The Substance of Things Hoped for (3//29)
Title: The Substance of Things Hoped For (3/29)
Rating: K
Author: jlrpuck
Pairing: Rose Tyler, Peter Carlisle
Disclaimer: Characters from Doctor Who and Blackpool are the property of BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect; but Ruby, Elias, and Lucy are all mine. No personal profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary: Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. - Hebrews 11:1
Notes: Thank you to both
earlgreytea68 and
chicklet73 for their beta work-and to
chicklet73 for her encouragement and advice as this was written.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
The motorway north was clear, and he arrived in the small Cumbrian village almost perfectly on time. That, in and of itself, would alarm Lucy-he and Rose seemed always to be running late-and so he stopped off at the local bakery, forcing himself to slowly drink his cup of coffee. He finally gave up twenty minutes later, and decided “barely late” would have to do.
Lucy was waiting for him when he pulled up, her dark hair pulled back into a haphazard ponytail, her school uniform hopelessly rumpled. “I don’t think there’s any doubt she’s your daughter,” Rose had once observed after picking her up, and he fought down a smile at the thought as he stepped out of his car.
“Da!” Lucy happily ran over to him, at seven years old not yet embarrassed to show him affection in public.
“How’s my wee bairn?” He reached down, using her momentum to swing her up into his arms. She was getting heavier by the day, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do things like that for much longer.
“Da! I’m nae wee!” she protested as he kissed her cheek. Somehow, his daughter had managed to adopt his accent more than Rose’s-a source of endless amusement for his wife and her family.
“Ah, just so. How’s my lanky auldjin then?” He set her down, tickling her ribs. He’d lobbied heavily to send Lucy to school in Scotland, but had lost when Rose pointed out that it would be easier to visit Lucy if she lived closer to London-and that by sending her to school near to Kendal, Penny could keep an eye on their daughter, as well.
At four hours’ drive away, he suspected they might as well have sent Lucy to school in Scotland.
“Are ye ready to be gone, then?” He reached down to take her small hand, and gave her his best stern-father gaze.
“Aye.” She beamed up at him, clearly excited to be fleeing school unexpectedly. If she was worried, she didn’t show it, and he felt a sinking guilty feeling at the thought that he was going to spoil her surprise holiday. He walked Lucy around to the passenger side of the car, opening the rear door so she could scramble into her seat.
“I was thinking, cagaran, that we might adventure to Croy tonight. Would ye like that?” He was determined not to go back to London-not that night, at any rate. He’d warned Elias he’d not be home, possibly until the end of the week, and had a promise from his former partner to stay at the house that night, and check it each day thereafter until Peter returned. He’d sold the house in Kendal years before, but suddenly wished he hadn’t; it was a much, much shorter drive to the town than to the cottage. Croy, though, wasn’t a bad second option-it offered peace, and comfort, and he suspected it would be the best place to tell Lucy whatever it was he was going to tell her.
“An adventure?” She patiently allowed herself to be buckled in, her brown eyes watching him with restrained excitement.
“If ye like.” He could think of many terms to describe what was happening-and adventure suited as well as any. What harm could there be in encouraging the thought for his daughter?
Lucy chattered excitedly during the drive north, without a care in the world other than how she might have done on her maths test, or whether her ‘best friend’ Sophie would be a better swimmer than she when she returned to school. She discussed her ‘art’ class in disparaging terms, and Peter fought down a guffaw at how very like Rose she could be when talking about something she didn’t like.
Another wave of grief washed over him, at the thought that perhaps Rose would never get to find out how like her their daughter was. Rose couldn’t see it-she always remarked on how alike Peter and Lucy were, with a slight note of sadness-but he couldn’t help but see it, each and every time he saw his wife and his daughter together. And now, with Rose missing, it was almost all he could see.
He felt a brief flash of sympathy for his father, saddled with a son who looked so much like his dead wife. Only, he reminded himself, Rose wasn’t dead. She was missing.
They stopped for supper outside of Carlisle, providing Lucy not only much-needed food but giving Peter the chance to call Graeme to warn him of their impending arrival. The Muirs’ daughter had moved in with them a year before, and Graeme promised to send her around with some basic provisions before Peter arrived.
That chore done, they set off on the road once more. Lucy fell asleep in the back of the car as the sun began to finally set, and he turned off the motorway for the last of the drive to Croy. He and Rose usually took the scenic route, enjoying the passing of the countryside, but tonight he took the faster route, driving almost to Glasgow before cutting over to Prestwick and then driving south.
The lights in the cottage were twinkling in the late twilight when he arrived shortly after ten, and he gently roused Lucy, leading her sleepy form into the comforting space and directly to bed.
He paused long enough to send Elias a message saying he was at the cottage, and to ring Pete to let him know the same, before collapsing onto the spare bed in Lucy’s room-the very bed he’d used as a child-and falling asleep.
He was up with the early dawn the next morning and ducked out of the house for a quick swim before Lucy awoke. She found him before he was finished, however, and was sitting on the bench near the shore when he finally emerged from the water. Rose had taught her, very early on, that if her da was swimming, she was to wait in that spot: not to go into the water, or to shout for him-not unless it was truly an emergency-but to sit quietly and wait for Da to come out of the water and say something to her.
She was still in her jim-jams, her hair a mess, and she was impatiently squirming as he walked over to her.
“And how’d ye sleep?” he asked, forcing cheer into his voice as he reached for his towel and began to dry off.
Lucy let out a huge yawn by way of response, before saying petulantly, “’m hungry.”
“What say we see what goodies Joan’s left for us, then?” He finished drying off, and took Lucy’s hand to lead her back to the cottage.
He nursed a mug of coffee as he cooked breakfast for he and Lucy; Lucy, so like her mum, sat at the table, sleepily watching him in between taking sips of the glass of juice he’d poured them. She was a bit brighter by the time he placed a small plate of eggs and bacon in front of her, and the both of them finished waking up over their breakfast.
By the time they finished eating, and had both dressed for the day, it was mid-morning. Lucy was beginning to run around the ground floor, and he decided it might be best to get them out of the cottage-both to burn off some of Lucy’s energy, and to give him the chance to work out what to tell Lucy about Rose. It was a lovely day, and Lucy was happy to accept his offer of a walk towards Culzean and the fire-blasted ruins of the great house perched on the cliffs over the shore.
“Where’s Mum?” Lucy finally asked, as they took a break during their leisurely stroll along the beach. “Has she gone on another adventure?”
He glanced around them, looking for a patch of dry sand or clear grass on which to sit. Rose’s trips, while less frequent, still were often enough to require explanation; his daughter, alarmingly bright, had worked out that the trips her mum took for work were a bit different than those her friends’ parents took, and they’d taken to calling them ‘adventures’ just a few years back.
He found a likely spot, and collapsed onto it in a heap, patting a space next to him for Lucy to sit on. She skipped over, settling next to him before curling into him-it was windy, a sure sign that autumn was near-and he swallowed nervously.
“Mum went on an adventure, yes. But…they seem to have misplaced her.”
Lucy looked up at him, her brown eyes wide. “They lost Mum?”
He fought down a wince at the unfortunate yet accurate wording. “They lost Mum. She…”
Lucy didn’t wait for an explanation. “Are they looking for her?” she asked impatiently.
“Yes,” he assured her, absolutely certain that they were. Pete might believe she was dead, but his father-in-law had sworn that Torchwood was looking high and low for Mickey and Rose, going so far as to contact the alien species they had alliances with for assistance.
“Then they’ll find her. I found Miss Penelopy after I lost her,” Lucy said with the sure logic of a seven-year-old.
“And so you did,” he replied, smiling. He leaned down, brushing a kiss over his daughter’s hair. “Just like they’ll find your mum. She’ll be back.”
He’d expected Lucy to have more questions, or to want to talk about it more. Instead, she happily accepted his word that her mum would be found; it didn’t much matter when, to his daughter’s mind, as time really didn’t yet have relevance to her.
~ - ~
Peter could have returned Lucy to school without any trouble at all-after all, her mum would be back, so why did she need to miss any more swim classes than necessary?-but Peter wanted to keep her with him for at least the week. And so, after their day in Croy, he and Lucy piled back into the car early the next morning and returned to London.
Elias met him at the house, greeting Lucy with a big smacking kiss to the cheek before releasing her into the house. “You’ve got as much time as you need off, Peter,” his partner said, watching Lucy gleefully run up the stairs to her room. “I had to tell Campbell that it was a personal emergency, but everyone else has been told that you’ve a dear old friend in the Highlands who’s at death’s door.”
“I’ll be in tomorrow.”
Elias blinked.
“I’ll go mad, sitting around, waiting. Pete and Jackie want to see Lucy; I promised them I’d bring her by this week. I’ll not be there all day, mind-just long enough to make sure paperwork is in order, and to parcel out my teams to whomever’ll be overseeing them. I’ll say my friend is stable, if it’ll help,” he added drily. He appreciated Elias going to the trouble to give him an out from work, but the idea of sitting around the house, staring at the walls, waiting-alternately driving himself mad imagining Rose in horrifying situations and remembering her doing things in whatever room he chose to sit in-was not a pleasant one.
Elias took a breath to speak, then changed his mind.
“I need to come in, Elias. For my sanity. I can’t do anything-I’ve already called Rose’s mobile a thousand times, but it rolls to her answerphone. Pete has made it clear that my concern is welcome, but that I can’t do anything to help with the actual investigation. So what are my choices? Sit at home, driving myself mad with worry, or sit at the Tylers’, listening to Jackie insist she’s dead in hushed whispers so Lucy doesn’t hear? I don’t think so.”
Elias’s forehead creased. “Peter…”
“She’s not dead, Elias.”
“But-”
“She’s not! Now let it be!” His voice rang against the stone of the house. He swallowed, again horrified at the uncharacteristic flash of temper. “I’m sorry, Elias.”
Elias nodded, although the expression of concern remained. “’s alright, Peter. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thank you.” Peter pulled Elias into a brief embrace, surprising him.
~ - ~
One week turned into two and still he kept Lucy in London, his daughter a tangible connection to his still-missing wife. He tried to hold out hope that Rose would appear; that she’d been teleported to some far-flung corner of the Earth where there was no mobile coverage, and no telephones-but which was warm and safe. With each passing day it grew more difficult, though; Torchwood’s inability to find a shred of physical evidence at the scene, in spite of their best efforts, made it more and more challenging to hold on to that small flicker of hope. It was as though Rose and Mickey had simply evaporated.
Jake, when he’d spoken with him, had seemed resigned to the death of his friends; Peter suspected the younger man was still in shock from it all.
Peter found it ironic that his memory began to perform a bit as it had on his wedding day, or the day Lucy was named: much of the time passed in fuzzy blurs, with only snapshots of clarity. Lucy, being pulled into a crushing embrace by Jackie when she was dropped off at the mansion. Elias, leaning against the doorway to his office, a look of deep concern on his face as Peter glanced up to see his friend watching him. The flashes of temper he got over the most ridiculous things: his coffee not tasting right when he made it at home, or having to wait in queue to fill his car with petrol. It was growing increasingly difficult for him to sleep, and he began to spend much of his night in Lucy’s room, sitting in the chair Rose had used for nursing, reading a book by the weak light of the small lamp kept in the space. He took care to be out of her room before she awoke, always managing to be downstairs making breakfast by the time she sleepily stumbled downstairs in the morning.
He was falling apart, but he didn’t feel much inclined to do anything about it.
The zanzare had not, as yet, noted that Rose Tyler was nowhere to be seen. Thank God for small favours, he thought humourlessly as he picked at his supper one quiet evening, Lucy chattering happily across from him.
His daughter came home the next day full of indignance. “Gran says Mum’s not coming back!”
Peter felt his heart drop, followed quickly by a flash of heat as his temper spiked. “Did she, now?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even, to keep from getting into the car and driving to the mansion to have a row with Rose’s mum.
Lucy nodded. “Granda’ told her to be quiet, but Gran insisted it was the truth.”
“And what do you think?” Peter asked, setting his fork down.
“If you said she was coming back, then she is.” His daughter, the source of her indignance now shared, returned to blithely eating her vegetables.
As the next several days passed, it became more and more evident that Peter and Lucy were in the minority of those who thought Rose would return; in fact, he suspected the two of them were the only people to expect her to have survived. As Torchwood encountered dead end after dead end in their investigation, Jackie put her foot down, demanding that a private memorial be organized; Jake agreed, suggesting that it be a joint service for both Rose and Mickey.
Campbell-his DCS, and one of the few men outside of Torchwood and the immediate family to have been told what was going on-finally ordered him to take a break, ensuring Elias drove him home. As a parting gift, his erstwhile friend gave him a firm hug--and absconded with Peter’s warrant by picking his pocket.
The bastard.
Ruby continued to drop by, bearing food and gossip from around the station, and Peter was immeasurably grateful that she, at least, appeared to spare him the concerned or pitying glances that so many others seemed to point in his general direction.
Near the end of the second week of Rose being missing-and just days before the dreaded (and, to his mind, ridiculous) memorial service-Peter decided it was time to return Lucy to school. He’d drive her north at the weekend, would drop her off and then return in time to make an appearance at something he was sure was utterly superfluous.
He sat at the kitchen table on Saturday morning-the day he was meant to take Lucy back to school, the day before the ridiculous service Jackie had planned out-letting his thoughts wander as he mindlessly swirled the dregs of coffee around in the coffee mug. He needed to get the kitchen cleaned up; needed to get he and his daughter both ready for the trip north. Lucy was somewhere in the house, hopefully reading but probably getting into some form of trouble; she remained blithely unconcerned that her mum was still “misplaced”. Her absolute faith in him-in his ability to make things right, and to protect her-terrified him utterly, and he once again felt a pang of sympathy for his father.
He could, he thought, just about understand the temptation to drink himself into oblivion, simply to avoid having to face the faith placed in him by a child.
Just about, though; he’d never go down that road, if he could help it, and he still had a hard time forgiving his father for choosing to.
His mobile rang, pulling him from his musings on his father and his father’s choices; it was the ring tone for Pete Tyler, and he chose to ignore it. He was heartily sick of the planning for Rose’s “memorial”; was sick of hearing Jackie go on and on about her daughter, and how she’d be missed, and whether Rose would have wanted pink or yellow flowers. Rose, he knew, would have wanted neither; she’d instead want to have her death honoured quietly, far away from London.
Which was a moot point, because Rose wasn’t dead. He’d have to ask her, when she came back, what she’d have liked.
“Da?” Lucy was standing next to him, still dressed in her pyjamas; Miss Penelopy was clutched in her right arm. He stifled a sigh; he was supposed to be drive Lucy north, back to school, that morning; he wasn’t quite sure he actually would.
“Yes, cagaran?”
“Granda’s on the phone.”
He’d not even heard the house phone ring, and felt a flash of horrified amusement at the thought of his daughter answering the line.
“Who taught you to answer the phone?” he asked, smiling at Lucy.
“Gran-she said you were terrible about it, an’ someone in the house had to know how to.”
Peter laughed; it was just like Jackie to say something like that. He stood, still chuckling as he reached for the receiver and brought it to his ear. “Aye, Pete.”
“You were right.”
Peter felt the phone slip from his hand, felt the world spin. He’d been right.
Rose was back.
~ - ~
Chapter 4
Rating: K
Author: jlrpuck
Pairing: Rose Tyler, Peter Carlisle
Disclaimer: Characters from Doctor Who and Blackpool are the property of BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect; but Ruby, Elias, and Lucy are all mine. No personal profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary: Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. - Hebrews 11:1
Notes: Thank you to both
earlgreytea68 and
chicklet73 for their beta work-and to
chicklet73 for her encouragement and advice as this was written.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
The motorway north was clear, and he arrived in the small Cumbrian village almost perfectly on time. That, in and of itself, would alarm Lucy-he and Rose seemed always to be running late-and so he stopped off at the local bakery, forcing himself to slowly drink his cup of coffee. He finally gave up twenty minutes later, and decided “barely late” would have to do.
Lucy was waiting for him when he pulled up, her dark hair pulled back into a haphazard ponytail, her school uniform hopelessly rumpled. “I don’t think there’s any doubt she’s your daughter,” Rose had once observed after picking her up, and he fought down a smile at the thought as he stepped out of his car.
“Da!” Lucy happily ran over to him, at seven years old not yet embarrassed to show him affection in public.
“How’s my wee bairn?” He reached down, using her momentum to swing her up into his arms. She was getting heavier by the day, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do things like that for much longer.
“Da! I’m nae wee!” she protested as he kissed her cheek. Somehow, his daughter had managed to adopt his accent more than Rose’s-a source of endless amusement for his wife and her family.
“Ah, just so. How’s my lanky auldjin then?” He set her down, tickling her ribs. He’d lobbied heavily to send Lucy to school in Scotland, but had lost when Rose pointed out that it would be easier to visit Lucy if she lived closer to London-and that by sending her to school near to Kendal, Penny could keep an eye on their daughter, as well.
At four hours’ drive away, he suspected they might as well have sent Lucy to school in Scotland.
“Are ye ready to be gone, then?” He reached down to take her small hand, and gave her his best stern-father gaze.
“Aye.” She beamed up at him, clearly excited to be fleeing school unexpectedly. If she was worried, she didn’t show it, and he felt a sinking guilty feeling at the thought that he was going to spoil her surprise holiday. He walked Lucy around to the passenger side of the car, opening the rear door so she could scramble into her seat.
“I was thinking, cagaran, that we might adventure to Croy tonight. Would ye like that?” He was determined not to go back to London-not that night, at any rate. He’d warned Elias he’d not be home, possibly until the end of the week, and had a promise from his former partner to stay at the house that night, and check it each day thereafter until Peter returned. He’d sold the house in Kendal years before, but suddenly wished he hadn’t; it was a much, much shorter drive to the town than to the cottage. Croy, though, wasn’t a bad second option-it offered peace, and comfort, and he suspected it would be the best place to tell Lucy whatever it was he was going to tell her.
“An adventure?” She patiently allowed herself to be buckled in, her brown eyes watching him with restrained excitement.
“If ye like.” He could think of many terms to describe what was happening-and adventure suited as well as any. What harm could there be in encouraging the thought for his daughter?
Lucy chattered excitedly during the drive north, without a care in the world other than how she might have done on her maths test, or whether her ‘best friend’ Sophie would be a better swimmer than she when she returned to school. She discussed her ‘art’ class in disparaging terms, and Peter fought down a guffaw at how very like Rose she could be when talking about something she didn’t like.
Another wave of grief washed over him, at the thought that perhaps Rose would never get to find out how like her their daughter was. Rose couldn’t see it-she always remarked on how alike Peter and Lucy were, with a slight note of sadness-but he couldn’t help but see it, each and every time he saw his wife and his daughter together. And now, with Rose missing, it was almost all he could see.
He felt a brief flash of sympathy for his father, saddled with a son who looked so much like his dead wife. Only, he reminded himself, Rose wasn’t dead. She was missing.
They stopped for supper outside of Carlisle, providing Lucy not only much-needed food but giving Peter the chance to call Graeme to warn him of their impending arrival. The Muirs’ daughter had moved in with them a year before, and Graeme promised to send her around with some basic provisions before Peter arrived.
That chore done, they set off on the road once more. Lucy fell asleep in the back of the car as the sun began to finally set, and he turned off the motorway for the last of the drive to Croy. He and Rose usually took the scenic route, enjoying the passing of the countryside, but tonight he took the faster route, driving almost to Glasgow before cutting over to Prestwick and then driving south.
The lights in the cottage were twinkling in the late twilight when he arrived shortly after ten, and he gently roused Lucy, leading her sleepy form into the comforting space and directly to bed.
He paused long enough to send Elias a message saying he was at the cottage, and to ring Pete to let him know the same, before collapsing onto the spare bed in Lucy’s room-the very bed he’d used as a child-and falling asleep.
He was up with the early dawn the next morning and ducked out of the house for a quick swim before Lucy awoke. She found him before he was finished, however, and was sitting on the bench near the shore when he finally emerged from the water. Rose had taught her, very early on, that if her da was swimming, she was to wait in that spot: not to go into the water, or to shout for him-not unless it was truly an emergency-but to sit quietly and wait for Da to come out of the water and say something to her.
She was still in her jim-jams, her hair a mess, and she was impatiently squirming as he walked over to her.
“And how’d ye sleep?” he asked, forcing cheer into his voice as he reached for his towel and began to dry off.
Lucy let out a huge yawn by way of response, before saying petulantly, “’m hungry.”
“What say we see what goodies Joan’s left for us, then?” He finished drying off, and took Lucy’s hand to lead her back to the cottage.
He nursed a mug of coffee as he cooked breakfast for he and Lucy; Lucy, so like her mum, sat at the table, sleepily watching him in between taking sips of the glass of juice he’d poured them. She was a bit brighter by the time he placed a small plate of eggs and bacon in front of her, and the both of them finished waking up over their breakfast.
By the time they finished eating, and had both dressed for the day, it was mid-morning. Lucy was beginning to run around the ground floor, and he decided it might be best to get them out of the cottage-both to burn off some of Lucy’s energy, and to give him the chance to work out what to tell Lucy about Rose. It was a lovely day, and Lucy was happy to accept his offer of a walk towards Culzean and the fire-blasted ruins of the great house perched on the cliffs over the shore.
“Where’s Mum?” Lucy finally asked, as they took a break during their leisurely stroll along the beach. “Has she gone on another adventure?”
He glanced around them, looking for a patch of dry sand or clear grass on which to sit. Rose’s trips, while less frequent, still were often enough to require explanation; his daughter, alarmingly bright, had worked out that the trips her mum took for work were a bit different than those her friends’ parents took, and they’d taken to calling them ‘adventures’ just a few years back.
He found a likely spot, and collapsed onto it in a heap, patting a space next to him for Lucy to sit on. She skipped over, settling next to him before curling into him-it was windy, a sure sign that autumn was near-and he swallowed nervously.
“Mum went on an adventure, yes. But…they seem to have misplaced her.”
Lucy looked up at him, her brown eyes wide. “They lost Mum?”
He fought down a wince at the unfortunate yet accurate wording. “They lost Mum. She…”
Lucy didn’t wait for an explanation. “Are they looking for her?” she asked impatiently.
“Yes,” he assured her, absolutely certain that they were. Pete might believe she was dead, but his father-in-law had sworn that Torchwood was looking high and low for Mickey and Rose, going so far as to contact the alien species they had alliances with for assistance.
“Then they’ll find her. I found Miss Penelopy after I lost her,” Lucy said with the sure logic of a seven-year-old.
“And so you did,” he replied, smiling. He leaned down, brushing a kiss over his daughter’s hair. “Just like they’ll find your mum. She’ll be back.”
He’d expected Lucy to have more questions, or to want to talk about it more. Instead, she happily accepted his word that her mum would be found; it didn’t much matter when, to his daughter’s mind, as time really didn’t yet have relevance to her.
~ - ~
Peter could have returned Lucy to school without any trouble at all-after all, her mum would be back, so why did she need to miss any more swim classes than necessary?-but Peter wanted to keep her with him for at least the week. And so, after their day in Croy, he and Lucy piled back into the car early the next morning and returned to London.
Elias met him at the house, greeting Lucy with a big smacking kiss to the cheek before releasing her into the house. “You’ve got as much time as you need off, Peter,” his partner said, watching Lucy gleefully run up the stairs to her room. “I had to tell Campbell that it was a personal emergency, but everyone else has been told that you’ve a dear old friend in the Highlands who’s at death’s door.”
“I’ll be in tomorrow.”
Elias blinked.
“I’ll go mad, sitting around, waiting. Pete and Jackie want to see Lucy; I promised them I’d bring her by this week. I’ll not be there all day, mind-just long enough to make sure paperwork is in order, and to parcel out my teams to whomever’ll be overseeing them. I’ll say my friend is stable, if it’ll help,” he added drily. He appreciated Elias going to the trouble to give him an out from work, but the idea of sitting around the house, staring at the walls, waiting-alternately driving himself mad imagining Rose in horrifying situations and remembering her doing things in whatever room he chose to sit in-was not a pleasant one.
Elias took a breath to speak, then changed his mind.
“I need to come in, Elias. For my sanity. I can’t do anything-I’ve already called Rose’s mobile a thousand times, but it rolls to her answerphone. Pete has made it clear that my concern is welcome, but that I can’t do anything to help with the actual investigation. So what are my choices? Sit at home, driving myself mad with worry, or sit at the Tylers’, listening to Jackie insist she’s dead in hushed whispers so Lucy doesn’t hear? I don’t think so.”
Elias’s forehead creased. “Peter…”
“She’s not dead, Elias.”
“But-”
“She’s not! Now let it be!” His voice rang against the stone of the house. He swallowed, again horrified at the uncharacteristic flash of temper. “I’m sorry, Elias.”
Elias nodded, although the expression of concern remained. “’s alright, Peter. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thank you.” Peter pulled Elias into a brief embrace, surprising him.
~ - ~
One week turned into two and still he kept Lucy in London, his daughter a tangible connection to his still-missing wife. He tried to hold out hope that Rose would appear; that she’d been teleported to some far-flung corner of the Earth where there was no mobile coverage, and no telephones-but which was warm and safe. With each passing day it grew more difficult, though; Torchwood’s inability to find a shred of physical evidence at the scene, in spite of their best efforts, made it more and more challenging to hold on to that small flicker of hope. It was as though Rose and Mickey had simply evaporated.
Jake, when he’d spoken with him, had seemed resigned to the death of his friends; Peter suspected the younger man was still in shock from it all.
Peter found it ironic that his memory began to perform a bit as it had on his wedding day, or the day Lucy was named: much of the time passed in fuzzy blurs, with only snapshots of clarity. Lucy, being pulled into a crushing embrace by Jackie when she was dropped off at the mansion. Elias, leaning against the doorway to his office, a look of deep concern on his face as Peter glanced up to see his friend watching him. The flashes of temper he got over the most ridiculous things: his coffee not tasting right when he made it at home, or having to wait in queue to fill his car with petrol. It was growing increasingly difficult for him to sleep, and he began to spend much of his night in Lucy’s room, sitting in the chair Rose had used for nursing, reading a book by the weak light of the small lamp kept in the space. He took care to be out of her room before she awoke, always managing to be downstairs making breakfast by the time she sleepily stumbled downstairs in the morning.
He was falling apart, but he didn’t feel much inclined to do anything about it.
The zanzare had not, as yet, noted that Rose Tyler was nowhere to be seen. Thank God for small favours, he thought humourlessly as he picked at his supper one quiet evening, Lucy chattering happily across from him.
His daughter came home the next day full of indignance. “Gran says Mum’s not coming back!”
Peter felt his heart drop, followed quickly by a flash of heat as his temper spiked. “Did she, now?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even, to keep from getting into the car and driving to the mansion to have a row with Rose’s mum.
Lucy nodded. “Granda’ told her to be quiet, but Gran insisted it was the truth.”
“And what do you think?” Peter asked, setting his fork down.
“If you said she was coming back, then she is.” His daughter, the source of her indignance now shared, returned to blithely eating her vegetables.
As the next several days passed, it became more and more evident that Peter and Lucy were in the minority of those who thought Rose would return; in fact, he suspected the two of them were the only people to expect her to have survived. As Torchwood encountered dead end after dead end in their investigation, Jackie put her foot down, demanding that a private memorial be organized; Jake agreed, suggesting that it be a joint service for both Rose and Mickey.
Campbell-his DCS, and one of the few men outside of Torchwood and the immediate family to have been told what was going on-finally ordered him to take a break, ensuring Elias drove him home. As a parting gift, his erstwhile friend gave him a firm hug--and absconded with Peter’s warrant by picking his pocket.
The bastard.
Ruby continued to drop by, bearing food and gossip from around the station, and Peter was immeasurably grateful that she, at least, appeared to spare him the concerned or pitying glances that so many others seemed to point in his general direction.
Near the end of the second week of Rose being missing-and just days before the dreaded (and, to his mind, ridiculous) memorial service-Peter decided it was time to return Lucy to school. He’d drive her north at the weekend, would drop her off and then return in time to make an appearance at something he was sure was utterly superfluous.
He sat at the kitchen table on Saturday morning-the day he was meant to take Lucy back to school, the day before the ridiculous service Jackie had planned out-letting his thoughts wander as he mindlessly swirled the dregs of coffee around in the coffee mug. He needed to get the kitchen cleaned up; needed to get he and his daughter both ready for the trip north. Lucy was somewhere in the house, hopefully reading but probably getting into some form of trouble; she remained blithely unconcerned that her mum was still “misplaced”. Her absolute faith in him-in his ability to make things right, and to protect her-terrified him utterly, and he once again felt a pang of sympathy for his father.
He could, he thought, just about understand the temptation to drink himself into oblivion, simply to avoid having to face the faith placed in him by a child.
Just about, though; he’d never go down that road, if he could help it, and he still had a hard time forgiving his father for choosing to.
His mobile rang, pulling him from his musings on his father and his father’s choices; it was the ring tone for Pete Tyler, and he chose to ignore it. He was heartily sick of the planning for Rose’s “memorial”; was sick of hearing Jackie go on and on about her daughter, and how she’d be missed, and whether Rose would have wanted pink or yellow flowers. Rose, he knew, would have wanted neither; she’d instead want to have her death honoured quietly, far away from London.
Which was a moot point, because Rose wasn’t dead. He’d have to ask her, when she came back, what she’d have liked.
“Da?” Lucy was standing next to him, still dressed in her pyjamas; Miss Penelopy was clutched in her right arm. He stifled a sigh; he was supposed to be drive Lucy north, back to school, that morning; he wasn’t quite sure he actually would.
“Yes, cagaran?”
“Granda’s on the phone.”
He’d not even heard the house phone ring, and felt a flash of horrified amusement at the thought of his daughter answering the line.
“Who taught you to answer the phone?” he asked, smiling at Lucy.
“Gran-she said you were terrible about it, an’ someone in the house had to know how to.”
Peter laughed; it was just like Jackie to say something like that. He stood, still chuckling as he reached for the receiver and brought it to his ear. “Aye, Pete.”
“You were right.”
Peter felt the phone slip from his hand, felt the world spin. He’d been right.
Rose was back.
~ - ~
Chapter 4