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And So Things Go, Chapter 22
Title– And So Things Go (22/34)
Author– jlrpuck
Rating – T
Pairing – Peter Carlisle/Rose Tyler
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 – The story of how Peter Carlisle moved to London to live with Rose Tyler.
Author’s Notes – Day two of Peter's testimony.
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earlgreytea68 and chicklet73 have been ideal betas for this—supportive, diligent, and full of excellent ideas. lostwolfchats has been fabulous, as well, and equally as invaluable, ensuring that I didn’t ruin the Queen’s English…too badly. Any errors—grammatical, colloquial, or factual—are mine, and mine alone. That lovley banner up top, though? That's all angelfireeast's fine work.I'd like to thank the anonymous benefactor who re-upped my account for another year, and who provided additional userpics. They're both gifts which are deeply appreciated, and, well...human kindness, especially from a stranger, always kind of blows me away in a good way. So..Thank you, very much.
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 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Epilogue
Peter, as expected, was called back to testify further the following day; he called shortly before nine, letting her know that he might be late home that night.
“Peter…I…I have to go out of town.” She felt terrible saying it, knowing he was most likely going to be exhausted again when he returned to the flat.
“You what?” His voice was flat.
“There’s something up north we have to go…deal with. In Windermere, actually,” she added, hoping it would help to take the sting out of her deployment.
“You’re leaving?” Peter sounded like a lost little boy.
“Just for a day, maybe two at the most. I’d be back at the weekend.” It sounded a relatively simple assignment—simply going up to the town, taking a look at an object, coming back.
“Two days?”
“At most. Peter, I…I wouldn’t go, if I didn’t have to.” She wouldn’t either—it wasn’t her turn to take the solo run—but James had gone on a minibreak, while Jake and Mickey were on the other side of the city investigating reports of a suspicious nail gun.
Rose could hear him sigh on the other end of the line. “I know.” She could picture him ducking his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “When?”
“I’m at the flat now; I have to be up there by two."
There was a pregnant pause, leading Rose to wonder just how upset Peter was. She was surprised by his next statement. “I…if you’re there, you may as well stay at the house.”
“In Kendal?”
“Croy’s a bit far, don’t you think? Of course in Kendal.” Peter’s voice held a hint of impatience.
“I know. I just can’t imagine staying there if you’re not there.”
Another sigh came through the line. “I have to go, Rose. Use the house—please. It’ll be nice to know you’ll be there, if you have to be gone. I’ll let Louise know you’ll be there—and I’ll ring you when I’m done for the day.”
“I love you,” she offered, helplessly.
“And I you. I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll be back in a day. Promise.”
“Bye.” His voice was soft, and the line went dead.
She set her phone next to her on her bed, gently running her hand across the duvet where Peter had slept. She already loved waking up next to him, knowing he’d be there when she got home; it was incredible, how quickly it had become ‘normal.’
She let out a slow breath, finally standing and gathering together the things for an overnight bag. It was hard, not stopping to gently run her fingers across Peter’s clothes, hanging next to hers in the wardrobe; not stopping to pick up his razor or his travel soap bowl, sitting on the sink. Everywhere she looked, now, she could see little things of his mixed in with hers.
She walked slowly from the room, her bag in her hand. She paused as she passed the entrance to the kitchen—Peter would have no trouble finding things to cook, but the question was if he’d care to cook at all. A glance at her watch showed she had a few minutes to spare before she really needed to leave, and she hurried over to the small basket of pens and paper she kept by the phone.
Peter,
Please eat. Home tomorrow. Miss you already.
Love you,
Rose.
She found Peter’s book on the coffee table and left the note sitting on top of it, before hurrying downstairs to her car.
It was a frustrating day, spent chasing down something that ultimately wasn’t life-or-death. The activity she’d been sent to investigate turned out to be a group of local kids playing a prank, using a small box they’d found in the woods along the lake. The box itself was alien—it was identical to one they’d found a few months earlier, at a different location, which meant they had a bit of work to do back at Greenwich—so at least her time hadn’t been completely wasted.
She finished shortly before supper, and made the short drive to Kendal with her thoughts in a whirl. It was strange, passing landmarks which had become familiar through her time with Peter yet knowing that he wouldn’t be waiting for her at his house, rumpled from work, a smile on his lips as he greeted her at the door.
A few blocks from Peter’s she stopped by the Asian takeaway she and Peter frequented, picking up an order of curry. The older gentleman who worked behind the counter greeted her with a warm smile, and if he was confused by her showing up alone, or placing an order so small, he didn’t comment.
The house, when she arrived, was dark and cold; it felt lifeless when she opened the door, and she briefly considered that perhaps it wasn’t a good idea staying there without Peter. As she moved through the house, turning on lights and just generally making sure the house was unharmed, she imagined she could catch hints of Peter’s soap or deodorant, tangible reminders of the man who normally occupied the space.
Peter had left a glass sitting on the floor next to the sofa—his favourite perch for a drink when he was sprawled out, reading. She picked it up with a sigh, moving it to the sink, before walking to the small kitchen table. Louise had left a neat pile at one corner of the table, consisting of Peter’s mail; above it was a sheaf of papers, covered in Peter’s precise print. His case notes, clearly—he only ever printed when he was thinking things out for a case. Rose drifted her fingers across the paper, imagining Peter writing the notes, chewing on the pen as he thought.
She sat down at the clear space—Peter’s usual dining and working area, as he’d told her on one of her visits, and set to eating her curry. It was lonely in that house, surrounded by books and papers and not much else; how did Peter do it?
She sighed, glancing down at her plate, the rice tinged yellow from the curry; she’d eaten a fair bit, but wasn’t hungry, thoughts of Peter, alone, surrounded by silence washing through her. She didn’t want him to have to live like that. She wanted the house filled with joy and life, with Peter smiling and knowing how loved he was.
She washed her plate, setting it in the rack to dry; the leftover curry went into the near-empty fridge. Rose wondered if Louise had cleaned it out recently, or if Peter had done before he had left for London. Turning the lights out, she moved into the parlour, her fingers drifting across the spines of the books sitting on the bookshelves as she remembered Peter pointing out certain ones, or reading others to her.
Their blanket and pillows were neatly piled under the coffee table, another reminder of a habit she and Peter had got into together—that of curling up in front of the fire, together, sprawled across the blanket in an echo of their first night together. She briefly considered pulling the blanket out, laying down and trying to read in front of the fireplace, but ruled it out—it simply wouldn’t be the same. She instead settled on the sofa for a short while, trying unsuccessfully to read one of the few novels from his bookshelves, before deciding to give up and go to bed.
She ensured the house was locked up, turning off the downstairs lights before making her way upstairs. A quick glance into the room Peter used as storage showed that the neatly stacked boxes remained undisturbed; she wondered what he kept in those boxes, but had yet to build up the courage to ask him.
His office was, as usual, a disaster area, books piled haphazardly here or there, his small desk covered with reams and reams of paper—leftover notes from past cases, held onto just in case he ever had to defend his decisions. Rose had found him in there late one night; he’d been unable to sleep, and had been poring over his notes from another case when she’d found him seated at his desk. She’d stood behind him, rubbing his shoulders, listening as he told her what he was working through, what the various piles of paper were. That was the only time she’d been in there; it was Peter’s space, to her mind, and one she didn’t want to disturb or interrupt.
His bedroom proper looked as though he’d left it that morning, the duvet bundled at the foot of the bed, his laundry hamper filled to overflowing, his shoes in a ragged line along the wall next to his wardrobe. She fought back a smile at the sight, remembering how every time she stayed with him, she’d have to make the bed before going to bed with him; he would stand aside, his expression bemused, his dark eyes following her every move as she neatly spread the dark red duvet over the bed before plumping the pillows. Once or twice he’d immediately pounced on her as she finished, kissing her fiercely as he pulled her onto the bed; more often, he smiled gently at her as she finished, before moving to change for bed.
She moved about the bed, making it, wishing Peter was there to watch her.
She set her mobile on the bedside table on Peter’s side of the bed, the small electronic joining the usual pile of three books. The Burns was, as always, on the top of the pile; below it were two books on history, neither of which sounded terribly interesting. She picked up the slim volume of Burns, holding it in her hands and letting it flop open to the most frequently read page.
She glanced at the title. Tam O’Shanter. Peter had never read it to her.
She had just started reading the poem when her mobile trilled; it was the ring tone she’d set for Peter, all those months ago, and she hurriedly set the book aside.
“Hiya,” she answered, her heart hammering as it always did when Peter rang.
“How are you?”
“I’m fine. I’m at the house,” she laughed, before sobering. “More important—how are you?”
“I’m done. Well, so I’ve been told.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Sunday.”
Rose sighed in relief. “I’ll be home tomorrow.”
“I’m glad.”
She smiled. “So am I. How did today go?”
There was a pause. “They asked about Blackpool.”
Rose’s heart thudded. “And?”
“And…nothing. I didn’t have to say much at all, really, with all of the objections raised. Warren had done a bit of homework off what I told him; he was able to counter each of their arguments, and even had a signed statement from Ripley. It was…it was odd.”
“How so?” Rose desperately wished she was there with him, was able to see how he was handling the day instead of having to rely on his voice.
Peter gave a mirthless laugh. “Having someone defend me for it. I...” His voice trailed off uncertainly.
“You’re not that man, Peter. You never were.”
“I was, once.”
“You thought you were. You’re not.” She turned, leaning against the carved headboard. “You’re not, Peter,” she repeated softly.
“Are you trying to convince me, or you?” His voice was hard, dry—the voice he used when he was trying to protect himself from being hurt.
“You. I know you’re not.”
The line fell silent.
“Peter…I…I wish I was there.”
“I do, too,” he replied softly, after a few moments.
“’s weird, bein’ in your house, without you here. Feels wrong.”
“I could say the same about your flat. Although thank you for the note.”
“Did you eat?”
He laughed, a soft chuckle. “Aye. Did you?”
“Curry. Mo says hi.”
“Poor Mo—I suspect his business might be suffering in my absence.”
“He seemed a bit forlorn.” Rose’s hand drifted across the fabric of the duvet. “Miss you.”
“Miss you, too.”
“When will you be home tomorrow?” It was so natural to ask him that, to say ‘when will you be home?’ instead of ‘when will you be back to the flat?’
“Whenever they tell me I’m free.”
“’k. I’m leaving in the morning. I just have to nip by Greenwich, and then I’ll be home. I could stop by the station, if you like…”
Peter laughed. “No, I think it’s quite alright if you don’t. Unless you desperately want to see young Penington.”
“I’d rather see you.”
“Then I suppose you’ll simply have to hie home.” She could hear the smile in his voice, and she grinned.
“That I shall.”
“I do miss, you, Rose.” Peter’s voice was low, full of intensity; she felt her heart skip a beat.
“I miss you, too.”
“Good.”
She glanced over at the volume of Burns, sitting on the edge of the nightstand. “I could read to you. If you like.”
“What’d ye have in mind?”
“Based off of what’s on the night stand? Burns.”
She fought back a laugh at the silence on the other end of the line; she’d tried to read Burns to him, once; it had been a disaster, Rose unable to find a good rhythm or to really pronounce the poetry the way Burns had intended. Peter had suffered through it, reluctant to hurt her feelings until she had admitted to utterly ruining the beauty of the poetry.
“Ah…”
“I’m kidding, Peter. Not about the reading, but about it being Burns. I could dash downstairs, if you like.”
“Why don’t you pick a poem, and I’ll see if I can remember it?”
“Just how often have you read these, Peter?”
“More than you can imagine. Now pick one, Rose.”
She picked up the book, letting it fall open once more. “Tam O’Shanter.”
“That’s a bit too long even for my elephantine memory. Try again.”
“To A Mouse, then.”
“That, I can do. Are ye settled?”
Rose glanced around, before standing. “Just a tick.” She set the phone down, hastily stripping off her clothes, then picked the small device back up, holding it to her ear as she moved to her carryall. “Just changing for bed.”
“Are ye, now?” His voice held a note of amused heat; she really wished he was there. She reached down, pulling out her pyjamas.
“I am. Nothing fancy—just a top and shorts.” She hastily pulled the top on, returning the phone to her ear.
“Are ye naked, then?”
“Not anymore.” She grinned, walking back to the bed, leaning one hand against the footboard as she pulled the small cotton shorts on with her other hand. “If you were here, I might be.”
“No might about it, I should think.”
“None at all.” She walked to Peter’s side of the bed, turning the corner of the duvet down before sliding under it. “Now, I’m ready for bed.”
“Did ye clean your teeth?”
Rose sighed. “No; do you really want to listen to me do that?”
“You’re hardly ready for bed, then, Rose.” Peter’s voice was filled with amusement.
“I’ll ring you back in five minutes, then.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
She rang off, kicking the duvet back and hurrying over to the en suite. The small room was flooded with light as she turned on the switch, the white tiles seeming to glow.
She loved that en suite; loved the memories she had of watching Peter shave in it, or of showering with him. She brushed her teeth, hastily washed her face, and hurried back out to the room, picking the phone up and calling Peter.
“Six minutes, Rose.” His voice was filled with laughter.
“I had to wash my face. You wanted me ready for bed, after all.”
“And so I did. You all snuggled in, then?”
“Yep.” She popped the ‘p’, grinning. She glanced over at the light, stretching to turn it out, before wiggling down under the duvet. “You?”
“I’m in your bed, yes.”
“Did you clean your teeth and put on your jim-jams?”
“Yes, young lady.” His voice was mock-stern, and she fought back a laugh. “D’ye want the poem, or no?”
“Yes, please.”
“In that case…” He began reciting the poem, the familiar lines closing the distance between them. She closed her eyes, remembering watching Peter recite it before—not just at the warehouse, but on the blanket in front of the fireplace downstairs, or when they were curled together in bed. She loved the poem because it reminded her of the day they first kissed; he said he loved it because it reminded him of her. His voice was warm and rich, his accent taking on an even richer brogue as he recited the words of his favourite poet.
She missed him, terribly—and it hadn’t even been a day.
He ended, the last word echoing down the line; she kept her eyes shut, whispering, “’was lovely.”
“I miss you, Rose.” His voice was low, back to its normal accent.
“I’ll be home tomorrow.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Me, too.”
“G’night, Rose.”
“Night, Peter. Love you.”
“And I, you. Sweet dreams.”
The call ended, and Rose was once again aware of how quiet, how empty, Peter’s house was when he wasn’t there. She rolled onto her side, setting the phone on the nightstand, before pulling his pillow to her. She took a deep breath, inhaling his scent, and settled in to sleep.
Chapter 23
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