Peter leaned forward, resting his elbows on his (usual) desk, closing his eyes as he rubbed his temples. It had been a week since he’d had dinner with Elias and Ruby; a week in which the feeling of elation he’d felt at helping to solve a case—no matter how marginally—and the relaxation he’d felt during and following the dinner had been completely erased. A week in which he’d been swallowed back into the rote and routine of life as a DI with the North Lakes Constabulary; he’d been welcomed back with a sneer and a disparaging remark or five from his DCI, a tepid reception from his partner and a soggy case involving a body found in the weir. Making things worse, it had been a week quite literally without sunshine: since his return on Saturday, it hadn’t stopped raining. The Kent was precariously close to flooding its banks behind the station.

At least the case had been easily solved—the body belonged to a missing teen from a neighbouring town, and with a bit of digging they’d been able to determine that the youth had topped himself whilst trying to frame the lad who’d stolen his girlfriend. It wasn’t the most uplifting of cases, but at least it had been relatively simple, and all he had to do was sign the report sitting under his left elbow and the case would officially be closed.

He continued rubbing his temples, wondering exactly what vitriol had been poured into Penny’s ear in his absence. It had felt like a return to when they’d first started working together, Penny avoiding him when possible, staying silent when forced to be in Peter’s presence. Penny had finally relaxed, had seemed to warm back up to him, by the time they’d worked out the particulars of what had happened to the deceased, but he had the sinking feeling whatever tentative friendship they’d built might be teetering on the brink of vanishing.

Why did he care, though? He’d spent years working without a friendly partner; had spent the time throwing himself into cases, channelling all of his energy into bringing the bad guys to justice, giving a damn because no one else would. Had working with Elias really ruined him for that?

It wasn’t like Penny was a bad sort—he was young, and eager, and in many respects reminded Peter of himself when he’d first come to Kendal. If he were honest with himself—if he allowed himself to think on what Rose had drawn out of him on the phone the night before—he’d admit that he was hurt by how easily Penny had seemed to turn on him in his absence.

“Inspector?” Penny’s voice drifted across their joined desks.

“Yeah, Penny.” Peter raised his head, blinking his eyes open.

“Are you...alright, sir?” Penny tilted his head slightly, peering at Peter.

Peter stifled a sigh, fighting the urge to offer up a sarcastic retort. “I’m fine, Penny. A bit knackered.” He sat up straight, ruffling his hair. “How’s Anna?”

Penny blinked, clearly surprised. “She’s well.”

“In full wedding mode, I’m sure.” He’d been able to do this with Elias—be friendly, and sociable; he surely could do it with his normal partner.

Penny’s surprise deepened. “She is. Her mum’s involved, now.”

“Ah, yes. I have fond memories of my mother-in-law ‘helping’ with the wedding.”

Penny’s jaw actually dropped. “You’re...married? You were married?”

“Thought you’d know that—most here do,” Peter offered, wondering what on earth had possessed him to offer that particular insight. “It didn’t take—I’m sure you and Anna will have a much better go of it.”

Penny continued to look at him as though he were an exotic creature.

“Penny. Contrary to all reports, I am a human being.”

Penny shook his head. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Stop ‘sir’-ing me—it’s ridiculous. ‘Peter’. Or ‘Carlisle’. ‘Bastard’ has been known to work, as well.”

The gobsmacked expression remained on Penington’s face; so much for assuming humour would bring the DC back to himself.

Peter shook his head with a sigh. He glanced down, grabbing a Biro and scrawling his name on the bottom of the report. “There’s that done, then.” He stood, taking the pile of paperwork in hand. “You’re all set on your end?”

Penington scrambled for the paperwork on his desk, gathering it into an untidy pile and handing it up to Peter. “Yeah.”

Peter juggled the two piles, putting them into some sort of order while Penny remained seated, continuing to stare at him. “Right. I’m going to turn these in. And then I’m going home, where I plan to spend a weekend with Rose. You’ll be all right?”

Penny nodded.

“Good. Give Anna my regards.”

Peter turned, striding across the room, through the doors to the hallway. He deposited the reports in the appropriate box, his mind already racing ahead to the weekend.

In addition to being a good listener the night before, Rose had also let him know that she was finished with her case, and that she finally had a bit of time off. He glanced at his watch, curious as to whether she was already in Kendal. She had a key to his house—he’d given it to her the same weekend he’d told her he loved her—and had surprised him more than once by letting herself in after arriving early to Kendal.

He dashed out into the rain, hoping he’d have Rose waiting for him when he arrived home.

~ - ~

Rose glanced at her watch before peering outside once more. It was pouring, the rain pounding against the windows of Peter’s house, reminding her of the night they’d first made love. The rain was unbelievable, driving in sheets against the house, and it occurred to her that the rain in the north appeared to be a very different creature than that she experienced in London.

She’d arrived early, hoping to have enough time to pack an overnight bag for Peter before he arrived home from the station. He’d sounded tired and frustrated the night before—a tenor that wasn’t unusual when he was talking about work, but which seemed to have taken on a new intensity since he’d returned from his trip to Glasgow. She once again counted herself lucky—working a job which might occasionally be frustrating, but which also challenged and rewarded her, and where she worked with colleagues she respected and liked.

She found Peter’s overnight bag tucked in the small cupboard at the top of the stairs, and slowly walked the short distance to Peter’s room. She paused in the doorway, allowing her eyes to roam across the room—taking in the unmade bed, the red duvet kicked to the foot of the bed; the laundry hamper with clothing dangling haphazardly out of it; and, always, the small pile of books on the bedside table. It was so very Peter, the space, and she couldn’t help the smile that crossed her lips as she took it in.

She crossed to the wardrobe, opening the now-familiar wood doors, taking a deep breath as the doors parted—the faint scent of fresh laundry and cedar greeted her, a smell that always made her think of Peter and making love and the feeling he brought out in her. She closed her eyes briefly, allowing the scent to wash over her, before opening her eyes and setting about choosing a few outfits. She took care to make sure she packed spare vests and pants, although she hoped Peter would be out of his clothes for most of the weekend, and briefly ducked into the en suite to gather the things for his toilet kit. He’d not bothered to unpack the small bag since his return; the shaving kit she’d given him was packed snugly in the black leather case, and she drifted her fingers over it before returning to the bedroom.

The rain had let up by the time she returned below stairs with a fully packed weekend bag, and she ran out to her car to hide the bag before Peter got home.

She had enough time to change into a dry set of clothes, and had just settled into the sofa to try to read one of the many historical tomes housed on Peter’s bookshelves, when Peter returned home. She saw movement through the window just before she heard the sound of the key in the lock; as it always did when Peter was near, her heart began to pound furiously, anticipation flooding through her.

“Rose?” Peter’s voice was tentative, and was followed by the sound of the door closing.

“In here,” she replied, folding the book closed over her finger.

Peter appeared in the doorway, shrugging off his coat; he clutched the garment in his hands rather than moving to hang it up, and Rose noted his hold was so tight, his knuckles were white. He looked terrible; haggard, exhausted, desperately in need of a shave. She was up and off of the sofa in the blink of an eye, moving to hug him, to simply let him collapse against her.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered against her shoulder, his arms holding her to him like his life depended on it; she could feel the fabric of his coat brush against the backs of her legs as his arms came around her back.

She turned, brushing a kiss over his damp hair, her hands stroking his back. “I love you, you know that?” she whispered into his hair, not knowing what was wrong but knowing he needed the comfort of hearing her say the words.

His arms tightened around her, making the embrace almost painful, and she felt fear lance through her. What had happened while she’d been gone?

She held him, breathing shallowly, brushing soft kisses over his hair in between gently running her fingers through his hair, the sound of the rain on the windows the only noise in the house.

Peter eventually relaxed his hold on her, placing a chaste kiss on her lips before taking a step back.

“Hello,” he said, running his hand along the back of his head, ruffling his hair.

“Hello,” Rose replied, stepping forward so she could cup his jaw. “You alright?”

He sighed, his dark eyes looking over her shoulder. “Yeah.”

Rose guided him to meet her gaze before she repeated the question. This time held her gaze as he replied, “Better, now you’re here.”

“Good.” She rocked forward, leaning up to kiss him. She heard the soft thump of his coat hitting the floor before his hands moved to rest on her waist, and he leaned down into her, returning the kiss.

She broke it, meeting his gaze once more as he blinked his eyes open. “Are you free for the weekend?”

A small smile graced his lips. “Yes.”

Rose smiled in return. “Good.” She brushed a quick kiss over his lips before continuing, “Are you up for going out?”

Peter sighed heavily, his hand once more returning to his hair to ruffle it. “I could be, if you really want to.”

Any other night, Rose would have suggested they stay in, that they order take away and have an indoor picnic in front of the small fire place. She’d made plans, however, and needed to convince Peter it was a good idea to get out of the house.

She turned, glancing out the front window. The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle.

“It’s letting up, and, well...I’d hoped we could go out. Maybe celebrate finishing our cases, yeah?”

She fought down a wince; she was trying too hard to be casual. She didn’t miss Peter’s gaze narrowing as he really looked at her; he’d felt that something was off, and she held her breath as she waited for him to ask a following question.

“You want to go out?” he finally asked, taking a step back.

“Yes.” Rose held his gaze, working to keep her expression neutrally hopeful. She tried desperately not to fidget as Peter continued to look at her, and she almost breathed a visible sigh of relief when Peter slowly nodded his assent.

“I just need to change. And shave.”

“No,” Rose replied, quickly.

“I don’t need to change?” Peter replied, humour lurking in his voice. He glanced down at his clearly soaked clothes before raising his eyes to hers.

“No…I mean, you don’t need to shave.” Rose swallowed, before adding softly, “Please.”

Peter’s dark brown eyes sparked, and Rose felt a flash of heat wash through her. “Are you saying you like me scruffy?” His voice was low, his eyes boring into her.

“Yes,” she whispered, feeling pinned by the gaze.

She was rewarded with a slow smile; the same smile he’d used to seduce her several times, now. The smile that, on any other night, would have had her ripping his clothes off of him.

He seemed surprised when she didn’t do just that, and took a step back. “Right. Changed. I’ll just...be right back.” He turned, walking to the doorway, before pausing. “Do I need to wear anything special for what you have in mind?” He had a devilish look when he turned back to her, awaiting her response.

“I’ll love you in anything—but nothing fancy. Just something...comfortable.” She smiled at Peter.

“Comfortable,” he replied dubiously, before moving to go upstairs.

Rose settled back into the sofa, trying to read as she listened to the sounds of Peter moving around above stairs. She wanted to go up there, to help him change, to comfort him immediately; instead, she forced herself to wait, to make sure they stayed on some sort of schedule for the night. She glanced at her watch, making a quick phone call to finalize arrangements, before returning her attention to the book she’d tossed aside.

Peter rejoined her below stairs twenty minutes later, his hair damp still and combed back, wearing trousers, a shirt, and a deep green jumper. In accordance with her wishes he’d not shaved, and she rewarded him with a kiss as she joined him in the doorway of the parlour.

“I meet with your approval, then?”

“Most assuredly.”

Her confident statement was rewarded with a lingering kiss, and she sighed happily against Peter.

He pulled back, humour evident in his eyes. “Well, then, shall we go out?”

She smiled happily at him, relieved that he seemed to have shed some of the weight that he’d borne when he walked in. “Let’s.”

She took his hand, leading him to the door; she noted he arched an eyebrow as she collected her keys from the small table next to the door, but refrained from comment.

The drizzle had stopped, although it was excessively wet, and they made it to her car without getting soaked through. Peter remained silent as he buckled into the passenger seat, pursing his lips as she started the motor and pulled out onto the street; his dimple was very much in evidence, and she braced herself as he took a breath to speak.

“Are ye going to tell me what the cloak-and-dagger is for before we get there?” he asked, his tone laced with wry humour. She turned to him, surprised, and was rewarded with an out-and-out laugh. “Rose, honestly. My toilet kit was gone, I couldn’t find the jumper I’d wanted...”

Rose felt her stomach drop—she’d so wanted to properly surprise him.

He continued, “I’m happy to go wherever you like, you know.”

“I just...I wanted to surprise you,” she offered, pausing at an intersection. She glanced over at Peter, noting his expression had softened.

“Thank you.”

She gave him a smile before returning her attention to the road in front of them. They had a drive of at least an hour—maybe more, if the weather didn’t hold—and she wanted to get to the small B&B before it grew full dark. Dinner would be waiting for them when they got there.

Peter took her hand once they were on the motorway, headed south at a steady speed; she’d not mastered his skill for holding her hand while he shifted. She glanced over at him, feeling herself flush as she noted the warmth in the gaze he was giving her, and she hastily returned her attention to the road in front of them.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re off to?” His voice was low and laced with amusement.

“No,” she replied, peevishly.

He squeezed her hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss. “Fair enough.”

She relented. “You’ve already worked out that we’re going away for the weekend—I have to leave something for a surprise.”

She felt him laugh against her knuckles, and squeezed his hand.

They chatted about small things on the drive, Peter asking after Mickey and Jake and James; inquiring after her parents and her brother. He seemed almost desperate to avoid discussing work altogether, and she once again felt a flash of apprehension: what had happened to him?

The B&B was a small place, recommended by Frank the day before. He seemed to know of places all over the country, and had been happy to help her arrange a getaway; even better, he knew the proprietor of this particular establishment, and was able to get them booked in on short notice the night before.

Upon their arrival, they were greeted warmly by the two gentlemen who owned the small house. There was no doubt they recognized her—and Peter—but both men were perfectly polite, being courteous without fawning. Johan—the man whom Rose had spoken to in her phone calls to the house—instructed them to leave their bags; he promised to have their room ready by the time they returned from supper. Todd, his partner, then led them around the corner to a small restaurant; supper, as promised, was ready for them at a table in the corner of the dining room.

Rose felt herself relax fully during dinner, enjoying being with Peter, savouring the simple and delicious fare. Peter, too, seemed to relax, his eyes dancing in the warm candlelight, his hair sticking up in every direction like a little boy’s. His smile made more and more appearances, and Rose was delighted when she finally got him to laugh towards the end of the meal.

They returned to the B&B to find Johan and Todd were as good as their word, and four hours after they’d left Kendal, Rose found herself standing in a small, snug room at the top of the B&B. It was full of windows, and would no doubt be heavenly on a sunny day—but after dark on a rainy night, with soft lamplight brightening the space, it was simply cosy.

Peter turned the lock in the door before turning to her; she felt her heart flutter at his gaze. He continued to look at her as he slowly crossed the room, as he brought his hand to cradle her cheek; she thought her heart might burst from the strength of feeling she had for the man in front of her.

“Thank you,” he whispered, leaning down to brush a kiss across her cheek.

“You’re more than welcome.” She placed her hands on his chest, gazing steadily at him. She could feel his heart beating wildly through the wool of his jumper, and she felt herself relax. Peter was just as affected as she was.

“We’re here all weekend?”

“We are.”

He brought his arms around her, pulling her to him for a hug; she slid her arms around his waist, lightly clasping her hands behind his back. The rain had begun again, the drops hitting the windows irregularly.

“I’ll be happy, I think, to never see a drop of rain again.” Peter observed eventually, pulling back and moving to the windows.

“Has it been like this all day?”

“All week.”

Rose grimaced. It had been cloudy in London, but nothing more. Exhaustion washed through her and she moved to her bag, set next to Peter’s on the bench next to the dresser.

She dug through the bag, looking for her sleeping clothes; she paused as she felt Peter stand behind her, his hands resting at her waist. She straightened, her eyes fluttering shut as he leaned forward, his breath warm against the curve of her neck. “I don’t think...” he brushed a kiss across her skin, “I told you I loved you.”

“I don’t think you did,” she whispered, her breath catching as he kissed just below her ear.

“I love you, Rose.” The words were whispered against her ear, were followed by the brush of Peter’s lips against her ear lobe. She felt her body react, and tilted her head back against Peter’s shoulder. He continued, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you while you were gone.” He kissed the corner of her jaw, adding, “Wishing you were with me.” He drifted his nose along her jaw before kissing his way down the side of her neck. “Wanting to wake up next to you.” He slid his hands up, pushing the collar of her blouse aside, kissing the freshly exposed skin. “Wanting to make love to you.”

She tried to turn, but was held in place by Peter’s one-armed embrace. She squirmed, impatient and frustrated—she wanted to kiss him, wanted to run her hands over his back, through his hair.

“I wanted to know I could talk to you whenever I wanted.” He began to kiss his way back up her neck, his hold on her relaxing fractionally. “To hear your voice every day.” He pulled her earlobe into his mouth, sucking lightly on the soft skin, and Rose felt her knees give fractionally.

It had been over a month since she had seen him; when had a month grown to be such a very long time?

“Peter,” she whispered, her throat tight. He moved his lips to her jaw, placing a single kiss against the skin there before straightening.

His hold on her relaxed and she turned, eager to kiss him. His gaze was serious, his eyes black in the light, his skin incredibly pale. She was reminded of how haggard he’d looked earlier that afternoon, and brought her hand up to cup his jaw.

“What happened, Peter?” She raised her eyes to his, torn between wanting him to continue to seduce her, and wanting to know what had happened to him.

He leaned in, his lips pressing against hers, his tongue sliding between her lips. His hands drifted up her ribs, over her shoulders; he buried them in her hair, holding her in place as he kissed her. He backed her against the dresser, pressing his hips into hers, pinning her so she could only be passive as he ruthlessly kissed her.

He finally broke the kiss, gasping for air; Rose blinked her eyes open, breathless and slightly dazed. Peter couldn’t quite meet her eye as she looked at him, though, and she came to a decision.

Being seduced could wait. She had to know what was wrong with the man in front of her. “Peter. What happened while I was away?” Her hand, which had fallen to her side as Peter kissed her, returned to cup his jaw.

He closed his eyes, sighing as her thumb brushed across his cheek. “I...” He closed his mouth, his jaw clenching, as he wrestled with whatever was wrong. She remained silent, her fingers gently brushing along his jaw in a soothing motion.

He finally swallowed, opening his eyes and holding her gaze. He took a deep breath, before saying softly, “Glasgow.”

~ - ~

Peter wouldn’t say another word on the subject until they were in bed. Rose was nearly spare from trying to get him to say more, but it wasn’t until she was snuggled against him that Peter started to talk. They lay together in the darkness, Peter on his back, Rose curled into him, her head resting on his shoulder and her hand on his chest. She could almost feel the moment he decided to continue the story, and she tilted her head back to look at him as he took a deep breath and told her about his three weeks in Glasgow.

The case was the least of it, from what she could tell, although there was plenty there that would have bothered Peter on its own. He sounded so down, so certain that he was terrible at his job; she wondered, briefly, if he was suffering depression. She felt him tense as he discussed Martin, felt him relax as he told her that his brother appeared to have truly cleaned up; she didn’t miss the note of hope in his voice as he talked about his final visit with Martin the Friday before, how Martin had ended the visit by inviting Peter to Glasgow for supper at the end of the month.

She fought the urge to tense when Peter spoke of Annie, of how good it had been to have lunch with her, of how she’d helped him to think clearly in the midst of the case. Rose still hadn’t met the older woman, but certainly knew of her, having learned of Peter’s flame from Uni shortly after she learned about Loreen. She knew she should be happy he had someone like that in his life, yet she couldn’t help the feeling of jealousy that flooded through her whenever Peter spoke (invariably warmly) of his former flame.

And her blood ran cold when Peter, stutteringly, told her about his experience in the drug house.

He remained staring at the ceiling, reciting the facts of the story like he was reading someone else’s case report; she felt the tension coil in her as he told her what had been rigged within the house, what was contained in the cylinders taped to the door. He left unsaid what would have happened had they gone through those doors; he didn’t need to, Rose’s experience and imagination filling in the blanks.

She bit her lip, desperate to keep from berating him for his stupidity as he finished telling her the story. She tasted blood, and forced herself to take a deep breath, to focus on anything other than how very close she had come to losing him.

The room fell into silence, the rain continuing to pound against the windows.

“You’re upset with me, aren’t you.” It was a statement, not a question as Peter’s tentative voice broke the tense silence.

“Yes.” She was—furious with him for the stupid risk, upset that he’d waited to tell her, and—more than anything else—terrified that he might do something like it again, and not be so lucky.

The room fell once more into silence for several moments.

“What were you thinking?” she finally asked, fighting to keep her voice neutral.

Peter tensed; he’d clearly been expecting her to say that. “I...I wasn’t.”

“I remember—so clearly—I remember you yelling at me for not following procedure. D’you remember? That day in the cellar?” Rose could hear the slight quaver to her voice.

“Yes.” Peter’s voice was so soft, she wouldn’t have heard it if she hadn’t been looking up at him.

“You hypocrite!” The words tore from her lips. “You bloody hypocrite, you did the exact same thing! The very thing you yelled at me for almost doing! And you could have died!”

“But I didn’t Rose. And I’ll not make that mistake again.” He leant forward, lightly kissing her forehead. He held her gaze as he lay back, adding sombrely, “I’m sorry.”

The sound of raindrops once again became the dominant noise in the tense room.

“I don’t want to lose you.” Rose’s voice was small when she broke the silence between them once more.

“You won’t.” Peter ran his hand up and down her arm, but kept his gaze firmly on the ceiling.

“You can’t make that promise.”

He sighed. “I can try.”

Rose felt fury boil through her—that he’d be so careless with his life, that he’d not even seemed to consider that the bad guys he was chasing might want him dead. “But you can’t. You’ll go off, and do your job, and one day maybe you won’t be so lucky. And you’ll walk into a trap, and this time it will work, and you bastard, for not thinking that someone might try to hurt you, for not thinking of your safety—” She’d pulled back from Peter, wrapping her arms around herself. Her voice shook with anger, and with fear, and she was almost relieved when Peter interrupted her.

“Rose.” He rolled onto his side, made sure to catch her eye. “I’m not going anywhere. Not if I can help it.”

“Promise me you won’t do it again.” It was an unfair request, she knew, but right then she couldn’t countenance the thought that Peter might throw himself into harm’s way again.

He pulled her to him, kissing her hair. “I’ll be more careful. I promise.”

“I can’t lose you,” she whispered against his chest. She couldn’t; she loved him too much, and was terrified that the world would fall apart again if he wasn’t there.

He rolled onto his back, pulling her with him, holding her in his embrace. “We’ll try to keep that from happening.”

Peter rubbed his hand along her back, brushing soft kisses into her hair, whispering to her—telling her he was alright, that he wouldn’t leave her—and she finally felt herself relax against him.

He whispered reassurances to her, and as she drifted off to sleep it occurred to her that he was trying to reassure himself as much as her.

~ - ~

Chapter 16