt the first warnings of an orgasm wash through him. He was so close, so ready that it was going to take no time at all for her to make him come.
“Rose,” he groaned, his hands flying to her hips to hold her still.
She reached down, using some nefarious skill she’d learned at Torchwood to move his hands from her hips, to pin them next to his ears as she rocked forward. He arched upwards as she moved, his body screaming for friction, for release.
“I want you to come first, Peter,” she whispered against his ear, slowly raising herself off of him before driving him into her again.
Her breasts brushed against his chest as she repeated the motion several more times; he had to be active somehow, and moved to kiss her. She returned the kiss enthusiastically as she continued to push him towards release, and he gave himself over to the sensation.
He began to rock against her, and she sat upright, burying him in her as far as he would go. He opened his eyes, watching her as she moved above him; she moved her hands to his shoulders, sliding her hands down his arms. “Touch me, Peter,” she whispered, holding his gaze as she continued to rock against him.
He reached up, his hands moving to her breasts, his fingers teasing her already taut nipples. She arched her back, creating a new sensation as she rode him, and he felt another flash pass through him.
She watched him, watched as he began to tense in anticipation of his orgasm; she held his gaze as she slowly reached for one of his hands, as she guided it across her stomach before holding his hand as she pressed his fingers against her centre.
He watched as she bit her lip, as she concentrated on making him come first; he fought to keep his eyes open as he felt himself harden further, as he felt the rush begin to pass through him.
“Come for me, Peter.” Rose was holding his gaze, her skin flushed and glistening with sweat as she continued to move against him, above him, around him, her hand on his pressing him against her, his hand on her breast teasing the flesh there, as she licked her lips. “I want to feel you come.”
His world exploded then, and he heard her shout his name as she came almost immediately after, her body clenching around him as he pulsed inside of her, her orgasm driving him on, his driving her on. He thought he might actually pass out, so intense was it; it had been years since he’d felt like that during sex, since he’d had someone do that to him.
Rose released his hand, collapsing forward across his body, her head resting next to his head; Peter was still seeing stars a few moments later, as his finally caught his breath.
They lay together for quite a while, Peter growing soft inside Rose as she lay on him, a comforting weight and warmth. He brushed a kiss over her temple, finally finding the energy to raise a hand and gently stroke her hair. She hmmmed in contentment, lazily opening her eyes to look at him.
It was a bit difficult to look at each other in their current positions, and she finally rolled off of him, her body still in as much contact as possible with his. He reached down for the covers and pulled them over he and Rose before he rolled onto his side, his hand still stroking her hair as he watched her.
She brought a hand up to stroke his jaw, the rasp of her skin against his beard causing her to finally giggle. “I’ve never seen you like this,” she whispered in amused delight.
“I only do it here. Or in exceptional circumstances,” he added as an afterthought.
“Exceptional circumstances?”
“Holidays in the Aegean; romantic retreats. That sort of thing.”
“Holidays in the Aegean.” Rose looked sceptical.
“Or Spain.” He smiled, kissing her palm.
“Or Spain.” She sounded more convinced, and smiled in return. She paused, weighing her words, before offering softly, “I like it.”
“Then you’ll have to come up here more often.” He found, as he said it, that he meant it. He’d be perfectly happy to spend every spare second with Rose in the cottage.
Rose looked at him, her expression serious. “I’d love to, Peter.”
He felt a smile spread across his face, and was delighted when Rose grinned in return.
They lay in bed together for much of the morning, Peter leaving the bed only once to hastily clean up and throw a log on the fire before returning to the comfort of flannel and Rose.
He slid into bed, delighted to find Rose still naked under the sheets; he spooned behind her, pulling her flush against him, her bum pressing tantalisingly against his crotch.
He couldn’t resist pressing his feet against hers, and grinned when she let out a yelp.