A Shaving Thing
Title - A Shaving Thing
Author - jlrpuck
Rating -T (yes, you read that right)
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 - Peter Carlisle works out just how much he trusts Rose Tyler
Authors Notes - This is one I’ve had rattling around in my head for months-it just took a little while to find the time to get it down on paper. For those of you keeping score at home, this falls in between “A Study in Red Velvet” and “Mirrorball”.
This is a one-off, and I’d say there’s little to no chance of a ficlet popping up on Thursday-most of my spare time is now given over to trying to get the sequel to TWoT down on paper in some logical order.
Thank you to earlgreytea68 for her beta-ing and suggestions.
Peter ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the stubble catch at his fingers. It had been a bank holiday weekend, one where neither of them had had to work, and he’d savoured the luxury of not having to shave; it didn’t hurt, of course, that Rose loved it when he let himself get ‘scruffy’.
But tomorrow it was back to work, back to the world outside of the cocoon of their flat; he’d have to clean up at some point, and better to do it while he was wide awake than to have to wake up any earlier than necessary the next morning simply to shave the stubble away.
Rose was out ‘running errands’-he wasn’t sure he believed what she was up to, given their approaching anniversary, but he was willing to humour her-and he decided to indulge in a late-afternoon shower before the shave. The shower in the flat wasn’t quite as nice as the one in his (now semi-vacant) house in Kendal, but it wasn’t half bad. One wall was a window, the glass frosted from floor to ceiling, allowing light in but protecting privacy. The side walls were tiled in a stark white, and the front of the stall was again made of frosted glass. He’d teased Rose when he’d first seen it, accusing her of being a closet shower fanatic; she’d simply smiled before dragging him into it, fully clothed, and turning on the water. Seeing Rose in front of him that first time in her shower-against the white tile, biting her tongue as she undressed him, water pouring over them-was enough for him to grow to love it, as starkly bright as it was, and he couldn’t use it without thinking of making love to Rose in the small space.
He might also have used it to think of Rose when she was out of town, but that was another story (or two, or three...) entirely.
The one true drawback to the shower was how effectively it kept the steam in; when Peter finally opened the stall door ten minutes later, the cold air of the en-suite hit him like a proverbial wall, sending an immediate chill down his spine. He reached for the towel, cursing the lack of heated rods, and once again considered the possibility of having a single metal bar added high on the far wall of the shower stall; at least then he’d not have to freeze to death whilst he dried off. Rose teased him whenever he complained, reminding him with an arched brow of the cottage; he continued to protest that they were completely different things-that a flat like hers, with all of the modern amenities, should have something as simple as a heated towel bar, whilst a cottage like his gran’s, with all of the charm of a landmark, should remain unsullied.
He’d never admit it to her, but he rather wished, more often than not, that the bath in the cottage was heated, too.
He towelled off, running the fabric over his still-dripping hair, before reaching down to secure the towel around his waist. The mirror was steamed over, in spite of the room being so bloody cold, and he gave a heavy sigh. He’d have to crack open the door, allowing yet more cold air to swirl in, if he wanted to shave while his skin was still warm and damp.
The door open slightly, he set to running water in the sink, pulling the bowl and brush down from the medicine chest. Using such an old-fashioned method of making foam was an odd habit, all things considered-one he had picked up during the brief period of time he and Annie were actually seeing each other while he was at Uni. She’d taught him to slow down, to appreciate what had, to him, been a chore. He’d learned the lesson well, enjoying the soothing sound of making foam, the sensuality of the brush against his skin as he lathered up. He couldn’t bear the thought of using a straight razor, but he loved the ritual of wetting the brush, of swirling it against the soap in the bottom of the small bowl in order to work up a good lather.
He looked up, foamy brush in hand, and was startled to find Rose peeking through the crack in the door. She’d not said anything, was just watching him, and she looked surprised at being caught out.
“Yes, Rose?”
“’m back.”
“Yes, I can see that.” He smiled at her reflection before returning his attention to his own image, watching in the mirror to make sure he lathered over all of his beard.
Rose pushed the door open, sliding behind him, moving to lean against the counter next to the sink. It was rare to have her in with him when he shaved-she was usually asleep, or getting dressed-and he felt unaccountably nervous to have her standing so close to him, watching him so intently. He focused on practicalities as he worked to calm his nerves, observing that her cheeks were pink (from watching him? Or from the chilly day outside?), and that her blouse was untucked over her jeans, hanging loosely, offering just a teasing hint of the curves underneath.
He set the brush in the bowl, turned the tap on just enough to have warm water flowing in a steady stream, and reached for his razor. Another legacy from Annie, the silver of the handle was heavy in his hand; she’d given it to him when he graduated Uni, just before he’d moved back to Croy for a bit. He’d found it a comforting thing indeed through his adult life-especially during the dark times with Loreen and after Natalie-serving as a reminder that he still had a friend who cared about him, even knowing what his past had been like. Rose was absolutely fascinated with it, loved to pick it up and look at the gorgeous engraving on the handle, test the weight in her hand. He’d loved her a little bit more when, upon learning who’d given it to him, she’d fought down her uncertainty and smiled, complimenting Annie’s taste with sincerity.
Instead of watching him begin to shave, as she had the other times she’d watched, Rose gently reached over, her fingers covering his hand. “May…may I?” Her eyes, large and dark, flicked briefly up to his, and a deeper shade of pink overspread her cheeks.
“I…” His instinct was to say no, even now after a year of loving her, after near six months of living with her. And yet…the thought of it intrigued him, the potential eroticism of it serving to increase his heart rate. It boiled down to a simple question, really: Did he trust Rose enough to let her run a razor over his neck?
He handed her the razor, taking care not to cut either of them. She once more raised her eyes to his, warmth shining through the gaze, as she shifted closer to the sink.
“Here.” He hastily moved the soapstone bowl aside before placing his hands on her hips, helping her to sit on the counter. He moved to stand in between her legs, closing the distance between them, making it easier for her to reach him. She smiled her thanks before turning her attention to his jaw.
“’s that enough on there to keep from cutting you? The soap, I mean?” she asked dubiously, her eyes meeting his.
He leaned around her, glancing quickly in the mirror, before answering. “Should be. It’s not like cream out of a can. You might have to daub a bit on, though, the longer you wait.”
She raised her hand, the razor poised a few inches from his cheek as she paused. “You’re sure this is ok?”
He wasn’t, not really-but he had faith in her, that she wouldn’t hurt him, wouldn’t accidentally sever his carotid or jugular. He held his finger up in a “one moment” gesture, and turned, reaching behind him for a flannel. “I’m sure-but this might help if you get foam on your hands.” He set the small cloth on her knee.
“’K.” She bit her lip, her eyes focusing on his jaw.
He rested his hands on her hips, concentrating on not flinching as she reached forward, as she slowly rested the cold metal of the razor against his cheek, as she gently stroked downward allowing the weight of the razor to do the work for her. She turned, running the blade under the water, before returning her attention to him.
By the third stroke, Rose was quite comfortable; she began to gently turn his head this way or that as she slowly removed his beard, her fingers gently ghosting across his freshly shaven skin as she tested to make sure she’d not missed anything. The lather soon needed to be refreshed, however, as she shaved much slower than he usually did.
“You might want to…” He gestured to his left, in the direction of the bowl, as she pulled the razor away from his chin.
She set the razor aside gently, picking up the bowl and brush and bringing them between their torsos. “So…I just add water, then?” She glanced up at him, looking adorably uncertain; he wanted to laugh before remembering that he, too, had had to be taught how to properly do this, years before.
“Just a bit, though-you don’t want it too watery.” He showed her how it was best done, his eyes straying to her face as she watched, rapt, her eyes bright. He loved it when she was like that, when she was excited and happy, her face glowing, her lips always curved into a smile. He handed the bowl back over to her, enjoyed watching her practice, lathering up the brush with glee. She laughed as she brought it to his face, as she lightly daubed his nose before moving to run the brush across his unshaven skin.
“I should dearly hope you’ll not be shaving my nose, Rose.”
She grinned, her tongue peeping out at the corner of her mouth as she turned to set the bowl down and pick up the razor. “No, I don’t think so. I rather like it as it is.” She winked at him before reaching forward, tilting his head a bit to the side and back so she could work the angle of his jaw.
She bit her lip in concentration as she continued to work, again running her fingers over his freshly revealed skin after every stroke of the razor. He couldn’t stop watching her, his eyes periodically fluttering shut as she gently stroked a sensitive bit of skin.
She shifted a bit, her fingers gently reaching under his jaw, tilting his head back; he swallowed, his eyes staring at the ceiling as he felt her brush a bit more lather over his neck. He held his breath as she ran the razor over his skin, the strokes confident, her hand sure. He felt her bring the flannel to his neck, wiping the remainder of the foam away, and couldn’t hold in the gasp as he felt her kiss his Adam’s apple.
“There you are, then,” she whispered, her fingers drifting along the line of his jaw as he tilted his head forward.
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.” She raised her eyes from watching her fingers, meeting his gaze steadily. She took a breath, as though to say something; held it; and finally released it, instead slowly leaning forward to place a soft kiss against the corner of his jaw. “You smell good,” she murmured, placing another kiss on his shoulder.
“I should hope so-I did just shower, you know. And shave.”
“Yes.” She brushed her lips across his chest, before turning to lean against him, her arms coming to rest around his hips. He leaned forward, bringing his arms around her in return, holding her in a gentle embrace.
He sighed, placing a soft kiss in her hair, his love for her nearly overwhelming him. It was moments like this-the quiet ones where it was just the two of them, together, living a normal life-when he felt the most amazed, when he felt like the luckiest man on earth.
She finally shifted, placing a smacking kiss against his chest before straightening. “Well. I’ve brought supper back, you know.”
He pretended to be affronted. “And you didn’t tell me immediately?”
“Oi! You distracted me!”
“I was merely standing in here, minding my own business.”
“You cracked the door open, begging to be discovered.” She stood, fighting back a grin.
“If I’d been begging to be discovered, I’d not have bothered with the towel.” He waggled his eyebrows, eliciting a laugh from her.
“Too true.”
She moved with alacrity, her hands pulling the towel from his hips even as she ran through the door.
“Rose!” He shouted after her, hearing her laughter from the sitting room. “That’s not fair!” The curtains to the windows were wide open, and running into the room after Rose meant the neighbours would have a free show.
He turned, looking for another towel; he was surprised to find that there was a rare towel shortage. Rose must have left hers in the laundry hamper that morning…so she’d known he was wearing the last one when she stole his.
He spun back to the door, steeling himself to go out into the sitting room, or to run down the hall to the bedroom, hurrying to beat the chill and the prying eyes of the neighbours. Just out of reach outside the door, however, was Rose. She was grinning at him unrepentantly, a box of takeaway in her hand; the handle was looped over her fingers, the white box swaying to and fro as she stood, her elbow braced against her hip.
“Care for supper, Peter?” Her voice was low and filled with laughter.
He paused at the doorway for only a moment before lunging for her; she scampered backwards, retreating into the kitchen with a shriek as he threw caution to the wind and chased, naked, after her. There was no way to escape the small kitchen, and he soon had her cornered next to the chiller, giggling as she tried to protect the takeaway.
“Rose,” he singsonged as he advanced, as he waggled his fingers towards her. Even before he touched her, tickling her ribs, she was giggling uncontrollably.
“Peter!” She gasped as he ran his fingers over her sides, as she twisted away, still laughing. As she defended herself from his onslaught, she left the food unprotected; it was the work of a moment to reach down, to lift the handles from her fingers with one hand as he reached for the chopsticks with his other. Rose slowly opened her eyes, still braced for an onslaught, and found him standing across the kitchen, smugly working to open the box of food.
“Cheater.”
“No worse than you.” He glanced briefly down at the box of food, before tilting it towards her in an offer of peace. “Singapore noodles?”
Author - jlrpuck
Rating -T (yes, you read that right)
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 - Peter Carlisle works out just how much he trusts Rose Tyler
Authors Notes - This is one I’ve had rattling around in my head for months-it just took a little while to find the time to get it down on paper. For those of you keeping score at home, this falls in between “A Study in Red Velvet” and “Mirrorball”.
This is a one-off, and I’d say there’s little to no chance of a ficlet popping up on Thursday-most of my spare time is now given over to trying to get the sequel to TWoT down on paper in some logical order.
Thank you to earlgreytea68 for her beta-ing and suggestions.
Peter ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the stubble catch at his fingers. It had been a bank holiday weekend, one where neither of them had had to work, and he’d savoured the luxury of not having to shave; it didn’t hurt, of course, that Rose loved it when he let himself get ‘scruffy’.
But tomorrow it was back to work, back to the world outside of the cocoon of their flat; he’d have to clean up at some point, and better to do it while he was wide awake than to have to wake up any earlier than necessary the next morning simply to shave the stubble away.
Rose was out ‘running errands’-he wasn’t sure he believed what she was up to, given their approaching anniversary, but he was willing to humour her-and he decided to indulge in a late-afternoon shower before the shave. The shower in the flat wasn’t quite as nice as the one in his (now semi-vacant) house in Kendal, but it wasn’t half bad. One wall was a window, the glass frosted from floor to ceiling, allowing light in but protecting privacy. The side walls were tiled in a stark white, and the front of the stall was again made of frosted glass. He’d teased Rose when he’d first seen it, accusing her of being a closet shower fanatic; she’d simply smiled before dragging him into it, fully clothed, and turning on the water. Seeing Rose in front of him that first time in her shower-against the white tile, biting her tongue as she undressed him, water pouring over them-was enough for him to grow to love it, as starkly bright as it was, and he couldn’t use it without thinking of making love to Rose in the small space.
He might also have used it to think of Rose when she was out of town, but that was another story (or two, or three...) entirely.
The one true drawback to the shower was how effectively it kept the steam in; when Peter finally opened the stall door ten minutes later, the cold air of the en-suite hit him like a proverbial wall, sending an immediate chill down his spine. He reached for the towel, cursing the lack of heated rods, and once again considered the possibility of having a single metal bar added high on the far wall of the shower stall; at least then he’d not have to freeze to death whilst he dried off. Rose teased him whenever he complained, reminding him with an arched brow of the cottage; he continued to protest that they were completely different things-that a flat like hers, with all of the modern amenities, should have something as simple as a heated towel bar, whilst a cottage like his gran’s, with all of the charm of a landmark, should remain unsullied.
He’d never admit it to her, but he rather wished, more often than not, that the bath in the cottage was heated, too.
He towelled off, running the fabric over his still-dripping hair, before reaching down to secure the towel around his waist. The mirror was steamed over, in spite of the room being so bloody cold, and he gave a heavy sigh. He’d have to crack open the door, allowing yet more cold air to swirl in, if he wanted to shave while his skin was still warm and damp.
The door open slightly, he set to running water in the sink, pulling the bowl and brush down from the medicine chest. Using such an old-fashioned method of making foam was an odd habit, all things considered-one he had picked up during the brief period of time he and Annie were actually seeing each other while he was at Uni. She’d taught him to slow down, to appreciate what had, to him, been a chore. He’d learned the lesson well, enjoying the soothing sound of making foam, the sensuality of the brush against his skin as he lathered up. He couldn’t bear the thought of using a straight razor, but he loved the ritual of wetting the brush, of swirling it against the soap in the bottom of the small bowl in order to work up a good lather.
He looked up, foamy brush in hand, and was startled to find Rose peeking through the crack in the door. She’d not said anything, was just watching him, and she looked surprised at being caught out.
“Yes, Rose?”
“’m back.”
“Yes, I can see that.” He smiled at her reflection before returning his attention to his own image, watching in the mirror to make sure he lathered over all of his beard.
Rose pushed the door open, sliding behind him, moving to lean against the counter next to the sink. It was rare to have her in with him when he shaved-she was usually asleep, or getting dressed-and he felt unaccountably nervous to have her standing so close to him, watching him so intently. He focused on practicalities as he worked to calm his nerves, observing that her cheeks were pink (from watching him? Or from the chilly day outside?), and that her blouse was untucked over her jeans, hanging loosely, offering just a teasing hint of the curves underneath.
He set the brush in the bowl, turned the tap on just enough to have warm water flowing in a steady stream, and reached for his razor. Another legacy from Annie, the silver of the handle was heavy in his hand; she’d given it to him when he graduated Uni, just before he’d moved back to Croy for a bit. He’d found it a comforting thing indeed through his adult life-especially during the dark times with Loreen and after Natalie-serving as a reminder that he still had a friend who cared about him, even knowing what his past had been like. Rose was absolutely fascinated with it, loved to pick it up and look at the gorgeous engraving on the handle, test the weight in her hand. He’d loved her a little bit more when, upon learning who’d given it to him, she’d fought down her uncertainty and smiled, complimenting Annie’s taste with sincerity.
Instead of watching him begin to shave, as she had the other times she’d watched, Rose gently reached over, her fingers covering his hand. “May…may I?” Her eyes, large and dark, flicked briefly up to his, and a deeper shade of pink overspread her cheeks.
“I…” His instinct was to say no, even now after a year of loving her, after near six months of living with her. And yet…the thought of it intrigued him, the potential eroticism of it serving to increase his heart rate. It boiled down to a simple question, really: Did he trust Rose enough to let her run a razor over his neck?
He handed her the razor, taking care not to cut either of them. She once more raised her eyes to his, warmth shining through the gaze, as she shifted closer to the sink.
“Here.” He hastily moved the soapstone bowl aside before placing his hands on her hips, helping her to sit on the counter. He moved to stand in between her legs, closing the distance between them, making it easier for her to reach him. She smiled her thanks before turning her attention to his jaw.
“’s that enough on there to keep from cutting you? The soap, I mean?” she asked dubiously, her eyes meeting his.
He leaned around her, glancing quickly in the mirror, before answering. “Should be. It’s not like cream out of a can. You might have to daub a bit on, though, the longer you wait.”
She raised her hand, the razor poised a few inches from his cheek as she paused. “You’re sure this is ok?”
He wasn’t, not really-but he had faith in her, that she wouldn’t hurt him, wouldn’t accidentally sever his carotid or jugular. He held his finger up in a “one moment” gesture, and turned, reaching behind him for a flannel. “I’m sure-but this might help if you get foam on your hands.” He set the small cloth on her knee.
“’K.” She bit her lip, her eyes focusing on his jaw.
He rested his hands on her hips, concentrating on not flinching as she reached forward, as she slowly rested the cold metal of the razor against his cheek, as she gently stroked downward allowing the weight of the razor to do the work for her. She turned, running the blade under the water, before returning her attention to him.
By the third stroke, Rose was quite comfortable; she began to gently turn his head this way or that as she slowly removed his beard, her fingers gently ghosting across his freshly shaven skin as she tested to make sure she’d not missed anything. The lather soon needed to be refreshed, however, as she shaved much slower than he usually did.
“You might want to…” He gestured to his left, in the direction of the bowl, as she pulled the razor away from his chin.
She set the razor aside gently, picking up the bowl and brush and bringing them between their torsos. “So…I just add water, then?” She glanced up at him, looking adorably uncertain; he wanted to laugh before remembering that he, too, had had to be taught how to properly do this, years before.
“Just a bit, though-you don’t want it too watery.” He showed her how it was best done, his eyes straying to her face as she watched, rapt, her eyes bright. He loved it when she was like that, when she was excited and happy, her face glowing, her lips always curved into a smile. He handed the bowl back over to her, enjoyed watching her practice, lathering up the brush with glee. She laughed as she brought it to his face, as she lightly daubed his nose before moving to run the brush across his unshaven skin.
“I should dearly hope you’ll not be shaving my nose, Rose.”
She grinned, her tongue peeping out at the corner of her mouth as she turned to set the bowl down and pick up the razor. “No, I don’t think so. I rather like it as it is.” She winked at him before reaching forward, tilting his head a bit to the side and back so she could work the angle of his jaw.
She bit her lip in concentration as she continued to work, again running her fingers over his freshly revealed skin after every stroke of the razor. He couldn’t stop watching her, his eyes periodically fluttering shut as she gently stroked a sensitive bit of skin.
She shifted a bit, her fingers gently reaching under his jaw, tilting his head back; he swallowed, his eyes staring at the ceiling as he felt her brush a bit more lather over his neck. He held his breath as she ran the razor over his skin, the strokes confident, her hand sure. He felt her bring the flannel to his neck, wiping the remainder of the foam away, and couldn’t hold in the gasp as he felt her kiss his Adam’s apple.
“There you are, then,” she whispered, her fingers drifting along the line of his jaw as he tilted his head forward.
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.” She raised her eyes from watching her fingers, meeting his gaze steadily. She took a breath, as though to say something; held it; and finally released it, instead slowly leaning forward to place a soft kiss against the corner of his jaw. “You smell good,” she murmured, placing another kiss on his shoulder.
“I should hope so-I did just shower, you know. And shave.”
“Yes.” She brushed her lips across his chest, before turning to lean against him, her arms coming to rest around his hips. He leaned forward, bringing his arms around her in return, holding her in a gentle embrace.
He sighed, placing a soft kiss in her hair, his love for her nearly overwhelming him. It was moments like this-the quiet ones where it was just the two of them, together, living a normal life-when he felt the most amazed, when he felt like the luckiest man on earth.
She finally shifted, placing a smacking kiss against his chest before straightening. “Well. I’ve brought supper back, you know.”
He pretended to be affronted. “And you didn’t tell me immediately?”
“Oi! You distracted me!”
“I was merely standing in here, minding my own business.”
“You cracked the door open, begging to be discovered.” She stood, fighting back a grin.
“If I’d been begging to be discovered, I’d not have bothered with the towel.” He waggled his eyebrows, eliciting a laugh from her.
“Too true.”
She moved with alacrity, her hands pulling the towel from his hips even as she ran through the door.
“Rose!” He shouted after her, hearing her laughter from the sitting room. “That’s not fair!” The curtains to the windows were wide open, and running into the room after Rose meant the neighbours would have a free show.
He turned, looking for another towel; he was surprised to find that there was a rare towel shortage. Rose must have left hers in the laundry hamper that morning…so she’d known he was wearing the last one when she stole his.
He spun back to the door, steeling himself to go out into the sitting room, or to run down the hall to the bedroom, hurrying to beat the chill and the prying eyes of the neighbours. Just out of reach outside the door, however, was Rose. She was grinning at him unrepentantly, a box of takeaway in her hand; the handle was looped over her fingers, the white box swaying to and fro as she stood, her elbow braced against her hip.
“Care for supper, Peter?” Her voice was low and filled with laughter.
He paused at the doorway for only a moment before lunging for her; she scampered backwards, retreating into the kitchen with a shriek as he threw caution to the wind and chased, naked, after her. There was no way to escape the small kitchen, and he soon had her cornered next to the chiller, giggling as she tried to protect the takeaway.
“Rose,” he singsonged as he advanced, as he waggled his fingers towards her. Even before he touched her, tickling her ribs, she was giggling uncontrollably.
“Peter!” She gasped as he ran his fingers over her sides, as she twisted away, still laughing. As she defended herself from his onslaught, she left the food unprotected; it was the work of a moment to reach down, to lift the handles from her fingers with one hand as he reached for the chopsticks with his other. Rose slowly opened her eyes, still braced for an onslaught, and found him standing across the kitchen, smugly working to open the box of food.
“Cheater.”
“No worse than you.” He glanced briefly down at the box of food, before tilting it towards her in an offer of peace. “Singapore noodles?”