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Title– A Near Thing (1/4)
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 – Rose’s job is dangerous—but so is Peter’s.
Author’s Notes – Beta’d with flair by both![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chicklet73 and earlgreytea68; thank you so much to both of them for their suggestions, encouragement, and assistance.
O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear!
In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!
- Robert Burns, In the Prospect of Death
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
“You really don’t want to do that,” Peter offered, quietly, staring at the man standing in front of him—and trying, somewhat unsuccessfully, to avoid looking at the weapon pointed towards his own chest.
The man narrowed his eyes; the corner of his mouth curled upwards. “Oh, I think I do.”
Peter straightened, holding the man’s gaze. If he was going to be shot—and he had the sinking feeling he was—he wanted the suspect standing a few metres away to look him in the eye as he did it. And if he was going to be shot anyway, why not try to get some answers to the murder they’d been investigating? Elias was around somewhere—surely he’d hear. “Why’d ye do Gerrie in, Nonnie?”
Nonnie’s lips curved upwards again into another cold smile. “As if I’d tell you, copper.”
Peter became aware of movement behind Nonnie, could see Elias darkening the doorway to the room as he snuck up behind the man. Peter’s eyes must have drifted, because Nonnie suddenly turned, firing towards Elias. As Elias ducked around the doorjamb—Peter didn’t miss the muffled curse his partner uttered—Peter rushed towards the suspect, hoping to have enough force in his tackle to ram the smaller man into the wall. Their backup was only a few minutes away, he just needed to buy time…
If he’d been a metre closer, or a second faster, it would have worked, too.
Time slowed, as it always seemed to do when he was in moments of extreme crisis. He saw Nonnie turn, sight him, and pull the trigger; was aware of the bright flash of the muzzle just before a stinging pain ripped through his right side. He stumbled backwards, could feel himself begin to fall; saw Elias, face thunderous, come around through the doorway like a demon, leaping for Nonnie, pulling the man backwards.
Time sped up as Nonnie fired off another shot; Peter felt a second, new, burning sensation on his left side, up high. He heard the crack of his skull as he landed backwards on the plan concrete floor, was vaguely aware of motion on the other side of the room, of another shot being fired.
Elias.
He clenched his eyes, opened them, trying to focus; he tried to roll over, towards the door, tried, then, to get up on his knees. Elias and Nonnie both were gone.
Shit.
The room swam in front of him, the doorway suddenly tilting sideways. He blinked, several times, once again trying to bring things into focus. The doorway righted itself, but…had someone pulled a shade? It was suddenly rather dim in the space.
He slowly stood, fighting down a groan at the pain radiating through his body. He had to find Elias. Had to be at the door to meet the teams, to tell them where to go…where had Elias gone, anyway? Blasted man, always swanning off…
He glanced down, wondering why on earth his shirt was wet. Had it been raining when they came in? He didn’t think so…but they’d been inside so long, maybe there was a leak in the roof? He glanced up, swaying, falling back against the wall, sighing as it took some of his weight.
“Peter!” Elias appeared in the doorway, flushed, panting.
“Eli! I…don’t feel so well…” Peter suddenly had a moment of lucidity, sliding down the wall to a sitting position. The pain was back, seemingly intensified now that the initial shock had worn off. He could feel his shirt clinging to him damply, could feel it sticking to his skin over a large area. “Bugger,” he groaned, tilting his head back, wincing as it lightly thudded against the wall.
“Ye daft eedjit.”
Peter closed his eyes, relaxing. Maybe he could just nap here while they waited for backup…Elias was here, he looked fine…well, except he’d been shot, too, he had a bloodstain on his arm…
“Carlisle, you ass, wake up.”
Peter forced his eyes open. “Aye,” he replied, groggy. He just wanted a nap. “Where’s Rose?” he murmured. Just a wee kip…
“Carlisle…Peter. Peter!”
~ - ~
“Tyler.” Rose was in the middle of reading a report, and answered the phone absent-mindedly as she processed the summary in front of her. How had the Ii’dlii wound up running a tobacconist’s in Dundee?
“Rose…”
Ruby’s voice jerked Rose away from the paper, and sent a sick wave of heat through her. The tone of it…
“Is Elias ok?”
There was a weak laugh, then a sniffle. “Get down here, Rose. St. Thomas’. Quick. ‘s Peter.”
Rose threw the phone into the cradle, fighting the urge to retch into the dustbin next to her desk. She grabbed blindly for her coat and purse, jerked the door open hard enough that it slammed against the wall of her office and left a mark, and was at a full sprint by the time she reached the row of cubicles just past her office, practically flying past Jake as she raced for the lift.
She slammed the down button, cursing every second that passed; was aware of Jake arriving just after her in the lift lobby, his expression full of concern.
“Peter. Something’s happened to Peter,” she said shortly, willing the lift to appear. She could use one of the cars downstairs, one of the drivers would surely be there…assuming the lift ever came. It was taking hours.
“Mel? Yeah, need a car in the undercroft. NOW.” Jake was speaking into his mobile, his tone brooking no argument; he nodded, then closed the device with a snap. “I’m coming with you.”
The lift dinged, indicating the arrival of a car headed down.
She was in no mood to argue, simply stepped into the lift and let Jake follow. She punched at the button for the level where the cars were kept, then set to gnawing on her thumbnail.
Peter. Peter was hurt, and she didn’t know what was wrong. Ruby had been crying—crying. It couldn’t be good. It was, in fact, most likely very, very bad...
A fresh wave of nausea roiled through her and she leaned forward, resting her head against the cool metal of the wall.
He was alive. He had to be, or else Ruby wouldn’t have been so brusque, ordering her to get to the hospital.
“Pete…I’ve got to tell Pete I’m leaving…” she said, straightening suddenly. It was far easier to deal with tangibles, things she could control; Peter’s fate was, currently, out of her hands.
Peter…
The lift dinged, the doors opening to the first level of the undercroft. One of the cars pulled forward, and she blindly opened the rear door, climbing in. Jake followed her, his phone poised in his hand.
“Um…” Jake looked to Rose expectantly as the driver waited for direction.
“St. Thomas. A&E.”
The driver took one look at the woman in the rear seat, and reached for the emergency lights every Torchwood car was equipped with.
Traffic was appalling, even in an official vehicle, and they reached the hospital nearly a half-hour later. Rose was frantic by the time they arrived and didn’t wait for the car to stop before she threw open the door, racing for the entrance. The glass doors hissed apart; she walked through them then frantically scanned the room, looking for a familiar face.
“Rose.” Ruby had been sitting—or standing, she wasn’t sure—just to the side of the doors; Rose had overshot her in her haste to be in the waiting room.
“How is he? Where is he? What happened?” She was still scanning the room, looking for any clue as to what might have happened, or where her husband was.
Ruby reached down, taking her hand; Rose felt the blood drain out of her face as she noted Ruby’s eyes swimming with tears.
“He’s…he’s in surgery, Rose. He…he’s lost a lot of blood, love.”
Rose swallowed, straightening her back. “Where?”
Jake had joined them, and followed as Ruby led her through the corridors of the hospital, up several floors, out into a hushed area of white lino and dimmed lights. They walked down the hall, Rose painfully aware of the click of her heels against the floor; and then they were in a waiting area, full of comfortable chairs and table lamps. There was a telly on in the corner, pictures flitting across the screen mutely, and low tables held magazines enough for four times the amount of people the room could hold.
“’s where the surgeon’ll come out,” Ruby said, guiding Rose to sit. Jake settled on one side of her, while Ruby remained standing. “I…I just need to go see Eli…”
Rose had completely forgotten about Elias, and felt shame wash through her. “Ruby, I’m so sorry for not asking. How is he?” She looked up at her friend, and saw a small smile pass across her face.
“I think you’ve been a bit preoccupied, Rose. Eli’s fine. Fine enough, at any rate; they’ve been askin’ him questions, so he can’t be bad at all, can he?”
Rose gave Ruby a smile, squeezing her hand. “Thanks, Ruby.”
Ruby nodded, then left to find her husband.
She spent what felt like hours in the small waiting room, Jake—then Mickey, then Jackie and Pete—keeping her company while she waited. Peter’s DCI visited for a brief while; Pete shuffled everyone out of the room, closing the door behind him so the grey-haired man could tell her what had happened. The DCI was sombre, but not unkind, giving her the details as quickly and clearly as possible; Rose listened intently, still trying to process that this was all so real.
“That’s what we’ve been able to piece together, at any rate,” he concluded, watching Rose.
Peter had been shot. Someone had shot him, in cold blood; had shot at him, and tried to kill him and Elias. She felt a cold fury bubble within her, and forced it back down.
She nodded. “Thank you.”
The room filled with family and friends once more after the DCI left; Rose rested her head on Jake’s shoulder, allowing herself to doze as hushed voices spoke around her. She could hear them whispering, knew they were talking about her, but she didn’t care; and in her semi-lucid state, Rose dreamt of being back in Kendal with Peter.
After some indeterminate amount of time, she felt Jake lightly shake her. “Rose,” he whispered, his voice pulling her from her dreams.
She opened her eyes, straightened, and noted that the room had gone silent.
“Mrs. Carlisle?” The voice belonged to a man, middle-aged, very calm; as she turned to him, he moved towards her. “I’m Dr. Cornwall.” Rose took the proffered hand, giving it a shake as she stood. “We were able to remove the bullet lodged against his ribcage; there was no damage to the bone, which is remarkable, and were able to stop the bleeding and clean up the wounds from the other shot.”
“When can I see him?”
The surgeon hesitated—just a heartbeat, but enough for Rose to know things weren’t going to be simple. “It’s possible he may not wake up for some time. He hit his head, rather sharply, when he fell.”
Rose felt her knees wobble, and bit her lip. She was not going to collapse, not in front of her friends and family, and certainly not in public. “Will he be alright?”
“Patients do recover from injuries like that; but there was the complicating factor of the trauma to his body.”
“But will he be alright?” she asked, stubbornly.
“We’re keeping a close eye on him, and are making sure he gets the best care possible,” was the evasive response.
“Can I see him, please?” she whispered.
“As soon as he’s moved to his room, yes.” The surgeon gave her a sympathetic smile, then departed the room.
Rose sank into the chair, and cried.
~ - ~
She’d seen friends in hospital before; had seen them after being attacked by aliens or humans, had seen them recovering from grave injuries.
It still didn’t help her prepare for seeing her husband in intensive care.
Rose followed her mum into the room, her eyes immediately moving to the bed where her husband lay. The only light in the space was that around Peter, the white of the sheets almost glowing against the surrounding darkness, the stark relief only emphasizing everything that was wrong with the scene. Machines beeped and whirred around him, connected to wires and tubes leading from his body; his eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling rhythmically as the ventilator assisted him with breathing. The ventilator wasn’t strictly necessary, the nurse reassured her, but given his head and other injuries, the surgeon had deemed it far better to be safe.
Rose focused on the fact that Peter was there, that he was alive, that he would survive. She didn’t want to think about how the medical care in Pete’s world compared unfavourably to the one in which she’d grown up; didn’t want to consider that people survived gunshot wounds only to die from infection, or how this world still hadn’t seemed to suss out how to deal with head injuries. She’d never told Peter—couldn’t tell him—that the thing she most feared about her job, about her life, wasn’t dying: it was being badly injured and having to face a hospital in this world.
Rose stepped to the bed, fighting back the urge to weep as she looked at Peter. His skin was like porcelain, and she gently drifted a finger across his cheek to make sure he was, indeed, alive; to feel his warm skin against hers. Someone had taken care to smooth his hair—a reminder that he wasn’t well, because if he was his hair wouldn’t be nearly so neat—and she moved her hand to brush across the soft strands.
His eyelashes formed dark crescents against his cheeks; his freckles were particularly noticeable given the paleness of his skin. There was a shadow across his jaw; she remembered, oddly, that he’d chosen to forgo shaving that morning, preferring to snuggle with her an extra few minutes before meeting Elias for coffee.
She found a chair, pulled it up to the bed and settled in, taking his hand. It felt strange to hold it, to feel its warmth and not have him give her a gentle squeeze, and she wondered if he knew she was holding it at all. She was aware of her mum leaving her with Peter, and she turned her attention to taking an inventory of the rest of his injuries.
He was bare-chested, the white sheet of the bed neatly folded across his waist. It was easy to spot where he’d been shot: two large wads of dressing were taped loosely to his chest, one just to the left of and below his left nipple, the other one higher on his right-hand side.
She wrinkled her nose as she realized they’d shaved his chest; he’d not like that when he woke up, and would most likely complain unendingly about it itching as the hair grew back. She looked forward to hearing those complaints; it would mean he was awake, and himself, and she wished he would wake up already so she could see his brown eyes.
“Rose.”
Rose turned, finding Ruby standing in the doorway, a cup of steaming liquid in her hand. The other woman walked quietly over, setting the cup on the small table next to the bed, then gave a heavy sigh. “He looks odd, so quiet.”
“Yeah,” Rose agreed, turning to look back to her husband. “How’s Elias?”
“As well as can be expected. Feels guilty.”
“I’m sure he shouldn’t.” Rose glanced back to Ruby.
“Still does. Says his arm hurts like a beggar, too.” Elias had been shot as well, the bullet passing through his upper arm, missing bone and the major blood vessels. “But most of all, he wants out of here, and wants to find the bloke as did this.”
“Tell him there’s a queue,” Rose muttered.
Ruby glanced around, looking for and finding another chair. She carried it over to where Rose sat, and settled in next to her friend, prepared to join her in the vigil over Peter Carlisle.
~ - ~
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 – Rose’s job is dangerous—but so is Peter’s.
Author’s Notes – Beta’d with flair by both
chicklet73 and earlgreytea68; thank you so much to both of them for their suggestions, encouragement, and assistance.Of all my hope and fear!
In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!
- Robert Burns, In the Prospect of Death
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
“You really don’t want to do that,” Peter offered, quietly, staring at the man standing in front of him—and trying, somewhat unsuccessfully, to avoid looking at the weapon pointed towards his own chest.
The man narrowed his eyes; the corner of his mouth curled upwards. “Oh, I think I do.”
Peter straightened, holding the man’s gaze. If he was going to be shot—and he had the sinking feeling he was—he wanted the suspect standing a few metres away to look him in the eye as he did it. And if he was going to be shot anyway, why not try to get some answers to the murder they’d been investigating? Elias was around somewhere—surely he’d hear. “Why’d ye do Gerrie in, Nonnie?”
Nonnie’s lips curved upwards again into another cold smile. “As if I’d tell you, copper.”
Peter became aware of movement behind Nonnie, could see Elias darkening the doorway to the room as he snuck up behind the man. Peter’s eyes must have drifted, because Nonnie suddenly turned, firing towards Elias. As Elias ducked around the doorjamb—Peter didn’t miss the muffled curse his partner uttered—Peter rushed towards the suspect, hoping to have enough force in his tackle to ram the smaller man into the wall. Their backup was only a few minutes away, he just needed to buy time…
If he’d been a metre closer, or a second faster, it would have worked, too.
Time slowed, as it always seemed to do when he was in moments of extreme crisis. He saw Nonnie turn, sight him, and pull the trigger; was aware of the bright flash of the muzzle just before a stinging pain ripped through his right side. He stumbled backwards, could feel himself begin to fall; saw Elias, face thunderous, come around through the doorway like a demon, leaping for Nonnie, pulling the man backwards.
Time sped up as Nonnie fired off another shot; Peter felt a second, new, burning sensation on his left side, up high. He heard the crack of his skull as he landed backwards on the plan concrete floor, was vaguely aware of motion on the other side of the room, of another shot being fired.
Elias.
He clenched his eyes, opened them, trying to focus; he tried to roll over, towards the door, tried, then, to get up on his knees. Elias and Nonnie both were gone.
Shit.
The room swam in front of him, the doorway suddenly tilting sideways. He blinked, several times, once again trying to bring things into focus. The doorway righted itself, but…had someone pulled a shade? It was suddenly rather dim in the space.
He slowly stood, fighting down a groan at the pain radiating through his body. He had to find Elias. Had to be at the door to meet the teams, to tell them where to go…where had Elias gone, anyway? Blasted man, always swanning off…
He glanced down, wondering why on earth his shirt was wet. Had it been raining when they came in? He didn’t think so…but they’d been inside so long, maybe there was a leak in the roof? He glanced up, swaying, falling back against the wall, sighing as it took some of his weight.
“Peter!” Elias appeared in the doorway, flushed, panting.
“Eli! I…don’t feel so well…” Peter suddenly had a moment of lucidity, sliding down the wall to a sitting position. The pain was back, seemingly intensified now that the initial shock had worn off. He could feel his shirt clinging to him damply, could feel it sticking to his skin over a large area. “Bugger,” he groaned, tilting his head back, wincing as it lightly thudded against the wall.
“Ye daft eedjit.”
Peter closed his eyes, relaxing. Maybe he could just nap here while they waited for backup…Elias was here, he looked fine…well, except he’d been shot, too, he had a bloodstain on his arm…
“Carlisle, you ass, wake up.”
Peter forced his eyes open. “Aye,” he replied, groggy. He just wanted a nap. “Where’s Rose?” he murmured. Just a wee kip…
“Carlisle…Peter. Peter!”
~ - ~
“Tyler.” Rose was in the middle of reading a report, and answered the phone absent-mindedly as she processed the summary in front of her. How had the Ii’dlii wound up running a tobacconist’s in Dundee?
“Rose…”
Ruby’s voice jerked Rose away from the paper, and sent a sick wave of heat through her. The tone of it…
“Is Elias ok?”
There was a weak laugh, then a sniffle. “Get down here, Rose. St. Thomas’. Quick. ‘s Peter.”
Rose threw the phone into the cradle, fighting the urge to retch into the dustbin next to her desk. She grabbed blindly for her coat and purse, jerked the door open hard enough that it slammed against the wall of her office and left a mark, and was at a full sprint by the time she reached the row of cubicles just past her office, practically flying past Jake as she raced for the lift.
She slammed the down button, cursing every second that passed; was aware of Jake arriving just after her in the lift lobby, his expression full of concern.
“Peter. Something’s happened to Peter,” she said shortly, willing the lift to appear. She could use one of the cars downstairs, one of the drivers would surely be there…assuming the lift ever came. It was taking hours.
“Mel? Yeah, need a car in the undercroft. NOW.” Jake was speaking into his mobile, his tone brooking no argument; he nodded, then closed the device with a snap. “I’m coming with you.”
The lift dinged, indicating the arrival of a car headed down.
She was in no mood to argue, simply stepped into the lift and let Jake follow. She punched at the button for the level where the cars were kept, then set to gnawing on her thumbnail.
Peter. Peter was hurt, and she didn’t know what was wrong. Ruby had been crying—crying. It couldn’t be good. It was, in fact, most likely very, very bad...
A fresh wave of nausea roiled through her and she leaned forward, resting her head against the cool metal of the wall.
He was alive. He had to be, or else Ruby wouldn’t have been so brusque, ordering her to get to the hospital.
“Pete…I’ve got to tell Pete I’m leaving…” she said, straightening suddenly. It was far easier to deal with tangibles, things she could control; Peter’s fate was, currently, out of her hands.
Peter…
The lift dinged, the doors opening to the first level of the undercroft. One of the cars pulled forward, and she blindly opened the rear door, climbing in. Jake followed her, his phone poised in his hand.
“Um…” Jake looked to Rose expectantly as the driver waited for direction.
“St. Thomas. A&E.”
The driver took one look at the woman in the rear seat, and reached for the emergency lights every Torchwood car was equipped with.
Traffic was appalling, even in an official vehicle, and they reached the hospital nearly a half-hour later. Rose was frantic by the time they arrived and didn’t wait for the car to stop before she threw open the door, racing for the entrance. The glass doors hissed apart; she walked through them then frantically scanned the room, looking for a familiar face.
“Rose.” Ruby had been sitting—or standing, she wasn’t sure—just to the side of the doors; Rose had overshot her in her haste to be in the waiting room.
“How is he? Where is he? What happened?” She was still scanning the room, looking for any clue as to what might have happened, or where her husband was.
Ruby reached down, taking her hand; Rose felt the blood drain out of her face as she noted Ruby’s eyes swimming with tears.
“He’s…he’s in surgery, Rose. He…he’s lost a lot of blood, love.”
Rose swallowed, straightening her back. “Where?”
Jake had joined them, and followed as Ruby led her through the corridors of the hospital, up several floors, out into a hushed area of white lino and dimmed lights. They walked down the hall, Rose painfully aware of the click of her heels against the floor; and then they were in a waiting area, full of comfortable chairs and table lamps. There was a telly on in the corner, pictures flitting across the screen mutely, and low tables held magazines enough for four times the amount of people the room could hold.
“’s where the surgeon’ll come out,” Ruby said, guiding Rose to sit. Jake settled on one side of her, while Ruby remained standing. “I…I just need to go see Eli…”
Rose had completely forgotten about Elias, and felt shame wash through her. “Ruby, I’m so sorry for not asking. How is he?” She looked up at her friend, and saw a small smile pass across her face.
“I think you’ve been a bit preoccupied, Rose. Eli’s fine. Fine enough, at any rate; they’ve been askin’ him questions, so he can’t be bad at all, can he?”
Rose gave Ruby a smile, squeezing her hand. “Thanks, Ruby.”
Ruby nodded, then left to find her husband.
She spent what felt like hours in the small waiting room, Jake—then Mickey, then Jackie and Pete—keeping her company while she waited. Peter’s DCI visited for a brief while; Pete shuffled everyone out of the room, closing the door behind him so the grey-haired man could tell her what had happened. The DCI was sombre, but not unkind, giving her the details as quickly and clearly as possible; Rose listened intently, still trying to process that this was all so real.
“That’s what we’ve been able to piece together, at any rate,” he concluded, watching Rose.
Peter had been shot. Someone had shot him, in cold blood; had shot at him, and tried to kill him and Elias. She felt a cold fury bubble within her, and forced it back down.
She nodded. “Thank you.”
The room filled with family and friends once more after the DCI left; Rose rested her head on Jake’s shoulder, allowing herself to doze as hushed voices spoke around her. She could hear them whispering, knew they were talking about her, but she didn’t care; and in her semi-lucid state, Rose dreamt of being back in Kendal with Peter.
After some indeterminate amount of time, she felt Jake lightly shake her. “Rose,” he whispered, his voice pulling her from her dreams.
She opened her eyes, straightened, and noted that the room had gone silent.
“Mrs. Carlisle?” The voice belonged to a man, middle-aged, very calm; as she turned to him, he moved towards her. “I’m Dr. Cornwall.” Rose took the proffered hand, giving it a shake as she stood. “We were able to remove the bullet lodged against his ribcage; there was no damage to the bone, which is remarkable, and were able to stop the bleeding and clean up the wounds from the other shot.”
“When can I see him?”
The surgeon hesitated—just a heartbeat, but enough for Rose to know things weren’t going to be simple. “It’s possible he may not wake up for some time. He hit his head, rather sharply, when he fell.”
Rose felt her knees wobble, and bit her lip. She was not going to collapse, not in front of her friends and family, and certainly not in public. “Will he be alright?”
“Patients do recover from injuries like that; but there was the complicating factor of the trauma to his body.”
“But will he be alright?” she asked, stubbornly.
“We’re keeping a close eye on him, and are making sure he gets the best care possible,” was the evasive response.
“Can I see him, please?” she whispered.
“As soon as he’s moved to his room, yes.” The surgeon gave her a sympathetic smile, then departed the room.
Rose sank into the chair, and cried.
~ - ~
She’d seen friends in hospital before; had seen them after being attacked by aliens or humans, had seen them recovering from grave injuries.
It still didn’t help her prepare for seeing her husband in intensive care.
Rose followed her mum into the room, her eyes immediately moving to the bed where her husband lay. The only light in the space was that around Peter, the white of the sheets almost glowing against the surrounding darkness, the stark relief only emphasizing everything that was wrong with the scene. Machines beeped and whirred around him, connected to wires and tubes leading from his body; his eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling rhythmically as the ventilator assisted him with breathing. The ventilator wasn’t strictly necessary, the nurse reassured her, but given his head and other injuries, the surgeon had deemed it far better to be safe.
Rose focused on the fact that Peter was there, that he was alive, that he would survive. She didn’t want to think about how the medical care in Pete’s world compared unfavourably to the one in which she’d grown up; didn’t want to consider that people survived gunshot wounds only to die from infection, or how this world still hadn’t seemed to suss out how to deal with head injuries. She’d never told Peter—couldn’t tell him—that the thing she most feared about her job, about her life, wasn’t dying: it was being badly injured and having to face a hospital in this world.
Rose stepped to the bed, fighting back the urge to weep as she looked at Peter. His skin was like porcelain, and she gently drifted a finger across his cheek to make sure he was, indeed, alive; to feel his warm skin against hers. Someone had taken care to smooth his hair—a reminder that he wasn’t well, because if he was his hair wouldn’t be nearly so neat—and she moved her hand to brush across the soft strands.
His eyelashes formed dark crescents against his cheeks; his freckles were particularly noticeable given the paleness of his skin. There was a shadow across his jaw; she remembered, oddly, that he’d chosen to forgo shaving that morning, preferring to snuggle with her an extra few minutes before meeting Elias for coffee.
She found a chair, pulled it up to the bed and settled in, taking his hand. It felt strange to hold it, to feel its warmth and not have him give her a gentle squeeze, and she wondered if he knew she was holding it at all. She was aware of her mum leaving her with Peter, and she turned her attention to taking an inventory of the rest of his injuries.
He was bare-chested, the white sheet of the bed neatly folded across his waist. It was easy to spot where he’d been shot: two large wads of dressing were taped loosely to his chest, one just to the left of and below his left nipple, the other one higher on his right-hand side.
She wrinkled her nose as she realized they’d shaved his chest; he’d not like that when he woke up, and would most likely complain unendingly about it itching as the hair grew back. She looked forward to hearing those complaints; it would mean he was awake, and himself, and she wished he would wake up already so she could see his brown eyes.
“Rose.”
Rose turned, finding Ruby standing in the doorway, a cup of steaming liquid in her hand. The other woman walked quietly over, setting the cup on the small table next to the bed, then gave a heavy sigh. “He looks odd, so quiet.”
“Yeah,” Rose agreed, turning to look back to her husband. “How’s Elias?”
“As well as can be expected. Feels guilty.”
“I’m sure he shouldn’t.” Rose glanced back to Ruby.
“Still does. Says his arm hurts like a beggar, too.” Elias had been shot as well, the bullet passing through his upper arm, missing bone and the major blood vessels. “But most of all, he wants out of here, and wants to find the bloke as did this.”
“Tell him there’s a queue,” Rose muttered.
Ruby glanced around, looking for and finding another chair. She carried it over to where Rose sat, and settled in next to her friend, prepared to join her in the vigil over Peter Carlisle.
~ - ~