On His Mistress (1/2)
Title: On His Mistress, 1/2
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? Another story exploring an alternate version of the universe presented in "The Way of Things" and "And So Things Go".
Authors Notes: Rose has moved in with Peter-but all is not smooth sailing.
Because of Christmas-and the fact that I’ll be at my parents house on Thursday-part two of this story will actually go up sometime on Wednesday. *ducks*
Thank you to chicklet73 and earlgreytea68 for their beta of this!
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
Temper, O fair Love, love's impetuous rage,
Be my true Mistress still, not my feigned Page
- John Donne, On His Mistress
The first days of living with Peter, full-time, passed in something of a blur. The cottage was filled with boxes, bits of Rose’s life which she couldn’t bear to leave behind in Kew-in spite of retaining the house there-and absolute necessities which needed to be tucked away somewhere. Peter had made room for her things, for the most part; however, they discovered that a bit more space was required for her jumpers and coats.
As they ate dinner their second night living together, Peter teased her about the volume of clothes she’d brought-until she pointed out that his clothes still took up twice as much space as hers. At which point he mentioned that he thought there might be room in one of the closets he used to store linens. “There are a few things in there which need taking to charity, as well,” he said, taking a sip of ale.
The plan had been to wait until the weekend to tackle this final chore together; but by mid-morning of her third day living full-time in the cottage, with the weather promising to stay sunny and warm, Rose could no longer sit still. Peter had left her alone for the day, pleading work-he was already preparing for courses for the autumn, and had been apologetic as he’d rushed out the door that morning, running late due to being distracted in the shower. Rose hated being at loose ends-especially when there was work to be done-and so she decided to see about unpacking the last of her clothes, as well as her few books.
She threw open the windows to the cottage, allowing the slight breeze to blow through, then set to slowly making her way through the objects in the closet in question. The closet was stuffed full of anything and everything-boxes of papers, books, old shoes, and clothes; she painstakingly went through everything she found, bearing in mind Peter’s comment of things which could be donated. There were several moth-eaten jumpers in there which looked like they’d be snug even on Peter; she carefully set them aside, along with some shoes which appeared to be dusty, representing the pile of potential charity candidates.
After a break for a late lunch, she slowly unpacked the last of her boxes, hanging her clothes in the small space she’d cleared out. The jumpers and shoes were placed into one of her empty boxes, which was then set aside for Peter’s review when he got home. Once they knew which he wanted to donate, she thought she’d take them to the charity shop the following day. It would be another errand that could fill her time, especially if Peter had to go back to work.
She turned her attention to her books, trying to find room to put them in his office. The shelves were already stuffed full of books on anything and everything-although mostly on architecture and history-and she finally gave up after an hour or so, placing her books in a neat pile under the window of the room.
By the time she finished it was nearly five, and she reckoned Peter would be home soon enough; she made a simple meal in the kitchen, timing it so it would be done by six-long enough, she hoped, for Peter to make it home.
And then she sat and waited…and waited some more. She glanced at her phone, thinking to give him a call-then realized that his mobile was sitting next to hers, and she had no idea what his office number was.
She tucked into dinner with a sigh, and carefully wrapped the leftovers before placing them in the small fridge. It was still fully light out, although it was well past seven; she considered walking over to campus, but she still wasn’t familiar enough with his route to be sure she’d not miss him completely as he came home. She went into the library, found a book on his shelves which sounded interesting, and then made her way upstairs to the wing chair she’d adopted for reading.
It was past eight by the time Peter returned home. Her head was starting to ache, and she was just thinking of turning on the lamp over her chair, and of closing at least a few of the windows, when she heard the sound of the door opening, then closing, below stairs.
“Rose?”
“Up here.”
Peter came bounding up the stairs, looking around him with curiosity as he stepped into the room. He’d rolled his sleeves up, showing his forearms; his hair was standing on end in one direction, as though he’d been caught in a particularly violent cross-breeze.
She wondered what on earth he did to get ready for term.
“You unpacked?” he asked, noting the pile of broken-down boxes against a wall. The box containing his shoes and jumpers was set near the foot of the bed, and he slowly crossed over to it, curious.
“Yeah. Was bored, so I figured I’d do something with my time.” She set the book down, unfolding her legs from where she was curled in the chair. “Good day?”
“Aye,” he said distractedly, leaning down to take a closer look at the box.
“I thought those might be donated,” she said, standing and moving over to him.
“You what?” He straightened, turning.
She came to a stop, taken aback by his expression. She wondered if he used it on his students when they’d displeased him. “Charity shop. Surely there’s one in town…”
“Donated?”
“Well, yeah. I mean-”
He reached down, scooping up one of the jumpers, tumbling one of the shoes out of the box and against the floor. “You want to donate this.”
“Only if-”
“Who the hell do you think you are, deciding what of mine gets sent to charity?”
She took a step back, surprised at the vehemence in his tone. He was holding the jumper to him, his dark eyes blazing; there was a spot of colour in each cheek. “I thought-”
“These will not go to charity, Rose,” he said, his voice low.
“Fine! They won’t go to charity! If you’d let me-”
“Good.” He cut her short-again--and moved to the box, pulling out the rest of the moth-eaten jumpers, leaving the shoes to settle to the bottom.
“Well, and how was your day, then, Professor Carlisle?” she asked sarcastically, upset with how he was speaking to her.
“Long,” he replied curtly, his attention focused on the jumpers. “And I didn’t need to be coming home to find you’d bloody well rearranged my closets.”
“I…you…” She felt her temper spike. “My most abject apologies, then, Professor, I had no idea I’d be inconveniencing you by putting my things in the closet you told me to use.” She turned, kicking at the box, moving for the stairs. “And forgive me for not being able to read your mind tonight-I seem to have lost my knack for telepathy back when I got sucked over to this place.”
“Don’t,” he said, his voice low.
“You could have taken your bloody phone,” she shot back, adding, “or maybe left me your office number. Not so good as reading minds, you know, but we do what we can with what we’ve got.”
He neatly re-folded one of the jumpers, ignoring her-making her angrier.
“Dinner’s in the fridge, assuming you didn’t already eat. I finally ate about an hour ago, when it was clear you’d not be home any time soon.”
He threw another of the jumpers onto the bed. “I wasn’t aware we were on a schedule tonight.”
“Word of any sort would have been nice.”
“I’m amazed you noticed the time, what with being so busy rearranging my things!” He threw the last of the re-folded jumpers onto the bed.
“If I’d known those ratty old things were so dear to you, I’d not have dared to lay a finger on them!” she snapped back, crossing her arms.
He glanced up at her, his lips pressed into a frown, a dimple appearing in his right cheek. “They’re not yours to do with as you please!”
“I know!” she said, frustrated. “I was jus’ tryin’ t’help!”
“Keep your help to yourself, or wait for me to be home.”
“You…” She turned, searching for something to pull on over her shirt, suddenly desperate to be out of the house and away from Peter. She fought down a bitter smile at the irony of it: there were plenty of jumpers on the bed, but there was nothing else of use in sight. “Shall I pay you rent, then? Ask your permission to use the phone, or to sleep here? Why’d I even bother, if you’re planning to run my life for me?”
“I’m just asking for common courtesy!”
“You’re telling me one thing one day, then changin’ your mind the next!”
“I said we’d wait for the weekend!”
“And I was tryin’ t’help!”
“Spare me your help, Rose!”
His voice rang around the room; in the ensuing silence she turned, hurrying down the stairs, rushing for the door. She had to get out of there, away from him; had to calm down, and try to work out what was going on.
She just needed space.
She fumbled with the lock, jerked the door open; and in the silence before the door slammed shut behind her, she heard…nothing.
Peter had stayed upstairs.
~ - ~
The sound of the door slamming reverberated through the cottage, actually rattling some of the objects on his dresser. He muttered to himself, cursing Rose, cursing the dredging up of memories, of the jumpers littering the bed in front of him. It had been a long day, full of staff arguments, of books going missing and copiers eating things; he’d been looking forward to coming home, to relaxing with Rose on the sofa, or in bed, and having her listen as he vented about his day.
Instead, he’d come home to find she’d upended his spare closet, rearranging things he didn’t want rearranged, pulling out things he’d hidden, setting dear items out for charity as though they meant nothing.
He glanced down at the haphazardly-folded jumpers littering the bed; the muted greens, the deep browns, the creams all blended together, and he rubbed his eyes. He’d not looked at the things in years, hadn’t noticed that moths had got into them at some point. He felt a flash of guilt over the neglect the wool had suffered; felt even worse as he pondered what it might represent.
They were Catie’s jumpers, knit by her hand over the course of their time together. She’d made them for him, but had invariably nicked them for herself; when she’d died, he’d spent the entire winter after wearing nothing but those jumpers. And then, somewhere along the way, he’d stopped wearing them; had tucked them into the closet, and had forgotten about them.
He sank onto the bed, hanging his head, feeling as though he’d betrayed his late wife.
He reached out, gently stroking where a moth had eaten through a russet jumper; Catie had loved it best, had worn it all the time. And he’d neglected it.
Even worse was that Rose had seen the jumper, and hadn’t realized the treasure it was. She’d simply seen a moth-eaten old bit of wool, had pulled it out and dumped it into a box, had blithely suggested they give it over to the charity shop without even asking him…
He lay down, pulling the jumper to him as he tilted to his side, closing his eyes and inhaling its scent as he used to so often do after Catie had left him. And then opened his eyes, confused and surprised.
It didn’t smell like her. Not any more. It smelled…it smelled like musty old wool, badly in need of a wash.
He sat up, looking down to where he still held the jumper. He brought it back up, taking another tentative sniff; there was no hint of Catie to be found. Not of the perfume she wore, or the powder, or even her deodorant.
He felt his temper dissolve, felt a leaden weight descend in its stead.
He was living in the past again; was looking back to Catie, clinging to her and her things instead of existing in the present with Rose. He’d yelled at Rose, so caught up in being the injured party, that he’d managed to conveniently forget that he had indeed told her to use the closet-but had neglected to tell her there were some things he wanted to salvage out of it first. And he’d been so angry about her pulling Caties things out, simply so she could put her own things in, could move in with him, as he’d so desperately wanted.
He gently set the jumper down, pushing it away. With a heavy sigh he stood, moving to the closet in question and opening the door. It was still jammed full of things; of the flotsam and jetsam of his adult life. Rose had neatened it, but other than the jumpers and a few of the shoes she’d not removed anything; her things were tucked into an impossibly small space along the side, unobtrusively lurking in amongst his junk.
He glanced back to the jumpers, seeing what she must have seen. Moth-eaten wool, smelling a bit naff, probably a size too small for him. Why not donate it; perhaps someone with a deft hand could darn the holes and make the clothes wearable again. Was that what Rose had had in mind?
Come to that, had she even said she would be donating them?
He frowned, idly closing the door as he mentally replayed their argument. She’d never stated explicitly that she’d be sending them off for donation. Instead, as he considered her words (his eidetic memory came in handy for more than just historical footnotes), it occurred to him that she just might have been trying to ask him if he wanted to donate the items.
He’d not only been wrapped up in the idea that she’d violated Catie’s things, and his past-and he didn’t even want to think about the implications of that-he’d been so sure he was right that he’d not even given her the chance to defend herself, cutting her off with her every attempt to answer the questions he’d flung at her.
Catie had told him, more than a few times, that the older he got, the more intransigent he grew in arguments. Apparently, the years since his wife’s death had only made the personality trait more pronounced. He gave a humourless laugh as he considered what he’d have done, had he been in Rose’s shoes.
He leaned against the closet door, lightly banging his forehead against the wood. What had he just done?
He paused, blinking. More to the point-where had Rose gone? He gave his head one last good thwack against the door, cursing himself: once again, he was so wrapped up in himself and his problems that he’d completely ignored Rose.
He straightened, looking around the room for a jacket: it had been a warm day, but the temperature was dropping quickly. He reached into the closet, grabbing a coat for Rose as well, before hurrying down the stairs and out the door to search for the woman he loved in the here and now.
~ - ~
Part Two