The Substance of Things Hoped For (13/29)
Title: The Substance of Things Hoped For (13/29)
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.
And, most importantly-HAPPY BIRTHDAY, EGT!!!!!
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13
The cottage lost power later that afternoon, forcing Peter to leave bed with a weary and reluctant sigh so he could build the fire. It was amusing to watch him, a robe loosely covering his body as he crouched in front of the fireplace, as he looked for something to collect the water which had most likely accumulated in the chimney in spite of the chimney pot. The fire caught almost immediately, once he lit it, the wind still swirling about the cottage and creating a sharp updraft. Once the chore was done, he moved to the windows they’d left unshuttered, glancing outside.
“The rain’s slowed, and I think the wind has dropped off,” he observed, turning back to her.
“And the cottage is still standing,” she replied, grinning.
“And the cottage is still standing.” He pulled the robe closed, and then tied the belt. “I’m off for a peek downstairs-care to join me?"
The bed was lovely, warm and inviting-but it was time to properly get up, to get moving before it got dark again. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d spent an entire day in bed, with Peter or without; it was nice enough, but tiring in its own way.
She pulled on some clothes and followed Peter downstairs; the air was cold and still, an off-putting counterpoint to the weather outside. She stood next to him as he went to the front door, as he braced himself before slowly opening it. The wind was, indeed, still howling, but it harboured none of the ferocity it had even that morning. Peter relaxed slightly, and pulled the door open just a bit more.
It was growing dark out as the sun began to set behind the scudding grey clouds, but there was still more than enough light to make out the details. The sea in front of the cottage raged, the water mostly white with hints of brown. Seaweed and detritus were ranged in along the shore, some of the items a scant twenty feet from the house.
“Did the water…” she asked, turning to Peter.
“No-should be from the wind. The water was…oh, about a hundred feet away, when I went out this morning?”
Too close for her comfort; she didn’t want to think about it.
Peter took one last long look around before closing the door. “Not so bad, after all,” he said, glancing down at her. “How about supper?”
She lit the fire in the lounge, mimicking Peter’s actions from above stairs, while he made his way to the kitchen. She heard him stop at the closet under the stairs; he had to have been pulling out one of the torches he kept there, or perhaps even the camping lantern he’d invested in years before, when he’d first taken her on a summertime evening picnic in the glade.
She watched as the flames sprung to life, as the fire started to lap at the logs in the fireplace, the noise of Peter moving in the kitchen just audible over the wind and the rain. The storm was, indeed, passing, just as Peter had said.
Her lips quirked as the thought occurred to her that the storm outside was an interesting reflection on the turmoil she’d been feeling since she’d landed in Wales.
It was going to be hard, getting past the guilt; was going to take time, and visits with the grief counsellor. Elias had confessed to her one night after Peter had passed out on the sofa-years ago, now-that it had taken him months upon months to get past seeing Peter shot, that he’d had to go through quite a bit of counselling to be able to trust his own instincts again. She suspected that it would probably take at least as long to truly get past the feelings she was experiencing now.
Of course, it also depended upon the advice Peter had offered her, so very long ago; she had to forgive herself, too. She still tended to make an art form out of embracing responsibility for things going wrong; she seemed to relish the guilt associated with it, taking it as some way of paying penance.
She really had become the Doctor, in more than a few ways; many of the ways were good, certainly, but more than a few of them were bad.
The fire grew in intensity as the logs completely dried out, the fire burning merry and bright now in the small confines of the hearth.
She’d done everything right, and things had still gone wrong. That wasn’t her fault; she shouldn’t accept responsibility for a mistake when there was none.
But she also didn’t have to accept the burden of responsibility for every little thing that went wrong with Torchwood. Her colleagues were all highly-trained professionals; many of them were better at their jobs than she was. She needed to let go, to trust them to do the things it was they were paid to do; to give the next generation of Torchwood agents their chance to show their brilliance.
She needed to move on from the routine of being a field agent; she’d been doing her job for so long, there was a certain comfort to it. The comfort made her confident, but it also meant that she found parts of the job boring; just thinking about Pete’s offer, on the other hand -of learning to run Torchwood-caused a jolt of adrenaline to rush through her, the fear of the unknown and worry over whether she’d be good at it coupled with excitement over the prospect of proving herself.
If she let everything fall away-all of the exhaustion and the emotion she’d been feeling, not just since she’d vanished, but for months upon months-she realized that she wanted the job Pete had dangled in front of her, so long ago. She wanted it badly.
She smiled; her decision was made, just that simply. She’d talk to Pete when she returned to work; would tell him she wanted to learn what it took to run the entire organization, not just a small group. And then she’d call the counsellor and set about arranging a proper appointment.
“Ye hungry?” Peter’s voice asked softly from across the room; she’d been staring into the flames, basking it the warmth of the fire as she thought, and had completely lost track of time.
“’m starvin’,” she answered, slowly standing. They’d not really eaten properly that day-fruit for breakfast, then biscuits, cheese, and crackers for a late lunch, after she’d fallen apart on Peter. The mere thought of a proper meal made her stomach rumble, causing Peter to laugh.
“So I hear.” He inclined his head towards the kitchen. “C’mon-supper’ll be ready in a wee bit.”
He turned to walk to the kitchen; she caught his hand, causing him to turn back to her.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her hand moving to rest on his chest. He’d drawn his eyebrows, trying to work out what she was thanking him for, and she added, “For listenin’. For your uncommonly good sense. For jus’ bein’ you.”
His cheeks flushed pink, and he answered seriously, “Well, then, you’re quite welcome.”
She rocked up on her toes, kissing him, before stepping back and taking his hand. “What’s for supper?”
He ignored her question, gazing intently at her as he asked, “You’re all right?”
“Yeah. I am, Peter.” She brought his hand to her lips, kissing the knuckles. “Well and truly.”
“Good.” He cupped her jaw with his other hand, his thumb gently brushing her skin.
“Yeah,” she replied softly, her eyes drifting shut.
He leaned down, kissing her briefly, then slipped his hand down to capture her free one. “Supper’s…well, it’s a bit of a mix. Had to take some things out of the fridge before they could spoil.”
She opened her eyes to find him standing in front of her with a bashful smile.
He elaborated. “Haggis. And a bit of potato.”
He’d bought the haggis on a whim when they were shopping, excited to find some home-made when they were in the market; she suspected the power being out was simply an excuse for him to cook something he’d been so keen to have.
“You just wanted your native food,” she teased, squeezing his hand.
“It would have gone bad,” he protested feebly.
“And the chicken won’t?” she asked cheekily.
“Not nearly so fast,” he mumbled, ducking his chin and avoiding her amused gaze.
“When’ll it be ready?” she asked, taking mercy, leaning into him.
“Half hour, maybe.”
“I can’t wait.”
He glanced to her to see if she was teasing him. “You don’t like haggis.”
“I like it more than I let on, simply because it’s funny to see you affronted by my dislike of it,” she confessed.
He gave her a slow grin, the one that let her know she’d been had. “I knew it!”
“You tricked me!”
“I knew it-ye do like it!”
“You obtained my confession under false pretences!”
“I did no such thing; I stated something as fact, and you chose to interpret it as a question.”
“You led the witness!”
He leaned forward, still grinning. “Nice try, Rose. But I win.” He winked at her, and sauntered towards the kitchen.
“Clever bastard,” she muttered, following him.
He turned at the doorway, giving her a cheeky smile. “And you just love it.”
She reached for his ribs, tickling them with her fingernails; he jumped backwards, letting out an undignified shriek.
“I do. And now we’re even.” She sashayed past him, glancing at the stove to peer into the various pots bubbling on the stove. “So. Half hour, you said?” She grinned at him, winking.
~ - ~
The wind and rain persisted as they ate dinner; as they cuddled together on the sofa in the lounge, Peter reading to Rose by torch. And, although the ferocity of the weather outside was clearly diminishing, it was still windy and raining as they fell asleep, curled together in bed.
Which was why it was a bit of a surprise to her to awake to find sunlight filling the far end of the bedroom.
Peter was snoring softly, sprawled on his back next to her; she shook her head indulgently as she got out of bed. She hissed at the chill from the floor, and took the time to place a log on the fire and stoke it a bit before going over to peer through the unshuttered window.
It was a glorious day outside-the sky was almost a blinding blue, the plants in the land behind the cottage a variety of sharp greens. It looked like spring; she couldn’t wait to go outside, to see what it felt like after so massive a storm.
She got dressed quietly, hoping Peter would wake up so he could go exploring with her; he, frustratingly, continued to snore, utterly oblivious to the world around him.
The power was still out, as she learned when she went downstairs. Sighing, Rose started a small fire in the dining room fireplace-some of the heat had to make its way into the kitchen--then got another one going in the lounge; the fireplaces had screens now, a way to keep an entranced Lucy from reaching for the flames, and she put them both in place before going into the icy-cold kitchen.
She made tea before going outside, taking a sip of the piping hot brew before opening the door to see what the world had to offer. It was still chilly, but far warmer than it had been; birds were wheeling overhead, looking for food in the detritus washed up along the shore.
She took a deep breath, savouring the clarity and freshness of the air; then closed the door behind her as she set out to explore.
The cottage was, as Peter had said it would be, utterly untouched by the weather. Their car, too, seemed to be fine, if desperately in need of a wash. The basics investigated, she turned towards the shore, slowly walking over to the line of debris, wondering if she’d be able to find a clear path to the picnic table.
She almost laughed at what she saw-the table was still there, but one of the benches was completely gone, whilst the other was half-buried in sand, one end poking upwards like the seat of a teeter-totter; the victims of the ocean's wrath. That was one thing they’d have to look into replacing, then-she wouldn’t miss sitting outside, watching Peter swim in the mornings, for the world.
Large piles of seaweed lined the shore, ankle deep in some places; she tried to avoid walking on it, not wanting to come across something unpleasant or unexpected. There were also bits of wood, and barnacle-covered bottles, and an unimaginable amount of pieces from broken shells. It was a good thing Lucy wasn’t there-she’d get herself into all sorts of trouble as she raced along the beach, exploring what the sea had offered up.
She walked as far south along the bay as she could, nursing her tea and simply taking in what nature had to offer; as she slowly made her way back, she was able to see Peter amble slowly out from the cottage, doing his own survey of the damage before pausing where the picnic table stood.
He saw her near and waited for her, sitting on the stone table, his feet resting on the edge of the upended bench. He’d not made coffee, that she could see; he’d be eager to go inside and have breakfast.
“Anything interesting?” he asked, standing as she neared.
“Not particularly, no.”
He glanced at the shoreline. “It’s going to be a bit…odiferous…around here the next day or so. But it’ll go away soon enough.” He glanced at the table. “I was afraid we’d lost that. I think Nana had it put there, but it might be even older.”
“We could dig out the bench; maybe the other one washed north of here?”
He turned to Rose, smiling. “It’s not the end of the world-we’ll just have to find new benches. And maybe leave that one as a bit of a folly.” He leaned forward, peering into Rose’s now-empty mug. “You didn’t make any for me,” he pouted.
“It was tea, and you were snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
“You so do.”
“I’d have liked tea, too.”
She grinned. “In the time you’ve been harassing me about your non-tea, we could have walked up to the cottage and started making you some.”
“That’s not nearly so fun.”
“Lucy is the worst influence on you…”
He waggled his eyebrows. “What makes you think she’s the one influencing me?”
Rose shook her head indulgently. “Let’s go in, then, and make you some tea.”
“I’d prefer coffee.”
“Coffee, then, ye git.” She said the words with a smile, and led the way to the cottage.
They had breakfast together in the dining room, easily the warmest room on the ground floor; the dishes were left in the sink, Peter proclaiming the tap water to be far too cold for hand-washing.
They spent the remainder of the morning opening the cottage back up, pulling shutters away from windows, washing the salt away from the glass panes. Rose was surprised at how warm the day seemed to be; compared to the icy chill of the storm, it felt practically balmy.
“It won’t last,” Peter had observed drily when she commented on it. “But may as well open the place up and let it air-after we take care of the fireplaces.”
The power returned in early afternoon, its arrival heralded by the ringing of the phone in the kitchen. Rose remained reclined on the sofa, reading, as Peter answered the thing; when he returned, he was smiling. “’Twas Eirlys; there are trees down all along the main road, meaning we’ll not be going much of anywhere for a few days more.”
“Trapped in a cottage by the sea, all alone with you and no way to spend the time…” She grinned teasingly at him as he settled next to her on the sofa.
“A horrible fate,” he opined, lounging back against the arm with a lazy smile.
“Too terrible to contemplate,” she agreed, returning her attention to the book in her hands.
He nudged her with his foot, demanding attention; she fought back a smile as she studiously ignored him, laughing outright when he leaned over and wrapped her in an embrace.
They spent the next three days doing nothing but lounging about the cottage, enjoying the fine weather which seemed to hover just over the coast; they went picnicking in the glade, and walked along the shore (once several high tides had washed much of the flotsam and jetsam back into the sea), all the way to Dunure one particularly clear afternoon.
It was almost too idyllic, leading Rose to worry that it was the calm before yet another storm; Peter insisted that it was repayment for the stress of the weeks before, a way for them to once again find an even keel.
And then, suddenly, it was the weekend again. The roads were clear; they’d have to return to London on Sunday-and would have to resume their normal lives come Monday morning.
~ - ~
Chapter 14
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.
And, most importantly-HAPPY BIRTHDAY, EGT!!!!!
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13
The cottage lost power later that afternoon, forcing Peter to leave bed with a weary and reluctant sigh so he could build the fire. It was amusing to watch him, a robe loosely covering his body as he crouched in front of the fireplace, as he looked for something to collect the water which had most likely accumulated in the chimney in spite of the chimney pot. The fire caught almost immediately, once he lit it, the wind still swirling about the cottage and creating a sharp updraft. Once the chore was done, he moved to the windows they’d left unshuttered, glancing outside.
“The rain’s slowed, and I think the wind has dropped off,” he observed, turning back to her.
“And the cottage is still standing,” she replied, grinning.
“And the cottage is still standing.” He pulled the robe closed, and then tied the belt. “I’m off for a peek downstairs-care to join me?"
The bed was lovely, warm and inviting-but it was time to properly get up, to get moving before it got dark again. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d spent an entire day in bed, with Peter or without; it was nice enough, but tiring in its own way.
She pulled on some clothes and followed Peter downstairs; the air was cold and still, an off-putting counterpoint to the weather outside. She stood next to him as he went to the front door, as he braced himself before slowly opening it. The wind was, indeed, still howling, but it harboured none of the ferocity it had even that morning. Peter relaxed slightly, and pulled the door open just a bit more.
It was growing dark out as the sun began to set behind the scudding grey clouds, but there was still more than enough light to make out the details. The sea in front of the cottage raged, the water mostly white with hints of brown. Seaweed and detritus were ranged in along the shore, some of the items a scant twenty feet from the house.
“Did the water…” she asked, turning to Peter.
“No-should be from the wind. The water was…oh, about a hundred feet away, when I went out this morning?”
Too close for her comfort; she didn’t want to think about it.
Peter took one last long look around before closing the door. “Not so bad, after all,” he said, glancing down at her. “How about supper?”
She lit the fire in the lounge, mimicking Peter’s actions from above stairs, while he made his way to the kitchen. She heard him stop at the closet under the stairs; he had to have been pulling out one of the torches he kept there, or perhaps even the camping lantern he’d invested in years before, when he’d first taken her on a summertime evening picnic in the glade.
She watched as the flames sprung to life, as the fire started to lap at the logs in the fireplace, the noise of Peter moving in the kitchen just audible over the wind and the rain. The storm was, indeed, passing, just as Peter had said.
Her lips quirked as the thought occurred to her that the storm outside was an interesting reflection on the turmoil she’d been feeling since she’d landed in Wales.
It was going to be hard, getting past the guilt; was going to take time, and visits with the grief counsellor. Elias had confessed to her one night after Peter had passed out on the sofa-years ago, now-that it had taken him months upon months to get past seeing Peter shot, that he’d had to go through quite a bit of counselling to be able to trust his own instincts again. She suspected that it would probably take at least as long to truly get past the feelings she was experiencing now.
Of course, it also depended upon the advice Peter had offered her, so very long ago; she had to forgive herself, too. She still tended to make an art form out of embracing responsibility for things going wrong; she seemed to relish the guilt associated with it, taking it as some way of paying penance.
She really had become the Doctor, in more than a few ways; many of the ways were good, certainly, but more than a few of them were bad.
The fire grew in intensity as the logs completely dried out, the fire burning merry and bright now in the small confines of the hearth.
She’d done everything right, and things had still gone wrong. That wasn’t her fault; she shouldn’t accept responsibility for a mistake when there was none.
But she also didn’t have to accept the burden of responsibility for every little thing that went wrong with Torchwood. Her colleagues were all highly-trained professionals; many of them were better at their jobs than she was. She needed to let go, to trust them to do the things it was they were paid to do; to give the next generation of Torchwood agents their chance to show their brilliance.
She needed to move on from the routine of being a field agent; she’d been doing her job for so long, there was a certain comfort to it. The comfort made her confident, but it also meant that she found parts of the job boring; just thinking about Pete’s offer, on the other hand -of learning to run Torchwood-caused a jolt of adrenaline to rush through her, the fear of the unknown and worry over whether she’d be good at it coupled with excitement over the prospect of proving herself.
If she let everything fall away-all of the exhaustion and the emotion she’d been feeling, not just since she’d vanished, but for months upon months-she realized that she wanted the job Pete had dangled in front of her, so long ago. She wanted it badly.
She smiled; her decision was made, just that simply. She’d talk to Pete when she returned to work; would tell him she wanted to learn what it took to run the entire organization, not just a small group. And then she’d call the counsellor and set about arranging a proper appointment.
“Ye hungry?” Peter’s voice asked softly from across the room; she’d been staring into the flames, basking it the warmth of the fire as she thought, and had completely lost track of time.
“’m starvin’,” she answered, slowly standing. They’d not really eaten properly that day-fruit for breakfast, then biscuits, cheese, and crackers for a late lunch, after she’d fallen apart on Peter. The mere thought of a proper meal made her stomach rumble, causing Peter to laugh.
“So I hear.” He inclined his head towards the kitchen. “C’mon-supper’ll be ready in a wee bit.”
He turned to walk to the kitchen; she caught his hand, causing him to turn back to her.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her hand moving to rest on his chest. He’d drawn his eyebrows, trying to work out what she was thanking him for, and she added, “For listenin’. For your uncommonly good sense. For jus’ bein’ you.”
His cheeks flushed pink, and he answered seriously, “Well, then, you’re quite welcome.”
She rocked up on her toes, kissing him, before stepping back and taking his hand. “What’s for supper?”
He ignored her question, gazing intently at her as he asked, “You’re all right?”
“Yeah. I am, Peter.” She brought his hand to her lips, kissing the knuckles. “Well and truly.”
“Good.” He cupped her jaw with his other hand, his thumb gently brushing her skin.
“Yeah,” she replied softly, her eyes drifting shut.
He leaned down, kissing her briefly, then slipped his hand down to capture her free one. “Supper’s…well, it’s a bit of a mix. Had to take some things out of the fridge before they could spoil.”
She opened her eyes to find him standing in front of her with a bashful smile.
He elaborated. “Haggis. And a bit of potato.”
He’d bought the haggis on a whim when they were shopping, excited to find some home-made when they were in the market; she suspected the power being out was simply an excuse for him to cook something he’d been so keen to have.
“You just wanted your native food,” she teased, squeezing his hand.
“It would have gone bad,” he protested feebly.
“And the chicken won’t?” she asked cheekily.
“Not nearly so fast,” he mumbled, ducking his chin and avoiding her amused gaze.
“When’ll it be ready?” she asked, taking mercy, leaning into him.
“Half hour, maybe.”
“I can’t wait.”
He glanced to her to see if she was teasing him. “You don’t like haggis.”
“I like it more than I let on, simply because it’s funny to see you affronted by my dislike of it,” she confessed.
He gave her a slow grin, the one that let her know she’d been had. “I knew it!”
“You tricked me!”
“I knew it-ye do like it!”
“You obtained my confession under false pretences!”
“I did no such thing; I stated something as fact, and you chose to interpret it as a question.”
“You led the witness!”
He leaned forward, still grinning. “Nice try, Rose. But I win.” He winked at her, and sauntered towards the kitchen.
“Clever bastard,” she muttered, following him.
He turned at the doorway, giving her a cheeky smile. “And you just love it.”
She reached for his ribs, tickling them with her fingernails; he jumped backwards, letting out an undignified shriek.
“I do. And now we’re even.” She sashayed past him, glancing at the stove to peer into the various pots bubbling on the stove. “So. Half hour, you said?” She grinned at him, winking.
~ - ~
The wind and rain persisted as they ate dinner; as they cuddled together on the sofa in the lounge, Peter reading to Rose by torch. And, although the ferocity of the weather outside was clearly diminishing, it was still windy and raining as they fell asleep, curled together in bed.
Which was why it was a bit of a surprise to her to awake to find sunlight filling the far end of the bedroom.
Peter was snoring softly, sprawled on his back next to her; she shook her head indulgently as she got out of bed. She hissed at the chill from the floor, and took the time to place a log on the fire and stoke it a bit before going over to peer through the unshuttered window.
It was a glorious day outside-the sky was almost a blinding blue, the plants in the land behind the cottage a variety of sharp greens. It looked like spring; she couldn’t wait to go outside, to see what it felt like after so massive a storm.
She got dressed quietly, hoping Peter would wake up so he could go exploring with her; he, frustratingly, continued to snore, utterly oblivious to the world around him.
The power was still out, as she learned when she went downstairs. Sighing, Rose started a small fire in the dining room fireplace-some of the heat had to make its way into the kitchen--then got another one going in the lounge; the fireplaces had screens now, a way to keep an entranced Lucy from reaching for the flames, and she put them both in place before going into the icy-cold kitchen.
She made tea before going outside, taking a sip of the piping hot brew before opening the door to see what the world had to offer. It was still chilly, but far warmer than it had been; birds were wheeling overhead, looking for food in the detritus washed up along the shore.
She took a deep breath, savouring the clarity and freshness of the air; then closed the door behind her as she set out to explore.
The cottage was, as Peter had said it would be, utterly untouched by the weather. Their car, too, seemed to be fine, if desperately in need of a wash. The basics investigated, she turned towards the shore, slowly walking over to the line of debris, wondering if she’d be able to find a clear path to the picnic table.
She almost laughed at what she saw-the table was still there, but one of the benches was completely gone, whilst the other was half-buried in sand, one end poking upwards like the seat of a teeter-totter; the victims of the ocean's wrath. That was one thing they’d have to look into replacing, then-she wouldn’t miss sitting outside, watching Peter swim in the mornings, for the world.
Large piles of seaweed lined the shore, ankle deep in some places; she tried to avoid walking on it, not wanting to come across something unpleasant or unexpected. There were also bits of wood, and barnacle-covered bottles, and an unimaginable amount of pieces from broken shells. It was a good thing Lucy wasn’t there-she’d get herself into all sorts of trouble as she raced along the beach, exploring what the sea had offered up.
She walked as far south along the bay as she could, nursing her tea and simply taking in what nature had to offer; as she slowly made her way back, she was able to see Peter amble slowly out from the cottage, doing his own survey of the damage before pausing where the picnic table stood.
He saw her near and waited for her, sitting on the stone table, his feet resting on the edge of the upended bench. He’d not made coffee, that she could see; he’d be eager to go inside and have breakfast.
“Anything interesting?” he asked, standing as she neared.
“Not particularly, no.”
He glanced at the shoreline. “It’s going to be a bit…odiferous…around here the next day or so. But it’ll go away soon enough.” He glanced at the table. “I was afraid we’d lost that. I think Nana had it put there, but it might be even older.”
“We could dig out the bench; maybe the other one washed north of here?”
He turned to Rose, smiling. “It’s not the end of the world-we’ll just have to find new benches. And maybe leave that one as a bit of a folly.” He leaned forward, peering into Rose’s now-empty mug. “You didn’t make any for me,” he pouted.
“It was tea, and you were snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
“You so do.”
“I’d have liked tea, too.”
She grinned. “In the time you’ve been harassing me about your non-tea, we could have walked up to the cottage and started making you some.”
“That’s not nearly so fun.”
“Lucy is the worst influence on you…”
He waggled his eyebrows. “What makes you think she’s the one influencing me?”
Rose shook her head indulgently. “Let’s go in, then, and make you some tea.”
“I’d prefer coffee.”
“Coffee, then, ye git.” She said the words with a smile, and led the way to the cottage.
They had breakfast together in the dining room, easily the warmest room on the ground floor; the dishes were left in the sink, Peter proclaiming the tap water to be far too cold for hand-washing.
They spent the remainder of the morning opening the cottage back up, pulling shutters away from windows, washing the salt away from the glass panes. Rose was surprised at how warm the day seemed to be; compared to the icy chill of the storm, it felt practically balmy.
“It won’t last,” Peter had observed drily when she commented on it. “But may as well open the place up and let it air-after we take care of the fireplaces.”
The power returned in early afternoon, its arrival heralded by the ringing of the phone in the kitchen. Rose remained reclined on the sofa, reading, as Peter answered the thing; when he returned, he was smiling. “’Twas Eirlys; there are trees down all along the main road, meaning we’ll not be going much of anywhere for a few days more.”
“Trapped in a cottage by the sea, all alone with you and no way to spend the time…” She grinned teasingly at him as he settled next to her on the sofa.
“A horrible fate,” he opined, lounging back against the arm with a lazy smile.
“Too terrible to contemplate,” she agreed, returning her attention to the book in her hands.
He nudged her with his foot, demanding attention; she fought back a smile as she studiously ignored him, laughing outright when he leaned over and wrapped her in an embrace.
They spent the next three days doing nothing but lounging about the cottage, enjoying the fine weather which seemed to hover just over the coast; they went picnicking in the glade, and walked along the shore (once several high tides had washed much of the flotsam and jetsam back into the sea), all the way to Dunure one particularly clear afternoon.
It was almost too idyllic, leading Rose to worry that it was the calm before yet another storm; Peter insisted that it was repayment for the stress of the weeks before, a way for them to once again find an even keel.
And then, suddenly, it was the weekend again. The roads were clear; they’d have to return to London on Sunday-and would have to resume their normal lives come Monday morning.
~ - ~
Chapter 14