Ficapalooza: Fic IX
Title: The Sun Rising
Rating: T
Author: jlrpuck
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: What if Peter Carlisle's mum hadn't died from an overdose?
Authors Notes: And, finally--the last fic of Ficapalooza. This was written for ginamak and principia_coh , although it's not at all what they requested.
Why?
Well...because they're the ones who really started me thinking about this particular idea, in this thread of conversation from ASTG Chapter 5. I'll usually be inspired by something, somewhere along the line; with this particular idea, it immediately took my imagination and ran off. This was the *easiest* fic I've written in absolute ages.
Thank you to chicklet73 for beta-ing all of the stories this week, and to lostwolfchats for her invaluable comment and input. (EGT's not been sacked, in case you were wondering--she was off on Holiday. Lucky wench).
The Sun Rising - The Good Morrow - The Triple Fool - The Undertaking - The Primrose - The Bard’s Epitaph - The Bait - On His Mistress - The Canonization - Valediction - Lover’s Infiniteness - Epithalamion
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
-John Donne, The Sun Rising
He was a widower, a professor of history at one of the more venerable Scottish universities.
She was an heiress, permanently single and working a job on the side to keep from going mad with boredom.
He never thought he’d look twice at another woman, let alone want to marry one.
She never thought she’d find love again, let alone with someone who looked like him.
“Rose, you need to come over and meet the committee.” Jackie Tyler’s voice pulled Rose from her reverie. She’d come to Scotland because she’d had nothing better to do - she’d been injured badly on a case in Kendal months before, had been permanently assigned to desk duty and it was driving her mad. Yes, a trip to Scotland had seemed a good idea at the time - but the reality of attending the ball, celebrating the opening of a new research facility at the University, made her wonder what on earth she’d been thinking.
Surely sitting home, reading this Universe’s version of “War and Peace” would have been more fun?
Jackie waved furiously, and Rose slowly made her way across to her mum. Her ankle still hurt, but the limp was barely noticeable; still, she’d not be running after anything faster than a senior citizen using a walker any time in the foreseeable future.
Her mum beamed as she joined the group, and Rose pointed a half-hearted smile in the direction of the group of academics clustered in a half-moon around the Vitex Wife.
“Rose, I’d like you to meet the building committee for the University. They’ve been absolute dears to work with.”
Rose turned to greet the nearest professor, a gentleman of advanced years wearing a tuxedo which might, possibly, belong in a museum instead of on a person. She carefully thanked each of the individuals in turn, shaking their hands firmly, giving them her trademark (fake) smile. She dutifully made small talk after her mum wandered off, and fought back a sigh of relief once the duty was over.
She was just pondering where she might be able to hide - it was a University, surely there was a handy nook or library nearby - when she found herself trapped once again. “Miss Tyler - there’s one committee member left, you really should meet. He was instrumental in making sure the building could be used, you see - he’s our expert on historical architecture.” The man’s name was Mac - something - Mackintosh? Mackenzie? - and he was the chair of the committee. He peered at her with an eager smile.
Fantastic. Just who she wanted to meet - a dusty old professor who would talk her ear off about columns and masonry and who knew what else. “That would be lovely,” she said graciously.
Only another hour, and she could leave - could go back to the suite at the hotel, could be rid of the blasted dress, could soak her throbbing ankle and try not to think about what she’d be doing if she’d not been injured.
She followed the committee chair through the crowd - now thinning - and felt her heart skip as she spotted a familiar profile.
It wasn’t the Doctor - it couldn’t be, not five years on, not when he’d told her he couldn’t do it. She’d accepted - finally - as she lay in hospital, her bones knitting together and her wounds healing: if he’d been able to get back to her, he’d have arrived *before* she faced down an enraged killer wielding a teleport, nearly dying herself and losing James in the process.
She swallowed, fighting back the tears which always threatened when she remembered him. If only she’d been faster, if she’d not assumed the locals would have their backs…
She blinked, biting her lip. She was in the here, and the now - and the Doctor, it seemed, had a doppelganger in this world.
A doppelganger who loved history, and architecture, and had made sure Vitex’s offer of donation for a scientific facility could be utilized.
~ - ~ -
Peter Carlisle sighed, fighting the urge to glance at his watch. He’d wanted to be part of the building committee; he had wanted to have a say in how the ancient buildings on campus were used and had wanted to preserve the quality of the entire area by ensuring that the new buildings being erected matched the gorgeous remnants from centuries past.
He hadn’t wanted to be a part of the social scene - would happily have skipped the night’s festivities to stay at home, a glass of whisky at hand, working the crossword or reading one of the many old volumes he’d collected over the past several years.
He’d grown used to the quiet, five years on from his wife’s death - had learned to appreciate her presence in the reminders of their life together: the framed photo on his desk, the first edition of “A Twelfth Night’s Tale” she’d given him, their first year married. His friends, bless them, had tried to help in their own ways - setting him up on dates with ‘perfect’ women, dragging him out on holidays and outings; he’d finally thanked them, told them no, and become comfortable being a bachelor again. It had been hard, but he’d learned to live in the present.
His mum had helped with that, at least; she’d been widowed since Peter’s first year at Uni, and knew something about moving forward, learning to live with the loss without letting it consume you.
He scanned the room, looking for an ally - someone with whom he could wile away the last hour of the ball - and noticed Mackenzie winding his way over. A young, weary blonde was in tow behind him, a smile fixed on her face; she looked exhausted, and like a large hall full of professors was about the last place she wanted to be.
Small wonder. Peter pulled on his glasses, wanting to make sure he’d not imagined it. It was Rose Tyler. The Rose Tyler - the heiress to the Vitex fortune, the cipher who briefly appeared in the tabloids only to vanish again for weeks. He seemed to recall a tale about her being gravely injured in a skiing accident the year before; she’d fallen out of favour with the more hyperbolic rags at that point, unable to do anything crazy enough to attract their attention. He focused on her, noting her slight limp - a reminder of the skiing accident, no doubt.
He idly wondered if it affected her ability to dance.
She glanced over as they approached, briefly locking eyes with him; he felt a frisson of electricity run down his spine, even as her eyes widened briefly, then skated away. He watched as her cheeks turned a beautiful shade of pink - and he wondered.
Mackenzie came to a halt in front of him, Rose Tyler at his side. Her dark blonde hair was upswept, a few tendrils drifting down along the back of her neck; her makeup was light enough to be barely noticeable. He couldn’t stop looking at her, and felt his breath shorten.
He’d never been intimidated by meeting their donors - or their children - before; he had no plans to start tonight.
“Peter! I’d love you to meet Rose Tyler. Miss Tyler, this is Professor Carlisle - technically, he’s a history professor, but his true love is falling down old ruins.”
Rose extended a hand, sharply, sneaking her eyes up to meet his once again. Her eyes were large and brown, full of expression even though she’d managed to make her face carefully blank; I could spend a lot of time staring into those eyes, he thought, before hastily recollecting himself.
“Miss Tyler. It’s a pleasure.”
“Professor Carlisle. Thank you for your assistance in the project.”
Any sane person would have let the conversation go, their duty done; Peter found himself unaccountably desiring to keep speaking with the heiress, curious about the contrast between the shy woman in front of him, and the confident woman of the papers.
“It was my privilege, I assure you.” He paused, forcing himself to glance away - to stop staring - before continuing, “Have you had the chance to tour the town?”
“No, I - we - came up this morning. It looked lovely, though, as we drove here.”
“It is - if you have a chance, you should spend some time here. I mean…I’m sure you’re busy…” He stammered, uncertain of how to continue.
Rose smiled - a touch sadly, he thought. “Thank you.”
Mackenzie toddled off, leaving the two of them standing together, awkward silence falling between them. Peter still couldn’t stop looking at Rose - wondering about her, wondering what she was like away from the crowd, wondering whether she liked old books or new, and what kind of food she preferred.
He needed to get away from there, from her - he’d only just met her, he wasn’t interested in meeting anyone new. He was a professor, she was an heiress. She’d think he had a schoolboy crush, and would laugh at him.
“Um…are you from around here?” Rose asked, just as he’d made up his mind to flee.
“N - no. I’m from the other side of the country. Glasgow.”
“Oh.” Rose turned, her attention solidly on him. “Have you always taught here?” Her eyes were brightening, curiosity beginning to percolate through the sadness.
“I transferred here. About ten years ago. My wife got a job, and I followed her.”
If he’d not been watching her so closely, he’d have missed the brief flash of disappointment crossing her face. “Oh! That’s…that’s lovely. I’m sure you’ve both been very happy here.” Rose took a breath, glancing down at the floor. “I’m…I’ve got to go. It’s been a pleasure to meet you.”
My wife is dead. The words froze in his throat, unspoken, as she turned and hurried away.
~ - ~
Rose spent the next six months trying to forget about the professor - Peter Carlisle - who lurked in Scotland. She thought she’d done a fair job of it, too, until the day her father came to her with a proposal.
“You’re going spare, Rose - and your Mum needs a break. How would you feel about taking over as chair of the educational trust for Vitex?”
She’d not wanted to - she wanted to stay working as an administrative assistant at Torchwood, keeping an eye on Mickey and Jake, offering her thoughts on the cases they worked. Pete had finally talked her into it, though, promising that she could still consult for Torchwood whilst learning how to run one side of the family business.
And so it was that she found herself back in Scotland, visiting the research facility, hoping and fearing that she’d run into the man she’d been trying to forget.
He was married; he was at least a decade older than her; she wasn’t his type.
She repeated the words, steeling herself for any unfortunate meeting, almost crying with relief when her week-long visit passed without seeing him once.
Until her final morning. She’d been staying in a smallish hotel close to the campus and in the centre of town; she had remembered his comment at the party, months earlier, asking if she’d seen the small town, and she’d spent her spare time over the week exploring the wynds and closes, running her hands across the ancient stones much as she used to across the walls of the TARDIS. It was nice to explore, and she spent her final morning re-visiting some of the spots which she’d found over the previous days.
It was a bit of a shock to stumble across him, so unexpectedly, and after she’d dropped her guard.
“Oh!” She jerked to a stop, taking care to keep her mocha from splashing out of the heavy paper cup she was carrying. He spun around, surprised at being discovered so far off the beaten path.
He looked about as stunned as she felt. “Rose!”
She blushed, hearing her name roll off his tongue. “Professor.”
“Peter,” he blurted, blushing.
“I…um…I - ” she gestured to the buildings surrounding the small, unexpected square in the heart of the oldest part of town. “I wanted to take one last tour before I left.”
His lips quirked into a smile; she found herself wishing, fiercely, that he weren’t married. “Bit off the beaten path, this.”
“I’ve been exploring. At your recommendation.” She added a note of playful reproach to the words, unable to resist the urge to flirt with the familiar-but-not man in front of her.
He’d looked stunning in his tuxedo, the night she met him, but he looked equally as attractive in the weak light filling the stone square. He was in a jumper and jeans, comfortable hiking boots on his feet; his hair, no longer slicked back as it had been that night months before, was tousled just so. And he really did need a shave.
He smiled mischievously, a dimple appearing. “Is that so? What delights have you discovered?”
She told him what she’d been able to see in her spare time; he offered to show her around town, to point out the truly hidden gems lurking around unseen corners and in back gardens.
She missed her train to London, so caught up was she. She even managed to forget his marriage, in spite of the glint of gold which periodically flashed from his left hand.
It wasn’t until supper - after she’d extended her stay by a night, and let Pete and Jackie know she’d be home a day late - that she remembered. The gold of his wedding band glimmered in the warm light from the pub fireplace; she felt her heart break, a cold chill washing down her back.
He wasn’t hers to reach for.
It had been so easy, too - his sense of humour was a delight, his wry take on life and things refreshing after dealing with the self-important ramblings of the people she encountered back in London. He was whip-smart, seeing connections in things which she’d never have considered. He loved what he talked about, enthusing over details in the architecture, or relishing the sharing of a particularly bloody tale. And he had a beautiful voice - like the Doctor’s but not, richer for the brogue which he had.
She wondered how many students had a crush on him.
And then she forced herself to retreat, to distance herself from him. He’d be a lovely friend to have, without question. But just a friend. Nothing more. She couldn’t let herself even contemplate such a thing.
He didn’t miss the change in her demeanour, hurt flashing across his face when she didn’t laugh so loudly at his observations, confusion radiating from him when she insisted that they split the bill evenly, down to the last pence. They parted at the entrance to the pub, Rose awkwardly shaking his hand, wanting so desperately to hug him instead.
“Ring when you’re next visiting,” he said, softly, when she released his hand.
“I will.” She wouldn’t - couldn’t - not until she figured out how to be around him without wanting more than he could give.
She turned, walking into the night.
~ - ~
He didn’t see her for another year.
The day he’d spent, showing her around town - taking her to his favourite hidden spots - had been one of the happiest he’d had in years. He’d even thought about kissing her - stealing a quick peck on her cheek - by the time they sat for supper.
He’d been hurt, and confused, by the way in which she retreated before he even had the chance to try stealing a kiss - her body language had changed, she’d been unable to meet his eye. By the time he returned home that evening, he was thoroughly frustrated - with himself, for falling so fast, and with her and her mixed signals.
He’d somehow managed to fall in love with her after two meetings and a day spent together.
He forced himself to forget about her, and made a point of avoiding the building bearing the name of her father’s company. He avoided news of Vitex, worried he’d stumble across her picture unawares and break the resolution he’d made to not think about her. He ignored the glossy pictures which periodically appeared showing her on the arm of yet another young, fit man - her eyes full of sadness in spite of her smile.
He threw himself into his teaching and into his research; he might be tenured, and a respected member of the faculty, but he still had an obligation to come up with scholarly treatises on the influence of Icelandic explorers on the architectural styles of ninth-century Scotland. He took a term off, heading to the north, savouring being away from the University for a bit, being able to channel his energies into something he enjoyed so very much.
He’d finally succeeded in moving on from her, in accepting that he wasn’t meant for another. He’d stopped in Glasgow on his way home, visiting Martin before his brother’s band played another small gig in one of the many clubs in the city; the band had a respectable following in the music scene, and Martin spent as much time touring as he did in the city of his birth.
“Are ye alright, Petey?” his brother asked as they companionably drank whiskey, the club still empty before opening.
“Yeah. I’ll be fine.”
Martin had gazed at him, his dark eyes weighing his younger brother, before nodding. He’d given Peter a tight hug before he left, reminding him that life always had a surprise in store.
He would have stopped at Croy to see his mum, as well, but she’d set sail on a cruise the week before his return. She had visited his house before her departure, however, and he found a note from her on his kitchen table, in amongst his handwritten - and discarded - research ideas. He fought down a smile as he read her words, admonishing him to remember to eat, and reminding him that she’d be back in two weeks’ time.
And so he settled back into routine, avoiding the Vitex Research Institute, drafting his journal article.
And then, a year almost to the day since he’d last seen her, he came across Rose Tyler once again.
He jerked to a halt, making sure not to spill his coffee as he unexpectedly came across her in one of his places. He turned, trying to remain silent, to beat a hasty retreat; she turned, her eyes growing large as she discovered him standing ten feet away.
“Peter!”
His heart lurched, the sound of his name on her lips almost too much for him to bear. He’d moved on, had moved past the fascinating woman in front of him.
“Miss Tyler.” The formality offered him a safe distance - time enough, he hoped, to walk away from her unscathed.
Her eyes dropped to where he was cradling the cup of coffee, and her smile fell. “I…I’m sorry. This…I forgot. I’ll just go.” She turned, looking for a way out of the garden that didn’t require walking past him.
He wanted to flee, but he didn’t want her to go. He stepped towards her, closing the distance. “Rose…”
“I’ve an appointment - I’m sorry. I’ll be late.” She didn’t meet his eye, taking a step back away from him.
“On Saturday?” he asked, amused. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help but flirt with her.
“Yes,” she replied, defensively, her eyes meeting his in challenge.
He’d forgotten the particular shade of them - how had he done that?
Rose locked gazes with him, a blush stealing over her cheeks. She refused to blink, to look away - to give him any advantage.
He wanted desperately to kiss her.
He stepped towards her, tentatively, his heart hammering; she was frozen in front of him, refusing to back down, to step away. He was only inches from her, holding her gaze as he leaned in; her eyes widened, then fluttered shut as she leaned towards him.
He could feel the heat from her, could feel her breath, when she staggered backwards, her eyes open and wide again. “I…You…can’t...” She was panting, her cheeks red; she looked appalled.
He fought down the embarrassment, anger overriding his desire to flee. She’d wanted to, even a blind man could see that. “Why not?” He pursed his lips, rubbing his hand through his hair. “Rose, god help me, I want to. Why can’t we?”
She gazed at him, astonished. “You’re married!” She gestured to his hand, still holding his coffee.
He glanced down, confused, then froze. He still wore his wedding band. He’d always worn it - at first, to remember his wife, and then because he couldn’t imagine not wearing it.
“I’m…”
Rose had started to move around him, angling for the way out of the garden. He sidestepped, blocking her way.
“Let me go. Please.” Her voice was soft, steady; he took a step back, giving her space.
“I will do, I promise. But…Rose, I’m not married.”
“You are - you told me yourself!” She looked up at him, her eyes flashing.
“I’m was. I’m not now.”
“But your ring…”
“My wife died; I just never took the ring off.”
Rose blanched. “I’m …I’m so sorry. Oh my God. I - ”
“It’s alright, Rose.” He took a step forward, once more closing the distance between them. “It is.”
She was still staring at him, wide-eyed, shock on her features; he leaned in, closer… closer…
Her eyes fluttered shut once more, and this time she didn’t pull back.
He felt a rush of adrenaline as his lips brushed against hers, every nerve ending lighting up and tingling from the sensation. She returned the kiss, tentatively at first, then pressing forward into him as her fists balled the fabric of his shirt.
He pulled back, looking for a place to set his coffee; she blinked her eyes open, watching him warily, worried he might run off. He set the coffee down in the grass - if it spilled, he’d go buy a new cup - and then leaned forward to pull her to him for another kiss.
~ - ~
It was a month before he told her he loved her.
“I love you.”
The words were said quietly, calmly; only Peter’s gaze was intense as he looked at her across the lunch table.
Rose gaped for a moment, her heart racing in her chest as she let the words resonate within her. He loved her. He’d been with her for only a month, and yet he’d said the words with such assurance…
“Is that alright, Rose?” There was a note of soft amusement to his voice, now, and she returned her gaze to his.
“Yes,” she replied, softly. “I…” She wanted to be able to say the words back to him-she was so close to being able to-but they froze in her throat.
Peter slid his hand over hers, his thumb rubbing the back of her hand. “I know,” he whispered, giving a gentle squeeze.
It took her another few days to find the courage to say the words in return.
~ - ~
“Peter…I…you should know. About how I spent a couple of years.” They were in bed together one lazy Sunday morning; Rose had been wondering how to tell this man she loved about her former life. Was six weeks too soon to tell him? Was it too late? She loved him, unequivocally, knew she didn’t want to let him go.
And that meant she had to tell him - to trust that he’d believe her.
She swallowed, and plunged into the details of her life before. Peter remained silent throughout, holding her, letting her talk and tell her tale in her own time. With anyone else, the silence would have been unnerving; with Peter she knew it meant he was listening, rapt, waiting for all of the facts to be presented before making a judgment.
Ever the professor, she thought wryly as she finished.
“You’re telling me that you travelled the stars. With an alien. In a public call box?” She could picture his brows, drawn together as he puzzled through her statement.
“’s mad, but ‘s true. You can ask…well, my entire family. Or my co-workers.”
Peter rolled onto his side, facing her; he still held her hands in his, resting on the sheet between them. His expression was grave.
“Why did you stay here? If you had that chance?”
She could see the scepticism in his expression, but he was giving her the benefit of the doubt. She felt her heart clench a little bit more with love for him before she plunged into the tale of why she stopped travelling.
Peter didn’t truly believe her - not at first. But he never denied her story; instead, he mulled it over, examining parts and pieces of the tale, talking with Jackie, or Pete, or even Mickey as time wore on. And when he truly believed her - a few weeks later - he never said so. She just knew. And they carried on together.
He’d also learned of his resemblance to the Doctor; he was a bit less phlegmatic about that revelation, but accepted it with wry humour. “You’ve a thing for tall, dark, and Scottish,” he’d observed, his lips quirking.
“Only with you,” she’d rejoined. And they’d moved on again.
Out of all of her revelations, the only one which truly rattled Peter was the one about how she had acquired the slight limp she still carried.
“You what?” He actually shouted when Jackie accidentally let slip how very nearly Rose had been killed; John had run out of the room crying; Jackie had glared at both her and Peter on her way after her son. And Rose had been left to calm a horrified Peter.
“I don’t do that, anymore. I can’t,” she finished some time later, curled on the sofa next to him.
“But you would, if you could.” His voice was bitter.
“Yes.” She stroked his arm. “But I can’t, Peter. So I do other things. I won’t be purposely placed in a situation like that, ever again.”
He turned to her, pulling her into a crushing hug, burying his nose in her hair. “Don’t. Please.”
She turned slightly, brushing a kiss over his hair. “I won’t.”
As she said the words, she found she meant them. She didn’t want to risk losing him - or making him lose her.
He made gentle love to her that night - and when she awoke the next morning, he proposed. “I don’t ever want to be without you,” he whispered, his fingers stroking her cheek.
~ - ~
They were married seven months later, eloping at the University chapel after the wedding preparations in London grew to be too much for either of them.
~ fin ~
Rating: T
Author: jlrpuck
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: What if Peter Carlisle's mum hadn't died from an overdose?
Authors Notes: And, finally--the last fic of Ficapalooza. This was written for ginamak and principia_coh , although it's not at all what they requested.
Why?
Well...because they're the ones who really started me thinking about this particular idea, in this thread of conversation from ASTG Chapter 5. I'll usually be inspired by something, somewhere along the line; with this particular idea, it immediately took my imagination and ran off. This was the *easiest* fic I've written in absolute ages.
Thank you to chicklet73 for beta-ing all of the stories this week, and to lostwolfchats for her invaluable comment and input. (EGT's not been sacked, in case you were wondering--she was off on Holiday. Lucky wench).
The Sun Rising - The Good Morrow - The Triple Fool - The Undertaking - The Primrose - The Bard’s Epitaph - The Bait - On His Mistress - The Canonization - Valediction - Lover’s Infiniteness - Epithalamion
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
-John Donne, The Sun Rising
He was a widower, a professor of history at one of the more venerable Scottish universities.
She was an heiress, permanently single and working a job on the side to keep from going mad with boredom.
He never thought he’d look twice at another woman, let alone want to marry one.
She never thought she’d find love again, let alone with someone who looked like him.
“Rose, you need to come over and meet the committee.” Jackie Tyler’s voice pulled Rose from her reverie. She’d come to Scotland because she’d had nothing better to do - she’d been injured badly on a case in Kendal months before, had been permanently assigned to desk duty and it was driving her mad. Yes, a trip to Scotland had seemed a good idea at the time - but the reality of attending the ball, celebrating the opening of a new research facility at the University, made her wonder what on earth she’d been thinking.
Surely sitting home, reading this Universe’s version of “War and Peace” would have been more fun?
Jackie waved furiously, and Rose slowly made her way across to her mum. Her ankle still hurt, but the limp was barely noticeable; still, she’d not be running after anything faster than a senior citizen using a walker any time in the foreseeable future.
Her mum beamed as she joined the group, and Rose pointed a half-hearted smile in the direction of the group of academics clustered in a half-moon around the Vitex Wife.
“Rose, I’d like you to meet the building committee for the University. They’ve been absolute dears to work with.”
Rose turned to greet the nearest professor, a gentleman of advanced years wearing a tuxedo which might, possibly, belong in a museum instead of on a person. She carefully thanked each of the individuals in turn, shaking their hands firmly, giving them her trademark (fake) smile. She dutifully made small talk after her mum wandered off, and fought back a sigh of relief once the duty was over.
She was just pondering where she might be able to hide - it was a University, surely there was a handy nook or library nearby - when she found herself trapped once again. “Miss Tyler - there’s one committee member left, you really should meet. He was instrumental in making sure the building could be used, you see - he’s our expert on historical architecture.” The man’s name was Mac - something - Mackintosh? Mackenzie? - and he was the chair of the committee. He peered at her with an eager smile.
Fantastic. Just who she wanted to meet - a dusty old professor who would talk her ear off about columns and masonry and who knew what else. “That would be lovely,” she said graciously.
Only another hour, and she could leave - could go back to the suite at the hotel, could be rid of the blasted dress, could soak her throbbing ankle and try not to think about what she’d be doing if she’d not been injured.
She followed the committee chair through the crowd - now thinning - and felt her heart skip as she spotted a familiar profile.
It wasn’t the Doctor - it couldn’t be, not five years on, not when he’d told her he couldn’t do it. She’d accepted - finally - as she lay in hospital, her bones knitting together and her wounds healing: if he’d been able to get back to her, he’d have arrived *before* she faced down an enraged killer wielding a teleport, nearly dying herself and losing James in the process.
She swallowed, fighting back the tears which always threatened when she remembered him. If only she’d been faster, if she’d not assumed the locals would have their backs…
She blinked, biting her lip. She was in the here, and the now - and the Doctor, it seemed, had a doppelganger in this world.
A doppelganger who loved history, and architecture, and had made sure Vitex’s offer of donation for a scientific facility could be utilized.
~ - ~ -
Peter Carlisle sighed, fighting the urge to glance at his watch. He’d wanted to be part of the building committee; he had wanted to have a say in how the ancient buildings on campus were used and had wanted to preserve the quality of the entire area by ensuring that the new buildings being erected matched the gorgeous remnants from centuries past.
He hadn’t wanted to be a part of the social scene - would happily have skipped the night’s festivities to stay at home, a glass of whisky at hand, working the crossword or reading one of the many old volumes he’d collected over the past several years.
He’d grown used to the quiet, five years on from his wife’s death - had learned to appreciate her presence in the reminders of their life together: the framed photo on his desk, the first edition of “A Twelfth Night’s Tale” she’d given him, their first year married. His friends, bless them, had tried to help in their own ways - setting him up on dates with ‘perfect’ women, dragging him out on holidays and outings; he’d finally thanked them, told them no, and become comfortable being a bachelor again. It had been hard, but he’d learned to live in the present.
His mum had helped with that, at least; she’d been widowed since Peter’s first year at Uni, and knew something about moving forward, learning to live with the loss without letting it consume you.
He scanned the room, looking for an ally - someone with whom he could wile away the last hour of the ball - and noticed Mackenzie winding his way over. A young, weary blonde was in tow behind him, a smile fixed on her face; she looked exhausted, and like a large hall full of professors was about the last place she wanted to be.
Small wonder. Peter pulled on his glasses, wanting to make sure he’d not imagined it. It was Rose Tyler. The Rose Tyler - the heiress to the Vitex fortune, the cipher who briefly appeared in the tabloids only to vanish again for weeks. He seemed to recall a tale about her being gravely injured in a skiing accident the year before; she’d fallen out of favour with the more hyperbolic rags at that point, unable to do anything crazy enough to attract their attention. He focused on her, noting her slight limp - a reminder of the skiing accident, no doubt.
He idly wondered if it affected her ability to dance.
She glanced over as they approached, briefly locking eyes with him; he felt a frisson of electricity run down his spine, even as her eyes widened briefly, then skated away. He watched as her cheeks turned a beautiful shade of pink - and he wondered.
Mackenzie came to a halt in front of him, Rose Tyler at his side. Her dark blonde hair was upswept, a few tendrils drifting down along the back of her neck; her makeup was light enough to be barely noticeable. He couldn’t stop looking at her, and felt his breath shorten.
He’d never been intimidated by meeting their donors - or their children - before; he had no plans to start tonight.
“Peter! I’d love you to meet Rose Tyler. Miss Tyler, this is Professor Carlisle - technically, he’s a history professor, but his true love is falling down old ruins.”
Rose extended a hand, sharply, sneaking her eyes up to meet his once again. Her eyes were large and brown, full of expression even though she’d managed to make her face carefully blank; I could spend a lot of time staring into those eyes, he thought, before hastily recollecting himself.
“Miss Tyler. It’s a pleasure.”
“Professor Carlisle. Thank you for your assistance in the project.”
Any sane person would have let the conversation go, their duty done; Peter found himself unaccountably desiring to keep speaking with the heiress, curious about the contrast between the shy woman in front of him, and the confident woman of the papers.
“It was my privilege, I assure you.” He paused, forcing himself to glance away - to stop staring - before continuing, “Have you had the chance to tour the town?”
“No, I - we - came up this morning. It looked lovely, though, as we drove here.”
“It is - if you have a chance, you should spend some time here. I mean…I’m sure you’re busy…” He stammered, uncertain of how to continue.
Rose smiled - a touch sadly, he thought. “Thank you.”
Mackenzie toddled off, leaving the two of them standing together, awkward silence falling between them. Peter still couldn’t stop looking at Rose - wondering about her, wondering what she was like away from the crowd, wondering whether she liked old books or new, and what kind of food she preferred.
He needed to get away from there, from her - he’d only just met her, he wasn’t interested in meeting anyone new. He was a professor, she was an heiress. She’d think he had a schoolboy crush, and would laugh at him.
“Um…are you from around here?” Rose asked, just as he’d made up his mind to flee.
“N - no. I’m from the other side of the country. Glasgow.”
“Oh.” Rose turned, her attention solidly on him. “Have you always taught here?” Her eyes were brightening, curiosity beginning to percolate through the sadness.
“I transferred here. About ten years ago. My wife got a job, and I followed her.”
If he’d not been watching her so closely, he’d have missed the brief flash of disappointment crossing her face. “Oh! That’s…that’s lovely. I’m sure you’ve both been very happy here.” Rose took a breath, glancing down at the floor. “I’m…I’ve got to go. It’s been a pleasure to meet you.”
My wife is dead. The words froze in his throat, unspoken, as she turned and hurried away.
~ - ~
Rose spent the next six months trying to forget about the professor - Peter Carlisle - who lurked in Scotland. She thought she’d done a fair job of it, too, until the day her father came to her with a proposal.
“You’re going spare, Rose - and your Mum needs a break. How would you feel about taking over as chair of the educational trust for Vitex?”
She’d not wanted to - she wanted to stay working as an administrative assistant at Torchwood, keeping an eye on Mickey and Jake, offering her thoughts on the cases they worked. Pete had finally talked her into it, though, promising that she could still consult for Torchwood whilst learning how to run one side of the family business.
And so it was that she found herself back in Scotland, visiting the research facility, hoping and fearing that she’d run into the man she’d been trying to forget.
He was married; he was at least a decade older than her; she wasn’t his type.
She repeated the words, steeling herself for any unfortunate meeting, almost crying with relief when her week-long visit passed without seeing him once.
Until her final morning. She’d been staying in a smallish hotel close to the campus and in the centre of town; she had remembered his comment at the party, months earlier, asking if she’d seen the small town, and she’d spent her spare time over the week exploring the wynds and closes, running her hands across the ancient stones much as she used to across the walls of the TARDIS. It was nice to explore, and she spent her final morning re-visiting some of the spots which she’d found over the previous days.
It was a bit of a shock to stumble across him, so unexpectedly, and after she’d dropped her guard.
“Oh!” She jerked to a stop, taking care to keep her mocha from splashing out of the heavy paper cup she was carrying. He spun around, surprised at being discovered so far off the beaten path.
He looked about as stunned as she felt. “Rose!”
She blushed, hearing her name roll off his tongue. “Professor.”
“Peter,” he blurted, blushing.
“I…um…I - ” she gestured to the buildings surrounding the small, unexpected square in the heart of the oldest part of town. “I wanted to take one last tour before I left.”
His lips quirked into a smile; she found herself wishing, fiercely, that he weren’t married. “Bit off the beaten path, this.”
“I’ve been exploring. At your recommendation.” She added a note of playful reproach to the words, unable to resist the urge to flirt with the familiar-but-not man in front of her.
He’d looked stunning in his tuxedo, the night she met him, but he looked equally as attractive in the weak light filling the stone square. He was in a jumper and jeans, comfortable hiking boots on his feet; his hair, no longer slicked back as it had been that night months before, was tousled just so. And he really did need a shave.
He smiled mischievously, a dimple appearing. “Is that so? What delights have you discovered?”
She told him what she’d been able to see in her spare time; he offered to show her around town, to point out the truly hidden gems lurking around unseen corners and in back gardens.
She missed her train to London, so caught up was she. She even managed to forget his marriage, in spite of the glint of gold which periodically flashed from his left hand.
It wasn’t until supper - after she’d extended her stay by a night, and let Pete and Jackie know she’d be home a day late - that she remembered. The gold of his wedding band glimmered in the warm light from the pub fireplace; she felt her heart break, a cold chill washing down her back.
He wasn’t hers to reach for.
It had been so easy, too - his sense of humour was a delight, his wry take on life and things refreshing after dealing with the self-important ramblings of the people she encountered back in London. He was whip-smart, seeing connections in things which she’d never have considered. He loved what he talked about, enthusing over details in the architecture, or relishing the sharing of a particularly bloody tale. And he had a beautiful voice - like the Doctor’s but not, richer for the brogue which he had.
She wondered how many students had a crush on him.
And then she forced herself to retreat, to distance herself from him. He’d be a lovely friend to have, without question. But just a friend. Nothing more. She couldn’t let herself even contemplate such a thing.
He didn’t miss the change in her demeanour, hurt flashing across his face when she didn’t laugh so loudly at his observations, confusion radiating from him when she insisted that they split the bill evenly, down to the last pence. They parted at the entrance to the pub, Rose awkwardly shaking his hand, wanting so desperately to hug him instead.
“Ring when you’re next visiting,” he said, softly, when she released his hand.
“I will.” She wouldn’t - couldn’t - not until she figured out how to be around him without wanting more than he could give.
She turned, walking into the night.
~ - ~
He didn’t see her for another year.
The day he’d spent, showing her around town - taking her to his favourite hidden spots - had been one of the happiest he’d had in years. He’d even thought about kissing her - stealing a quick peck on her cheek - by the time they sat for supper.
He’d been hurt, and confused, by the way in which she retreated before he even had the chance to try stealing a kiss - her body language had changed, she’d been unable to meet his eye. By the time he returned home that evening, he was thoroughly frustrated - with himself, for falling so fast, and with her and her mixed signals.
He’d somehow managed to fall in love with her after two meetings and a day spent together.
He forced himself to forget about her, and made a point of avoiding the building bearing the name of her father’s company. He avoided news of Vitex, worried he’d stumble across her picture unawares and break the resolution he’d made to not think about her. He ignored the glossy pictures which periodically appeared showing her on the arm of yet another young, fit man - her eyes full of sadness in spite of her smile.
He threw himself into his teaching and into his research; he might be tenured, and a respected member of the faculty, but he still had an obligation to come up with scholarly treatises on the influence of Icelandic explorers on the architectural styles of ninth-century Scotland. He took a term off, heading to the north, savouring being away from the University for a bit, being able to channel his energies into something he enjoyed so very much.
He’d finally succeeded in moving on from her, in accepting that he wasn’t meant for another. He’d stopped in Glasgow on his way home, visiting Martin before his brother’s band played another small gig in one of the many clubs in the city; the band had a respectable following in the music scene, and Martin spent as much time touring as he did in the city of his birth.
“Are ye alright, Petey?” his brother asked as they companionably drank whiskey, the club still empty before opening.
“Yeah. I’ll be fine.”
Martin had gazed at him, his dark eyes weighing his younger brother, before nodding. He’d given Peter a tight hug before he left, reminding him that life always had a surprise in store.
He would have stopped at Croy to see his mum, as well, but she’d set sail on a cruise the week before his return. She had visited his house before her departure, however, and he found a note from her on his kitchen table, in amongst his handwritten - and discarded - research ideas. He fought down a smile as he read her words, admonishing him to remember to eat, and reminding him that she’d be back in two weeks’ time.
And so he settled back into routine, avoiding the Vitex Research Institute, drafting his journal article.
And then, a year almost to the day since he’d last seen her, he came across Rose Tyler once again.
He jerked to a halt, making sure not to spill his coffee as he unexpectedly came across her in one of his places. He turned, trying to remain silent, to beat a hasty retreat; she turned, her eyes growing large as she discovered him standing ten feet away.
“Peter!”
His heart lurched, the sound of his name on her lips almost too much for him to bear. He’d moved on, had moved past the fascinating woman in front of him.
“Miss Tyler.” The formality offered him a safe distance - time enough, he hoped, to walk away from her unscathed.
Her eyes dropped to where he was cradling the cup of coffee, and her smile fell. “I…I’m sorry. This…I forgot. I’ll just go.” She turned, looking for a way out of the garden that didn’t require walking past him.
He wanted to flee, but he didn’t want her to go. He stepped towards her, closing the distance. “Rose…”
“I’ve an appointment - I’m sorry. I’ll be late.” She didn’t meet his eye, taking a step back away from him.
“On Saturday?” he asked, amused. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help but flirt with her.
“Yes,” she replied, defensively, her eyes meeting his in challenge.
He’d forgotten the particular shade of them - how had he done that?
Rose locked gazes with him, a blush stealing over her cheeks. She refused to blink, to look away - to give him any advantage.
He wanted desperately to kiss her.
He stepped towards her, tentatively, his heart hammering; she was frozen in front of him, refusing to back down, to step away. He was only inches from her, holding her gaze as he leaned in; her eyes widened, then fluttered shut as she leaned towards him.
He could feel the heat from her, could feel her breath, when she staggered backwards, her eyes open and wide again. “I…You…can’t...” She was panting, her cheeks red; she looked appalled.
He fought down the embarrassment, anger overriding his desire to flee. She’d wanted to, even a blind man could see that. “Why not?” He pursed his lips, rubbing his hand through his hair. “Rose, god help me, I want to. Why can’t we?”
She gazed at him, astonished. “You’re married!” She gestured to his hand, still holding his coffee.
He glanced down, confused, then froze. He still wore his wedding band. He’d always worn it - at first, to remember his wife, and then because he couldn’t imagine not wearing it.
“I’m…”
Rose had started to move around him, angling for the way out of the garden. He sidestepped, blocking her way.
“Let me go. Please.” Her voice was soft, steady; he took a step back, giving her space.
“I will do, I promise. But…Rose, I’m not married.”
“You are - you told me yourself!” She looked up at him, her eyes flashing.
“I’m was. I’m not now.”
“But your ring…”
“My wife died; I just never took the ring off.”
Rose blanched. “I’m …I’m so sorry. Oh my God. I - ”
“It’s alright, Rose.” He took a step forward, once more closing the distance between them. “It is.”
She was still staring at him, wide-eyed, shock on her features; he leaned in, closer… closer…
Her eyes fluttered shut once more, and this time she didn’t pull back.
He felt a rush of adrenaline as his lips brushed against hers, every nerve ending lighting up and tingling from the sensation. She returned the kiss, tentatively at first, then pressing forward into him as her fists balled the fabric of his shirt.
He pulled back, looking for a place to set his coffee; she blinked her eyes open, watching him warily, worried he might run off. He set the coffee down in the grass - if it spilled, he’d go buy a new cup - and then leaned forward to pull her to him for another kiss.
~ - ~
It was a month before he told her he loved her.
“I love you.”
The words were said quietly, calmly; only Peter’s gaze was intense as he looked at her across the lunch table.
Rose gaped for a moment, her heart racing in her chest as she let the words resonate within her. He loved her. He’d been with her for only a month, and yet he’d said the words with such assurance…
“Is that alright, Rose?” There was a note of soft amusement to his voice, now, and she returned her gaze to his.
“Yes,” she replied, softly. “I…” She wanted to be able to say the words back to him-she was so close to being able to-but they froze in her throat.
Peter slid his hand over hers, his thumb rubbing the back of her hand. “I know,” he whispered, giving a gentle squeeze.
It took her another few days to find the courage to say the words in return.
~ - ~
“Peter…I…you should know. About how I spent a couple of years.” They were in bed together one lazy Sunday morning; Rose had been wondering how to tell this man she loved about her former life. Was six weeks too soon to tell him? Was it too late? She loved him, unequivocally, knew she didn’t want to let him go.
And that meant she had to tell him - to trust that he’d believe her.
She swallowed, and plunged into the details of her life before. Peter remained silent throughout, holding her, letting her talk and tell her tale in her own time. With anyone else, the silence would have been unnerving; with Peter she knew it meant he was listening, rapt, waiting for all of the facts to be presented before making a judgment.
Ever the professor, she thought wryly as she finished.
“You’re telling me that you travelled the stars. With an alien. In a public call box?” She could picture his brows, drawn together as he puzzled through her statement.
“’s mad, but ‘s true. You can ask…well, my entire family. Or my co-workers.”
Peter rolled onto his side, facing her; he still held her hands in his, resting on the sheet between them. His expression was grave.
“Why did you stay here? If you had that chance?”
She could see the scepticism in his expression, but he was giving her the benefit of the doubt. She felt her heart clench a little bit more with love for him before she plunged into the tale of why she stopped travelling.
Peter didn’t truly believe her - not at first. But he never denied her story; instead, he mulled it over, examining parts and pieces of the tale, talking with Jackie, or Pete, or even Mickey as time wore on. And when he truly believed her - a few weeks later - he never said so. She just knew. And they carried on together.
He’d also learned of his resemblance to the Doctor; he was a bit less phlegmatic about that revelation, but accepted it with wry humour. “You’ve a thing for tall, dark, and Scottish,” he’d observed, his lips quirking.
“Only with you,” she’d rejoined. And they’d moved on again.
Out of all of her revelations, the only one which truly rattled Peter was the one about how she had acquired the slight limp she still carried.
“You what?” He actually shouted when Jackie accidentally let slip how very nearly Rose had been killed; John had run out of the room crying; Jackie had glared at both her and Peter on her way after her son. And Rose had been left to calm a horrified Peter.
“I don’t do that, anymore. I can’t,” she finished some time later, curled on the sofa next to him.
“But you would, if you could.” His voice was bitter.
“Yes.” She stroked his arm. “But I can’t, Peter. So I do other things. I won’t be purposely placed in a situation like that, ever again.”
He turned to her, pulling her into a crushing hug, burying his nose in her hair. “Don’t. Please.”
She turned slightly, brushing a kiss over his hair. “I won’t.”
As she said the words, she found she meant them. She didn’t want to risk losing him - or making him lose her.
He made gentle love to her that night - and when she awoke the next morning, he proposed. “I don’t ever want to be without you,” he whispered, his fingers stroking her cheek.
~ - ~
They were married seven months later, eloping at the University chapel after the wedding preparations in London grew to be too much for either of them.
~ fin ~