jlrpuck | A Scar Thing

Title: A Scar Thing (1/1)
Rating: K
Disclaimer: Characters from Blackpool and Doctor Who are the property of BBC, are are used with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Notes: Not part of the timestamp series, I’m afraid. It’s a short little thing, and has been written for months—but I was waiting for the right time to post it. So many folks asked about Louise, though, that I thought today would be as good a day as any to put it up.

Thank you, as always, for the lovely beta-ing by

chicklet73 and

earlgreytea68.

A Scar Thing

It was on the third morning of Rose’s first proper stay with him—their naked bodies pressed together in the morning light, the deep red of the duvet just visible at the edge of his vision as he looked at Rose—that she asked him about his scar.

Not his appendectomy scar, which was really what he’d expected her to ask about first. The scar on his chin.

“How’d you get this, then?” Rose’s voice was playful, her finger gently tracing over the small line on his jaw, on the left side of his chin. She watched her finger as she asked the question, but raised her eyes to his in the following silence.

He blushed, causing her smile to widen.

“Is there a deliciously embarrassing tale behind this little white line?”

He ducked his head, his lips brushing a kiss over Rose’s finger, before reaching up to capture and hold her hand. “No. Well, yes, I suppose. It’s just a bit…mundane, really.”

Her tongue was now resting between her teeth, the tip just visible at the corner of her smile, and he let out a sigh.

He couldn’t resist her—not when she was so teasing. He leaned forward trying to kiss her; she ducked back, her hands on his chest. “You’re trying to avoid the question!”

“I’m trying to snog you senseless, then answer the question,” he growled.

She leaned up into him, giving him a solid, though all-too-brief, kiss. “There you are,” she smiled, pulling back to look at him. Her eyes flickered down to his jaw line; she leaned up, planting a quick kiss on the scar, then settled back expectantly.

“Oh, very well.” Rose grinned, and he gave her a mock stern glare. “No gloating, if you want to hear the tale, Miss Tyler.”

Rose schooled her features into seriousness, although her eyes still sparkled. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Inspector.”

“I did not get this fine little mark doing something ineffably stupid,” he said sternly, fighting back a smile.

“I would never have thought you did.” Rose nodded solemnly, her lips quivering.

“I did, however, get it whilst working.”

Rose’s eyebrows twitched, and he noted the corners of her mouth turning down. He’d not even told her the story, and she was already trying not to laugh at him.

“When I was a young and foolish lad of twenty-five—”

“Oi!”

“When I was a sage old man of twenty-five, then--” He glanced at her, to make sure he’d atoned for slighting her age. She smiled, and he continued, “I was in the heady first days of being a Detective Constable. I was an eager thing, keen to go investigate whatever might come our way via the then-DCI’s kind hand; my mentor, a fine old DI from the Dales, was a bit…less enthusiastic, shall we say.”

He smiled, remembering his first true friend in the service; he’d retired just before Peter’s marriage with Loreen had blown up, moving to Canada of all places and leaving Peter alone in Kendal.

His smile faded, and he felt Rose’s hand gently stroke his jaw. “And?” she gently prompted.

He snuck a kiss across her fingertips, and continued. “Well, one lovely spring day—which was to say it was miserable and raining down buckets—the DCI shouted out for a detective to go investigate a report of someone’s show dog being dognapped.”

Rose’s lips twitched again; she wasn’t able to hide her smile. “Dognapped? ‘s that honestly a term you use in the police service?”

“It was hardly kidnapped, Rose; why not dognapped?” He was smiling, fighting a losing battle to lend any gravitas to the tale.

“Carry on, then.”

“As I was saying, someone’s dog had been dognapped—up off Captain French Lane.” He waited for her to nod, understanding the nature of the street he was describing. Rose simply looked interested, and he clarified, “The narrow cobbled street—the steep, narrow, cobbled street, that is—that comes out just by the Spanish restaurant?”

“Oh!” Rose nodded, now picturing the setting. “Don’t tell me you—”

“Shh. You want the story, you’ll have to wait for the end.” He winked, and continued, “So George is wisely staying indoors, having a cuppa as he interviews the owner of the blasted dog; I’ve seen far too many shows on the telly and am actually outside in the back garden, searching for a clue.” Rose snorted, and he rolled his eyes. “I was looking for any evidence indicating what might have happened, Rose.”

“Right.” Rose’s voice was full of laughter.

He gave her a steady stare—as steady as he could, given their relative positions—and waited for her fit of mirth to pass before he continued. “George left me out there for what had to have been hours, allowing me to look over every bloody square inch of the place, checking the lanes, wandering Garth Heads and back, trudging through gardens; it was bloody miserable. It took days to warm up, after.”

“Poor Peter,” Rose said, her voice full of pity, her eyes full of laughter.

“So, finally, I make my way back to the house; I’ve found nothing, I’m cold, I want some bloody tea, and I’ve called George every name I can think of in two languages. And who bloody well meets me at the door, but the blasted dog! The thing was enormous—a mastiff, I think, and as friendly a creature as you’re like to meet; its form of greeting, at least for soggy DC’s, was to rear up on its hind legs, and desperately try to lick one’s face. Which is all well and good, except when there’s no traction between one’s shoes and the slate porch.”

“So…the steep, narrow cobbled lane had nothing to do with it?” Her eyes were twinkling as she asked the question.

He gave her a sly smile. “No, but the hard, slick slab of blasted rock did.”

Rose winced. “How’d you not crack your head open?”

“I overcompensated when I felt my balance go; the dog cushioned much of the fall, but I still smacked my chin. I’m lucky I didn’t break my teeth.” It had hurt like the dickens when he’d fallen, the hollow sound of his chin hitting the slate sounding like a gunshot. The dog had yelped, but been none the worse for wear—and after George had made sure Peter wasn’t hurt, the older man had laughed so hard he cried.

The dog’s owner hadn’t been nearly so amused.

Rose brushed her thumb across the scar. “Did you get yelled at for falling on the dog?”

“I got a right earful, yes. But I suppose things turned out alright; ‘twas Louise.”

Rose’s eyes rose to his. “Louise breeds show dogs?”

He laughed. “She did, once. She bought the café when she retired. Still has the bloody dog, though.”

Rose smiled. “And what of George?”

“Once he was done laughing, and the bleeding stopped, he gave me a friendly lesson in how best to go about finding a missing pet: find out its favourite haunts from the owner, then get a bit of its favourite treat and go looking.”

“But you said the dog was dognapped…”

“Louise is a wonder at working the system; she knew we’d not help her find it if she reported it missing; George knew Louise well enough to know that. He found the dog once I’d wandered away from her house.”

“And he left you in the rain.”

“And he left me in the rain.” He grinned.

“Where’s George now?”

“Somewhere in Canada, no doubt tormenting his local constabulary. I’ve not spoken with him in years.” Perhaps he would; it had been too long, he thought, since he’d written to his old friend.

Rose leaned up and kissed his scar. “Just as you’re tormenting your DC’s. It’s a nice cycle, don’t you think?”

He paused, considering her words. He’d always cast himself as an outsider, always thought himself removed from a system of which he was actually a vital part. Much of that, he was sure, was down to the currentDCI—was because of the repeated dressings-down, and the lack of praise. But the truth of it was, he was as much a part of the force in Kendal, and of the town itself, as old George had ever been. And, like George, he had trained several DC’s in his time as DI, several of whom were now DI’s elsewhere, and were training new DC’s themselves.

Maybe he was part of a cycle, after all. And maybe—just maybe—he was doing it right.

Rose was watching him, her eyes warm; as he met her gaze, she smiled, awaiting his answer.

Peter leaned forward, gently kissing her. “I think so, yes,” he murmured, smiling against her lips.

~ fin ~

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Date: 2009-01-29 10:39 am (UTC)

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