DavidTennantsTrainers

An Officer and the Noble Woman, Chapter 54

2018-08-19T19:14:48Z

I'm back- still posting to AO3 first because apparently my posts are TOO LARGE, but I'm linking it here, since this is where the madness started. I miss the old community. The number of chapters don't match, but believe ve me, this is the next part. You haven't missed anything if you've read up to the previous chapter.

An Officer and the Noble Woman, next part

An Officer and the Noble Woman, Properly Chapter 53

2018-07-07T18:10:39Z

Yeah. I know. It’s been quite a while, and I’m posting this from my mobile, so forgive any formatting errors until I can get back to my laptop to correct them.
Hope it was at least partially worth the excessive wait.
Thanks, as always, to serenityslady for the beta. Even with her help, some things I changed after she read the draft may have been problematic and all mistakes are my own.

11:07 A.M., Monday, August 6, 2012

Peter Carlisle was not a happy man.

He should be- Lord knows he wanted to be- and he could be, if he could only ignore recent events and just … walk away.

Let it go.

Forget.

Given Donna’s predicament, the irony of his situation was not lost upon him.

It had been a little over a week since the debacle at the Opening Ceremonies and a few curious glances were still spared his way after his twin stranger made the mad dash to the Olympic cauldron, grinning like a deranged idiot for the camera before slipping away into the night. He scowled openly when a junior member of the force passing through gawked at him, nearly colliding with a desk in the process. Peter intensified his glower, tracking the man as he made good his escape from where he brooded, slumped against a doorway as he waited for his partner, DS Ian Keating, to collect the documentation before their final meeting with the prosecution for the Morgan murder.

From where Peter stood, it was rather an open and shut affair: after a round or two with his mates, post football practice, Alun Morgan made the unfortunate decision to take a shortcut on the way home and witnessed a boy not much older than his students being menaced in a dark alley. Acting on instinct, Morgan went to the aid of Jack Bence and thus, met his untimely end at the hands of one Reginald Tippet, a mid-level drug dealer looking to expand his horizons by moving into London in time to take advantage of the Olympic crowds. Fingerprints and blood evidence placed Tippet definitively at the scene and Bence was more than willing to testify against him, corroborating the police case and the details of the fatal attack. Bence’s girlfriend was witness to Tippet’s apprehension and her statement as to the events of his arrest would no doubt be the final nail in Tippet’s coffin. Donna’s involvement in the entire event was minimal and Peter had made it his mission to see that it remained so.

He thought back to that night, nearly five months ago, when he first caught sight of Donna across the road. A lot had happened in five months, most of it, if you’d told him then, he’d never have believed. Peter inhaled deeply as he scratched at the back of his neck, musing on the vagaries of fate, both fortunate and unfortunate. Because he had been in the right place at the right time, investigating a life cruelly ended too soon, his own lease on life had been renewed. Because Donna had been searching for clues to fill in the gaping holes in her memory and due to his lucky resemblance to the elusive Doctor John Smith, thanks to spatial genetic multiplicity - he’d looked up the technical term after Donna had dropped it on him, mid-rant during their most-recent spat - she had reacted violently enough when she’d glimpsed him at the murder scene to draw his attention. Because he’d been tied up in the investigation, he’d lost her in the crowd, but through dumb luck and his own stubborn persistence in tracking down leads in the Morgan murder, he’d been fortunate enough to cross paths with Donna Noble again at the George. Circumstances being what they were now, he’d be forever grateful.

When a uniformed officer came around the corner and paused, throwing Peter a discreetly-startled double-take before recovering himself and going about his business, Peter rolled his eyes with a heavy sigh. He scrubbed his hands down his face before rubbing experimentally at the stubble on his jaw, idly wondering how Donna would react if he decided to grow a beard. He had just about made up his mind to do so when he finally came to the conclusion that all the stramash he’d endured over the continuing case of mistaken identity had been well worth the bother, since he’d learned something new, something he hadn’t known before his sub rosa interview with DCI Reith and more of the puzzle pieces from Donna’s lost past were within his grasp. In point of fact, those missing pieces were sitting a few meters away, invested in the person of DS Manfred Cave.

Peter was rather disgusted with himself for not figuring it out sooner. In his arrogance, Peter had chalked up Cave’s obvious interest in Donna as a bit of subtle digging into his own, admittedly checkered past, or perhaps the man was just indulging in a general fondness for gingers. Now he recognized that the man’s inquisitiveness was much more personal in nature. Cave had history with both Torchwood and the Phantom, going back who knew how long. He had been involved in the H.C. Clements’ investigation and he had been personally in charge of the investigation of Bennett’s disappearance. He must have known of Donna’s connection to the case. Hell, for all Peter knew, Cave had personally questioned Donna about her fiancé’s whereabouts but she didn't remember, and it was that realization that made him decide. Peter hunched his shoulders and collected his courage, breathing deeply as he prepared himself for what was to come.

He’d lost count of the number of times he’d resolved to end this particular private investigation, but each time, some new information came to light and his sense of duty demanded he continue the pursuit of the facts surrounding Donna’s stolen past. He remembered words flung his way in frustration across a deserted parking garage, one stereotypically dark and stormy night: “If she still had her memories, you wouldn’t have her in your arms,” and his jaw clenched involuntarily as he gritted his teeth in frustration. But surely that was no longer true.

He knew he’d promised Donna that he was done. He knew she was happy, here and now, with him, and that she was no longer searching crowds for unknown faces. He knew she’d found peace with him and he knew that he’d never been happier in his life than he was with her. He knew he should stop, but he also realized that this investigation had moved so very far from a simple inquiry into his lover’s missing time. As he prepared to cross the distance to where Cave sat, he half-wondered if he should seek help for addiction.

The DS was arguing with his partner in that abrasive manner he’d perfected and as Peter started towards Cave’s desk, he registered again how canny the man was as he goaded his junior into stretching his thinking and considering all the evidence from multiple perspectives. The man had his detractors, to be sure, but no one would dare deny that DS Cave was dedicated to both his job and his pursuit of Truth.

“It’s all here, DI,” Ian said as he appeared, directly cutting across Peter’s intended path and plopping a fat folder on a corner of the desk before shrugging into an obviously new jacket. “I double-checked and all the documentation is here. We should get going, though, if we want to grab something to eat before the final deposition.” Ian scooped up the folder and nodded towards the door, expecting Peter to follow.

“Aye,” Peter responded as he stepped away from the doorway. “Give me just a moment, yeah?”

At the sound of his voice, Detective Manfred Cave glanced up and met his gaze openly, virtually expectantly. It was almost as if he’d anticipating the confrontation, as if he’d been waiting for Peter to make the first move, and Peter blinked in realization. He hesitated, observing Cave where he sat and he quickly evaluated what he saw- a tired man, wearing a slightly rumpled suit with thinning hair and a faint, perpetual scowl. The man couldn’t be more than fifteen years his senior, but somehow, he looked so much older. Peter glanced down and found no ring on Cave’s finger and no indication that one had ever been there and he couldn’t help but wonder if there had ever been someone, or if Cave had willingly sacrificed his future on the alter of his obsession with Torchwood and the Phantom. He looked- really, properly looked- into Cave’s careworn eyes and he realized that the man had seen things he wished he hadn’t, that he had secrets of his own, secrets that Peter decided right then that he didn’t want to know.

He turned back to his partner and Donna’s initial description of Ian floated back to him- tallish, a bit dour, standard-issue haircut but beautiful green eyes. It was those eyes that stopped him, that gave him pause. Ian looked years younger than when Peter had first been partnered with him, nearly a year ago. There was a spring in his step, a liveliness about him, as though Ian had been reborn, reinvigorated and Peter was almost envious.

It wasn’t hard to discern the reason for the change. Ian was happy, happier than Peter had ever seen him and his formerly taciturn partner had become positively chatty- chattier, at any rate, than Peter had ever known him to be. It was as if all the colors of the world had became a shade more vibrant for Ian and Peter looked between his partner and DS Cave.

He could prove that he had learned from his mistakes. He wasn’t going to dig too deeply and destroy his happiness again as he had in Blackpool. Some things, Peter decided, were better left where they lay. He took a deep breath and in that moment, his choice was secured.

Peter Carlisle decided to be happy.

He decided that the unconditional love of a beautiful woman he adored and the promise of a happy future filled with laughter and little ones was enough. He smiled to himself, seeing a shared life and the prospects growing old with someone he loved.

He decided to be grateful.

He let it go.

Manfred Cave was witness to Peter’s metamorphosis and as the DS shuttered his expression, Peter’s grudging admiration for the man increased. In any other situation, he would have admitted that DS Cave had earned his outright respect.

“Peter?” Ian said, moving closer in concern. “You OK?”

“Aye, I’m good,” Peter said, his smile broadening as he became aware of the fact that his statement was true. He stepped back into his office and emerged with his coat hanging from his arm. “Let’s go. Lunch is on me.”  

“What’s the occasion?” Ian teased as he grabbed the folders from the desk and followed his partner out the door.

“None,” Peter admitted, backing out the door and meeting DS Cave’s sanguine gaze. “I’m just happy to be putting closure to this case, once and for all.”

Happy Birthday, Anubischick

2018-05-30T10:42:25Z

I hope you’re doing well, anubischick and I miss your writings. Happy birthday!

An Officer and the Noble Woman, Prologue to Part 53

2016-11-23T13:39:18Z

An Officer and the Noble Woman, Prologue to Part 53

Author: dtstrainers

Paring: Donna Noble/Peter Carlisle

Rating: MDD for Moping Dope of a Doctor

Word Count: 754

Disclaimer: Donna and Peter- not mine, but in my mind

Yeah, I know, I know. But rather than let this languish for another week or so, I thought I'd at least present a teaser (or in light of the upcoming American Holiday, an appetizer, or more appropriately, an amuse-bouche to express my apprecation for your support as a reader) for the next chapter of my monster. I'll post the rest as soon as I can flesh it out from outline form.

August 7, 2012 9:48 PM

It's dark up here on the hill, which suits him. It's a good place for watching the skies as the stars slowly wheel about overhead. It's an even better place to sulk in the shadows, brooding on what might have been.

He's dismayed to find that he doesn’t need to follow her to know that she's all right - really all right, not Time Lord All Right - but that's actually no surprise. He's known for quite some time that Donna was more than capable of getting on with her life without him. If he's being honest with himself- which he rarely is- she never really needed him in the first place. She certainly doesn’t need him to watch out for her now, to steer her away from all those tiny little things that, in the past, might have triggered the Time Lord consciousness within her and honestly, that doesn't come as an unexpected revelation to him either. She was always a clever girl, his Donna, clever and stubborn, and he should have known that her brain would stealthily begin working to repair itself to its former glory the moment he left her mindscape. It will take her the rest of her life to complete the reconstruction, he knows, but slowly, agonizingly slowly, she is making herself better. None of these revelations surprise him in the slightest. What does come as a shock, however, is the stark realization that Donna Noble is happy.

No, it’s more than that. Simple happiness doesn't even begin to cover it. Closing his eyes, he can see her as clearly as if she were standing before him again and Donna Noble is glowing; she’s radiant, she’s incandescent. He’s only ever seen her this blissfully estatic once before, when she’d finally realized that he was saying yes, that she could come along with him, just for the ride. 'She'd been that happy with me,' he thinks, with a self righteous tweak of his bow tie, and rightly so. After all, in granting her access to his home, he had really gifted her with all of time and space. But the fact is that somewhere along the way, she had somehow managed to make herself truly at home in his hearts as well, without ever trying.

The Doctor purses his lips and drops his gaze to the ground, drawing complex Gallifreyan glyphs in the dust with the toe of his boot: loneliness, loss and love, daft, devoted and finally, her name, intertwined with his, just as it would have been if only he’d had the courage…

With a savage sweep of his foot, he obliterates those mocking, maudlin words, before flopping back into his chair. He sweeps his fringe back out of his face as he scoffs impatiently at his sentimentality. ‘After all’, he reminds himself, ‘just because I'm miserable is no reason to expect her to be as well.’ But his heart tortures him in remembrance.

She’d fought him every step of the way as he’d walked her neural pathways, burying all traces of their time together as he went until he’d stood before the highest walls at her centre. She was frenzied and frantic as he’d broken through, as he’d breached the core of her personality in his determination to save her and she was witness to his shock when he found himself hidden away in the last place he’d ever suspected, deep in her heart. In that final hour between heartbeats, she’d locked eyes with him and clearly read his dismay. He knew, at the very least, she'd felt his distress, and with her deepest secret revealed, Donna Noble had abruptly ceased her struggles and collapsed into his arms. He’d cradled her to his chest in a way he’d only dared to dream of when it might have been a possibility, but it was too late.

The Doctor wipes away a tear he has no right to shed. He can never explain his reaction to her now and, thanks to him, she didn’t remember misunderstanding his discomposure anyway. He settled back into the folding chair stood before the garden shed on Wilf’s hill and gazed once more at the stars. It was time, time to face the facts. His time was gone. His chance had passed. It was time to gracefully bow out, to let go, to move on, but before he does, he has one last thing to take care of on his second mini-farewell tour and so he waits here, alone, up the hill in the dark.

An Officer and the Noble Woman, Pt 52

2016-09-21T10:29:44Z

An Officer and the Noble Woman, Part 52
Author: dtstrainers
Paring: Donna Noble/Peter Carlisle
Rating: A for Anguish and Angst
Word Count: 2,338
Disclaimer: Donna and Peter- not mine, but in my mind.
Thanks, as always to the lovely serenityslady, for suggestions to break up my Writer's Block. And thanks to dm12 for the not-so-subtle nudge to get off my arse and post already. Oh, and the unfinished quote at the end is from The Tempest, if you're wondering.

August 5, 2012 6:48 AM

He still hates Sundays.

Boring day, Sunday. Nothing good ever happened on a Sunday, and as a result, he's more than a bit put out with his ship as she insists on steering him back to this one, particular Sunday, despite the heroic effort he expends in attempting to avoid it. Regardless of where he sets the coordinates, no matter how much he rages or pleads or cajoles, even when, in a remarkable fit of pique, he loses it and has a go at the console with that mallet - and damn him if even that little item doesn't make him think of her - it makes not one jot of difference. Wherever he tries to go, there he is.

And that's how he finds himself, on this sunny Sunday morning, sat on a park bench a hundred or so yards away from where the TARDIS has parked herself, amongst a copse of beech trees, near the sports centre on the far side of the Green, staring morosely at the second story window of her flat across the street. He crosses, then uncrosses, then recrosses his legs with an impatient swipe at his fringe before settling back, resigned to whatever the Old Girl is insistent that he witness.

She's been decidedly moody of late, his TARDIS, and he resolutely refuses to pinpoint the moment she began to misbehave as the night he'd forced her to unceremoniously dump the Captain on the darkened streets of Cardiff. The man had it coming, no two ways about it and there's absolutely no way in hell he regrets his actions and even less of a chance that he feels the need to make amends, not when Jack was so clearly in the wrong. He jerks at his bow tie impatiently for lack of a better way to hide his discomfort at the recollection of Jack’s parting words and he cautiously darts his eyes about until he’s nearly dizzy with looking for the man. He half-expects to see Jack boldly striding across the Green towards him, coat tails swirling dramatically behind, despite the lack of wind. Raising a hand to push his fringe out of his eyes once more, he’s mentally rehearsing what he’ll say when Jack finally does make his expected reappearance.

And that's when he sees her.

He knows he shouldn’t, but he can't quite help himself. Without conscious thought, he's rising and following, a moth snared in the tangle of flame-bright curls tumbling down her back as she heads off down the sidewalk at this, an hour of the morning he vividly recalls her pronouncing ungodly the one time he'd made the mistake of flinging her door wide to announce their arrival on the Planet of the Coffee Shops. He winces at the memory, his hand traveling unconsciously to his shoulder as he remembers the pummeling Donna delivered, despite his assurances that the world beyond the TARDIS doors really had been voted number one in the Top Ten Destinations for the Discerning Traveller.

He’s avoided that world ever since.

“You daft spaceman,” she’d snarled, leaping from her bed to smack him soundly once the initial shock of his intrusion had passed. “The next time you get it into your fool head to barge into my flippin’ room before the bloody dawn chorus, unannounced and uninvited, it had better be because you've finally managed to land us on the flippin’ Planet of the Boys!” She’d slammed the door in his face with more vigour than was strictly necessary, in his opinion, leaving him dumfounded, gaping on the wrong side of her threshold.

Since losing her, he's replayed that scene in his head, countless times. He’s fairly sure that he’s finally managed to catalogue the range of confused emotion that played out in her eyes that morning as she’d hustled him out her door and, not for the first time, he wonders what she'd have done if he'd simply turned back up at her door, dancing about in his pants. Probably just laugh, he thinks ruefully, despite the desire and disappointment he’d belatedly recognized in her expression and he wonders if That Man has ever—

He looks up, aghast as he realizes that, lost in rumination, he’s almost overtaken her. He stops just short of reaching out and taking her hand, shaking himself from his unhappy reverie and recalling himself to his purpose. Perception filter or no, he’s fairly certain that if a strange man appeared out of nowhere and had the bloody audacity to grab her hand, with or without a compelling reason to say ‘Run!', Donna Noble would have a thing or three to say about it. He stops dead, intending to let her get ahead of him once more, but she veers left suddenly and before he can catch her up, the door to the bakery swings shut behind her. He looks about in sudden consternation for another likely customer and realizes that he’s trapped outside, forced to press his ear up against the window if he wants to hear the sound of her voice.

“Morning, Donna. Your Sunday usual?" calls the woman behind the counter, looking up from where she settles the latest batch of croissants in the display case. “Chocolate, almond or both?” she adds with a tiny, knowing smirk.

“Mornin', Alice. Both, please, and a loaf of that dark, crusty bread?” Donna replies, approaching the counter. The two women make small talk as Alice fills her order, and the Doctor is forced to all but flatten himself against the shop window as he vainly attempts to make out their words.

When a voice declares, somewhat petulantly, “What on earth do you think you are doing?” from somewhere behind him, the Doctor jumps away from the shop front as if scalded. Whirling on his heel with his hands flung up defensively, he frowns as he finds a tiny English bulldog sat squarely in the middle of the sidewalk behind him, head cocked to the side, regarding him with frank, canine curiosity.

"Come along, Bernard!” the voice says again and the Doctor turns to follow Bernard's lead, up to find the source. "Whatever has gotten into you?” the elderly woman scolds even as she stoops to pet the dog fondly, and the Doctor's eyes widen in recognition. Though he knows he’s changed bodies since last they met, he’s relieved to realize that his perception filter must be working properly, as he’s positive if it failed, his bum would still be in danger of being on the receiving end of a proper grope from Minnie the Menace. He steps back against the shop window with a wry smile as Minnie scoops Bernard up, somehow cooing and cajoling simultaneously. “We’ve so much to do this morning and we don’t want to be late for brunch, do we, dear? We’re finally going to Chiswick House Cafe this week,” she murmurs, tucking the puppy under one arm and hurrying past the bakery in the direction of the flower shop off the High Street.

He’s watching her make her way down the street when the bakery door opens behind him once more and he spins about gracelessly, somehow ending up almost nose to nose with Donna Noble. He takes an awkward step back even as he flings one hand out to rescue the smaller of the two bags she’s balancing atop her box of pastries, gently nudging it back into place. He's glad of the distraction so he can pretend that he doesn’t hear Alice call out, “Give my love to Peter,” as Donna backs out of the shop.

“Of course I will. See you later,” Donna responds with a bright grin, and something inside him breaks.

This is the last time I'll ever follow her. This is the last time I’ll ever— , he tells himself, stopping before his mind can complete the statement. He tries to add more, but even in his thoughts, he isn’t quite ready to accept the inevitability of it all. He watches her, really studies her, trying to catalogue every detail, every nuance, every tiny little thing that distinguishes Donna Noble from the rest of the universe as she all but skips back to her flat. She's dressed in loose, light linen trousers and some sort of a soft, squared-off shirt or jacket type of thing that he recognizes as being fashionable, with just a hint of cream-coloured lace beneath the low-cut collar.

Her hair is tied back loosely, shining in the bright morning light as she climbs the stairs to her flat and without warning, he remembers the first time he realized how long and how much he'd wanted touch it. She’d been waiting for him to join her in the console room. He’d strode boldly aboard and turned to snap his fingers, pleased at the novelty when the TARDIS doors had obediently closed, but when he’d turned to her to share his delight, he was grinning at thin air. He'd swung around to find her trudging down the corridor that led to her room and he’d had to force himself to stay in place.

He’d wanted to rush after her, to take her in his arms and let her know that even though she’d lost the man of her dreams that day, there was still someone in this reality who loved her. But even he'd known it that it was too soon to tell her just how lost he'd felt when he saw her face on that damned library node. Donna needed time to grieve, time to bury her virtual dead and besides, he knew had time enough. He’d heard what she’d told Martha- she was never going to leave him. She was going to travel with him forever. He was sure he had all the time in the world to show her how he felt.

Where had all that time gone?

He looks up at the scrape of metal against metal as the garden gate latch disengages. Oh, this is what comes of all my lallygaging again…. it’s a sure sign I’m getting old, he thinks, rushing to to slip inside the courtyard gate behind her, just managing to miss the heavy door swinging shut on well-oiled hinges. He keeps to the far edge of the garden wall as Donna shifts her packages to one arm and presses her thumbprint to the pad beside the reinforced steel security entrance. She shoulders her way in, pausing momentarily as she glances at her garden with a smile, and he waits for the door to shut behind her before flinging his arm up and over his head, sonic in hand, to disable the security camera hidden in the brickwork overhead.

It’s only when he reaches for the doorknob that his situation becomes clear.

That was it. That was the last time I’ll ever see her, he realizes, and somehow, the finality of that simple awareness strikes him harder than any blow. He’s not ready for this to be over. He’s not ready to let her go.

He peeps in through the glass beside her door, cupping his hands around his eyes to shield them from the morning sun, just in time to see That Man —

No. No, I'm being childish, and at twelve hundred and thirty-seven, I should be ashamed of myself, he thinks, his cheeks burning as he straightens with a vicious swipe of his fringe. He adjusts his bow tie and prepares to stalk away when a faint giggle reaches his ear, stopping him cold.

He turns back hesitantly, hands poised before him in mid air, plucking nervously at nothing. He screws his eyes shut even as he approaches her door once more until his hands make contact with the glass and he reluctantly peers into the room beyond, just in time to see…

He takes a sharp breath, pivoting, and he finds himself leaning back against her door.

That Man — No.
Donna's lov— NO.

He shakes his head hard in negation as he struggles to suppress the stinging sensation building behind his eyes.

Detective Inspector… Peter Carlisle… Donna’s lover… emerged from the hallway, clad only in pajama bottoms slung low on his hips, hair mussed from sleep, rubbing at his eyes.

"I missed ye,” he hears Peter complain as that man suppresses a yawn. "Where'd ye go?”

“Just popped down to Maison Blanc,” Donna replies and, closing his eyes, the Doctor can see the smile he hears in her voice. “Alice sends her love," she adds with an audible smirk, and he can hear the crinkling of the small waxed paper bag he’d saved earlier.

“Alice’s love comes in the shape of Snowball cakes?” comes the incredulous response, tinged with amusement.

“Apparently so,” she laughs.

Oh, how I’ve missed that sound… The door he’d thought so solid must be made of washi paper to hear every word beyond it so clearly. He chances shifting around and squinting into the glass once more.

"I would've gone with ye if ye’d woken me,” Peter chides gently as he lays the bag aside on the kitchen island and embraces her.

“You were secure in the arms of Morpheus, if the snorin’ was anything to go by,” she retorts, winding her arms about his neck.

Peter’s eyes wander in the same directions as his hands and when he finds the lace at her neckline, he favors Donna with a sultry smile. He tugs at the drawstring around her waist and her trousers slip down her hips.

Doctor pulls away blushing furiously, but he still can’t bring himself to leave. Unconsciously, he prostrates himself against her door even as Peter presses her back against the other side. The Doctor lays his hands against the solid barrier separating him from his hearts’ desire and tortures himself, pressing his cheek to the steel to hear the sound of her voice one last time.

“I love you, Policeman,” she breathes, "more than anyone I've ever known," and the Doctor is certain both his hearts have cleaved in two.

"And I love ye. I would not wish any companion in the world but you,” Peter replies, but doesn't complete the quotation. The Doctor frowns and after a moment, he straightens abruptly and backs away, realizing there will be no more words forthcoming from the other side of their door any time soon.

And now he has another reason to hate Sundays.

I Nearly Spat my Tea Across My Screen

2016-07-26T10:40:03Z

I was getting ready for our next DW screening and a friend from the group was sending me pictures of the items he was providing as door prizes. We're showing Black Orchid and The Doctor's Daughter back-to-back in our first Double Doctor night and Spot the Connection. (Yeah, easy for us, I know, but remember- we're educating relative newbies in the rich traditions, inside jokes and behind-the-scenes back stories.)

And so he sends me this-
And I couldn't stop laughing.

An Officer and the Noble Woman, Pt 51

2016-07-21T10:54:31Z

An Officer and the Noble Woman, Part 51
Author: dtstrainers
Paring: Donna Noble/Peter Carlisle
Rating: PG for a bit of strong language and the Clash of Angry (Near) Immortals
Word Count: 3,218
Disclaimer: Donna and Peter- not mine, but in my mind.
Thanks much to the lovely serenityslady. As always, your comments are invaluable.
Author's Note: What the hell is wrong with you people that ANYONE is still here after 50 chapters?!?

Part 1 | Part 10 | Part 20.1 | Part 30 | Part 40 | Part 45 | Part 50

"You bastard,” Jack growled as he flung wide the TARDIS door with enough force to bounce it off the wall, the reverberations echoing around the strangely quiet control room. He winced internally, sending a silent apology to the Time/Space machine even as he strode over to where the Doctor sat primly on the jump seat. “You deceptive, manipulative, infuriating bastard!”

“Jack, how lovely to see you again,” said the Doctor, raising one nearly invisible eyebrow in time with his tightening smile. “Can I offer you some tea? A Jammy Dodger?” He raised a floral china plate with one hand and a delicate rice-patterned blue and white teacup with the other. He peered closely at the biscuit on the plate and chuckled. "Oooh, look, it’s all jammy inside, hence the appropriate moniker,” he enthused. "You really ought to have one, Captain.”

Jack merely glared at him in response, crossing his arms and planting his feet wide on the glass floor below.

“Did I never tell you about the time I defeated an invasion force of Daleks during the Blitz, holding them off with nothing more than sheer nerve, or moxie as the Americans of the period might have said, sheer moxie and a Jammy Dodger? No?” the Doctor wittered on, still holding out the plate and taking another biscuit for himself. When Jack remained resolutely silent, the Doctor stretched out and set the plate carefully on the console. “Well. Your loss,” he said airily, sipping his tea and munching on his biscuit.

“What the hell are you playing at? What’s going on?” Jack demanded angrily. “You said she would burn. You warned everyone away, said if she remembered you, she'd die. But Donna saw you, the other you, the past you she traveled with and you knew all along that this was going to happen.” He stepped closer to the Doctor, one accusatory finger prodding in his direction. "You knew you’d been here and that you’d been seen on TV, but did you think to tell me? NO!” He flung his hands up and reeled away, still venting his frustrations. "You let me see you, same as everyone else in the entire country— no.”

He stopped short and swung back around to face the Doctor who remained in place, blithely sipping his tea. "No, scratch that. THE ENTIRE WORLD SAW YOU, prancing about on INTERNATIONAL TELEVISION, everyone on the WHOLE BLOODY PLANET,” he bellowed, "including one Donna Noble!” He advanced on the Doctor again, eyes flashing fire and hands thrown wide. "Remember her? The Most Important Woman in all of Creation? Your best friend, the one you asked me to protect? The woman you profess to love? And you neglect to warn me that past you was preparing to parade around during the opening ceremonies of the Olympics?”

When the Doctor casually set his cup and saucer down and reached for another biscuit, Jack closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Doctor, Torchwood is gone and I’m not your one-man cleanup crew,” he ground out on the end of an exasperated exhalation. “I see you - the other you,“ he said, doing an awkwardly vague mime of spiky hair and a long coat, "and I'm off on a frantic hunt of 999 calls. I broke every safety regulation to get to Donna,” he cried, shaking the Vortex Manipulator on his wrist for emphasis, "just in time to see her collapse through the window. I was preparing to charge in and take over, trying to work out the quickest way to get her to a stasis chamber, when she surprised the hell out of me - and everyone around her - by snatching the mobile away from her friend and canceling the ambulance instead of, oh, I dunno- dying?”

The Doctor still had no comment but Jack didn't miss the Cheshire smile that flashed across his face, vanishing behind the teacup he raised to his lips.

Preparing to launch back into his rant, Jack paused, considering, before he slowly continued. “I backed off. I watched from across the street until I saw her friend getting her ready to leave. I got as close to her as I could without arousing attention, made it look as though I was getting out of a cab and holding it for them. I was very close to Donna, but she didn’t react. She looked a bit shaken, but otherwise, she was very much alive. But you know all this, don’t you?”

The Doctor shrugged as he reached for another biscuit, that fey smile back in place and Jack felt his blood begin to boil.

"You knew you’d been here at the Olympics. You knew you’d been on television, world-wide. You knew that, even if by some miracle Donna didn’t see it, live,” he spat with special emphasis, “she would see it soon, all thanks to your characteristic stealth and subtlety.” He stomped over to the Doctor and towered over him while the Doctor merely brushed a stray crumb from his trousers.

“That video of you has been on heavy rotation ever since. All over the telly and don’t get me started on the internet. Hell, the YouTube video alone is averaging more than 1,000 hits an hour,’ Jack cried, spinning in place, his arms thrown wide. He leaned in close to the Doctor, gripping the back of the jump seat and bracketing him in, nostrils flaring and breathing heavily.

"Bottom line? You knew Donna would see this. There was no way she could have missed it,” he accused. "You knew she was in danger, but you did nothing to prevent it, and don’t give me that “fixed point” bullshit either. You’re up to something, something that concerns Donna and involves me, and I want to know what it is.” With no reaction forthcoming, Now.”

The Doctor crossed his legs, folding his hands over his knee. He tilted his eyes up to meet Jack’s piercing gaze. “I’m sure I don’t know—“

Jack let loose a frustrated growl, slamming his hand back down on the headrest, but the Doctor didn’t so much as twitch. “And I’m sure you do.” He lifted his hand only to let it crash back down again. "Why would you endanger her life like that? And while we’re on the subject, just why didn’t her head explode? You were very clear on the matter before, Doctor."

“I know what I said,” the Doctor spat tetchily, finally losing his composure and leaping to his feet. He looked away suddenly as if ashamed of himself. "I know,” he repeated more calmly, straightening his bow tie. "But there have been some interesting developments since then, and I’ve been monitoring her situation carefully.”

“Stalking her, you mean,” Jack snapped, stepping back and crossing his arms.

“Taking discreet readings,” the Doctor continued, mildly affronted.

“Stalking her from a distance, then,” Jack snorted with a roll of his eyes.

“Monitoring her health, checking her timelines, and…. well, her prognosis, Jack," the Doctor said hesitantly, as if he were reluctant to allow himself the luxury of hope. "It’s changing.”

“What?” Jack breathed, whipping back to him, open-mouthed and staring as a terrible notion occurred to him. He stumbled back against the console, gaping in horror at the man he'd thought he knew. "Oh, my god, all this time...you knew. You knew all along, didn’t you? You knew she’d see him…you, the last you, and you’re just letting all this happen, even though you could stop it.” His voice rose in undisguised alarm and he threw his arm out towards the world beyond the TARDIS door. "You’re putting her in danger with all this. But why? Why would you do that?”

"Jack, it’s not what-“ the Doctor began, raising a placating hand but Jack barreled on.

"You knew I’d see you. You knew I’d be there, that I’d track her down. You set me the task of watching out for Donna and you knew I’d be angry enough to find you in turn and confront you with what happened. And so you’re using me, too.” Jack raged, turning on his heel and swooping down so that he was at eye level with the last Lord of Time. “You knew this was going to happen and you sent me close in order to test her. But why?” he demanded, pushing back once more and striding angrily along the slick glass floor. “You were testing her. Testing to see if her illness was in response to seeing you- the other you- or was it my proximity, messing with her latent time sense.”

The Doctor sat serenely and let Jack continue to pace undisturbed.

“She didn't respond to me the way she did before. This time, she hardly even flinched when I passed her,” he murmured, his steps slowing to a thoughtful gait. "And seeing, you, the other you, seeing him on television, she was ill, yeah, but it didn't kill her. She wasn’t burning and she wasn’t sparkling like before…” Jack whipped round to face the Doctor once more, his face set and determined. "Seeing you didn’t didn’t trigger the metacrisis and I want to know why. What’s happened? What’s different? What have you done?"

The Doctor's expression hardened and he found himself reaching out to trace the pattern in the delicate China saucer with one barely trembling fingertip. "It’s him," he stated in a near monotone. "It's his doing, that man who’s attached himself to her."

“You mean her lover, DI Carlisle?” Jack clarified. "Don’t be such a petty, petulant bastard. Go on. Say it. Say his name,” he challenged.

“When I realized that the sight of that man didn’t kill her,” the Doctor went on, ignoring Jack, “I decided to wait. Perhaps her reactions could give me some clue as how to best treat her…condition.” The Doctor had the decency to look uncomfortable then, his lips drawn tight as he tugged as his waistcoat. He inhaled deeply before rising to his feet. "He’s drawing it off, those memories, giving her mind the time it needs to heal, to knit itself back together, to incorporate all the disparate fragments of memory that bombard her back into a whole life, centered around him.” He turned to a stony face towards Jack. "I brushed up against her on the Tube, you know, and I read her mind. She barely knew I was there, but I saw it all,” he confessed, with a suspiciously glassy expression, oblivious to Jack’s sympathetic wince.

"Her memories of me, of all we’d done together, they should have been sharp and bright and precise, locked away behind the walls I’d built in her mind to protect her. But they weren’t.” He looked up sharply and squared his shoulders with obvious effort. "They were pockmarked. They were becoming dull and pitted, as if something were slowly eroding them from behind the psychic defenses I’d put in place for her protection.’’ He bit off each word with blunt precision, voice rising as he stabbed his finger in the air with each point. "Every time she almost remembers, it's wearing them down, blunting their impact,” he said, eyes glinting manically. He spoke slowly, carefully, but without hesitation. "He's making it safe for me to come back for her.”

Jack stared at him, incredulous.

“Don’t you see, Jack? It’s been me all along. She’s waiting for me,” he cried, gesturing at himself before throwing his arms wide and spinning on his heel. "I know it. I know it. His presence, he’s inoculating her against the effects of the Metacrisis. Every time she has…. an incident…” More uncomfortable tie tugging and waistcoat smoothing ensued before he found his voice once more. “Every time, more of the Time Lord consciousness, it’s drawn off, bled away. I just have to be patient, that’s all. It’s just a matter of time and then, I can come back for her. She and I can travel the stars together again.” He finished with a flourish and Jack very nearly expected him to take an extravagant bow.

“So he’s curing her, just by being around her, huh?” Jack remarked once he was sure the performance had ended. The Doctor merely smiled smugly, all cocky self-assuradness as he caught sight of his reflection in the time rotor and smoothed his hair back into place. "I guess that makes you the disease in this analogy, yeah?” Jack continued and he was gratified to see that self-congratulatory smile falter.

The Doctor chose to ignore the jibe and plowed on. "I’m so confident that’s the case,” he said a bit more loudly than was strictly necessary and he tapped a finger on a sticky gauge and lunged for the handbrake, "I’m thinking of simply popping into her future and picking her up again. A year, maybe? Two?” The TARDIS shuddered to life as he turned to face Jack fully and suddenly the air around him shimmered and popped with menace. "That’s all it will take."

“You’re serious,” Jack said, not bothering to hide his growing outrage.

“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” he said, seemingly perplexed, but Jack wasn’t fooled. The determined set of his jaw and the eerie sense of calm determination that surrounded him gave him away. “She didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want her to go."

Jack stalked past the Doctor to the TARDIS doors, throwing up his hands in disgust. "No, that’s it, Doctor. We’re done, we’re through.” He turned back at the last possible moment, and took two determined steps back towards the last of the Time Lords. "I’m done being your spy and you’re not going back for her."

"Who do you think you are?” the Doctor roared back, finally dropping his facade as he advanced. "Just who EXACTLY do you think you’re talking to? You don’t have the right…"

“No, YOU don’t have the right,” Jack shot back, somehow finding himself in the Doctor’s face. "There is no going back. She has a new life, with him, and she’s happy. She’s happy with him.”

“She was happy with me!” The words broke free from the Doctor involuntarily and it was hard to hear them as anything other than a howl of anguish.

Jack surged forward, his voice as level and steady as the hand the Doctor glanced down to find planted firmly on his chest. "She’s happy with Peter Carlisle in a way you would never give her," he hissed.

The Doctor slowly raised his head and Jack knew he was standing squarely in the eye of the Storm. He regarded the man before him coolly and the only concession he found himself willing to grant was to slowly remove his hand. "No, you gave up on her," he mused with a grim smile, determined to have his say. "You arrogant bastard. You were SO sure there was no way to get her back. You were too busy drowning in guilt and wallowing in self-pity to actually try to DO anything about it, and it killed you." He spun away in cruel parody, his hands thrown theatrically wide, coming to rest just to the right of the console. "You didn’t lose her! You're not the victim here! You left her."

Jack watched as the Doctor's eyes widened, darting between Jack's face and the spot on the TARDIS floor where he stood. He staggered back a half-step, his left hand shooting up to scratch at the right side of his jaw as his eyes lost focus and roamed the room. When his clouded gaze fell upon certain areas- the third station of the console, a spot near the door where a giant coral strut once stood, the TARDIS door, but especially that spot beneath Jack's feet- the Doctor flinched visibly, twisting away as if burned.

"You carried her limp body off the TARDIS and you abandoned her," Jack persisted, pressing his unexpected advantage. "You left her here, back in Chiswick, and you did what you always do, what you do best." Jack paused for the length of a heartbeat to swallow against the unexpected lump in his throat. "You ran.”

"That’s not true! I tried to save her, you have to know I did!" the Doctor choked out indignantly as he sprang back to life.

Jack shook his head in appalled disbelief and the Doctor grabbed his arm and swung him around.

“You weren't here! You don't know!” the Doctor shouted before he awkwardly released Jack, stumbling away and staring down at his own hands. He inhaled deeply and turned haunted eyes on Jack. "I was so desperate. I tried cracking the Skasis Paradigm for years, on my own, but when I realized what it would have required…” His jaw trembled and he wiped an unsteady hand across his face. "Well, Donna wouldn’t have thanked me for that…..And then later, I was tempted. I almost used the Manus Maleficus to bring her back, to bring them all back, but then I thought of what she would have said and I…"

"She deserved better,” Jack interrupted, still seething. "She saved all of creation and you ran away. You left her behind, and you never even bothered to look back.”

Jack realized too late he'd said the wrong thing. His accusation had inadvertently recalled the Doctor to his dark purpose and he was dismayed to see the hesitation and doubt fall away from the Time Lord’s countenance, revealing the ruthlessness behind the affable veneer. The Doctor’s eyes darkened and his face lost all expression.

"You're right about one thing, Jack,” he finally said with steely resolve. He reached over without looking and flipped another switch. He tugged his vest sharply straight and cocked his head to the side, his lip curling slightly as he sauntered back to Jack. He leaned in, so close that Jack could feel cool breath on his cheek. “Donna Noble deserves better."

“Yeah?” Jack shot back, leaning back and crossing his arms resolutely. "Well, I’m right about more than one thing here, Doc.” He looked down his nose, fixing the Doctor with a hard stare. "After what you did to her? You deserve to be alone.”

"Not for much longer,” the Doctor growled, roughly jerking his tie defiantly straight before whirling away, back to the TARDIS console. "And never again. Donna will be back here, in the TARDIS, back where she belongs.” ‘With me' he didn't say aloud. He smashed a button and the TARDIS doors sprung obediently open. The Doctor stared at Jack, then pointedly shifted his gaze to the darkened streets of Cardiff beyond the TARDIS doors, then meaningfully back at Jack.

Jack glanced over his shoulder and fought the urge to roll his eyes when he saw the dark, wet pavement of the Plass behind him. "No, Doctor," Jack stated with a sniff, before nodding decisively. "No. Donna and Peter Carlisle belong together and you’re gonna leave them alone. Both of them. And I’ll be there to make sure you do,” he promised, taking three backwards steps before turning smoothly and walking away.

"You can’t stop me,” the Doctor said in a voice like flint the instant before it strikes steel.

“Watch me, Time Lord,” Jack said ominously, closing the door behind him. “You just watch me."

Twenty Word Review of "In the Blood" (*With a Fourteen Word Footnote.

2016-07-02T10:25:38Z

We. Are. Right.

We ARE right, WE ARE RIGHT!!!

Read it. Now!

Because WE ARE RIGHT.

AND NOW IT'S CANNON!*

*Except for the sexy-times but BBC books can't publish that kind of thing.

An Officer and the Noble Woman, Part 50

2016-05-28T23:39:13Z

She’s standing before him, right now, no more than four, maybe four and a half feet away, and everything about her reeks of passion. He watches her, somehow in the moment and yet standing outside himself. Donna is there, one full stride and an arms’ length away, flinging her hands and her accusations at him with equal vigor. She’s angry and so is he.

But, no.

No.

That’s not right.

She’s not angry, exactly. She’s furious, radiant with a pulsing, desperate outrage, a bright and terrible mirror to his own dark wrath and brooding resentment. He wants this to stop. He longs to fold her into his arms and hold her and never, never, ever let her go. He wants to kiss away her anger and her fear and have her tremble against him with a different kind of passion, no less violent but much more welcome than the tremors passing through them both now. He wants her to know that he loves her and that he’d never withstand the loss of her if she were ever to walk out of his life. But inside, he’s raging against the pitch-black suspicion that she has never truly been his in the first place, that she's been unconsciously marking time with him as she waits for the Other to simply waltz back into her life, take her down from the shelf where he abandoned her, and plonk her back in place at his side.

Donna's building herself up into a towering rage and he marvels at it, though he's no stranger to conflict, far from it. Peter grew up in a house where strife was the norm and, night after night, he hid behind doors, listening and praying. Night after night, he stood in the dark and when he was old enough to understand, he swore that when he was a man, it would be different. But when he married Roselyn, they had both been barely more than children and when it finally ended, it ended childishly. By the time she finally left him for an older, richer, more successful man, he knew he’d broken his oath and he'd long since run out of prayers.

But with Donna, it’s different. Donna’s no child and Peter’s not entirely sure she ever was, even when she was young. She’s a complex set of contradictions, confident and commanding one moment, vulnerable and insecure the next, and he’s dead set on puzzling her out, deciphering her cryptic clues, understanding her mysteries. She never fails to surprise him, from her quiet compassion to the symphony of indignation she's zealously conducting for his benefit alone. What amazes him most, though, what he knows but still can’t quite allow himself to fathom, is that the anger on full display before him isn’t born of bitter dissatisfaction and disappointment with him, but the exact opposite. Instead, she’s all but glowing with irrational fury because she’s afraid for him.

He and Natalie never fought like this. She was soft and tentative, even in her anger, barely ever raising her voice before quieting again, even at the worst of times. She always held back, always, even when he desperately tried to lay bare his soul to her. In his charitable moments, he attributes her reticence to being responsible for someone else’s happiness and well-being, to being a mother, accustomed to always putting her children's interests before her own. In his darker funks, he lays the blame squarely at his own feet, for letting her see the cruelty buried deep in his soul when she’d fled from the cold lies he’d flung at her, stood in the doorway of a seaside hotel room.

One door closed, and another one opens.

From somewhere far, far away, he somehow registers the tiny snick of the lock as the door behind them closes, and he knows without looking that Ian and Maddie have gone. Just as remarkable is the sudden realization that he's not heard the last three wickedly-barbed bon mots Donna's launched his way because his responses are on autopilot as his attention is instead focused on all the tiny, subtle clues in her that he's been searching for. The way her hands keep stretching out for his, only to snap back to her sides. The tiny, almost insubstantial waver in her voice as she fights to reign in her habitually offensive defense. The fire that flashes in her eyes that provides an almost-convincing smoke-screen to hide the price she’s paying in the torment of this display.

And there! There it is! That moment when she realizes that, no matter the cost to her injured pride, she can't possibly begin to imagine her life without him and the only thing preventing her from launching herself at him and never, ever letting him go is the sheer, stark terror that she's finally succeeded in pushing him away, and she's biting her lip and fighting back tears and not once- not one, single, bloody moment in this whole, horrible ordeal- not once has her right hand searched her left for a ring lost to her past - and he knows.

Peter Carlisle knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Donna Noble is his, and his alone. His Fetch, that Doppelgänger, his Evil Twin? That man holds no sway over her heart and the only reason she stands before him, trembling and on the brink of desperate, angry tears is that she loves him more than she can say and before he realizes it, he's closed that space between them and pulled her into his arms and he's kissing her, fiercely and possessively and she's kissing him back just as ruthlessly.

Her hands are twisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, and she’s sobbing as the tears course down her cheeks to soak her blouse and he’s wiping them away at the same time as he’s kissing her, as his breath leaves his body and enters hers, and in his soul, he’s defying the stars to try and separate them again. He won't share her. She's his and his alone. That Other, he can’t have her. He relinquished his claim on her the day he walked out and left her to the less-than-tender mercies of her mother and the brave vigilance of her grandfather. He abandoned her in a way Peter can never comprehend or condone but for which he's profoundly grateful nonetheless.

She knows him, inside and out. He’s bared his soul, revealed to her those darkest parts of himself and yet she loves him all the more for it. She looked into his darkness and he is filled with her light. He kisses his way down her neck, laying her back against one strong arm as his right hand deftly flicks open the buttons down the front of her dark linen blouse and dear God in Heaven, she’s breathless and bothered and her heaving bosom is straining against the sheer black silk of the basque she’s barely wearing. He wasn’t expecting this, he wasn’t, he’s only seen this garment in the pictures she sent him one terrible day shopping and he sighs with the most exquisite longing, pausing momentarily to ghost one finger across the tops of her breasts, to admire the way her nipples have tightened into peaks under the filmy silk and as her breathing stutters, she arches her back and he sees the dusky pink of her areola just peeking out beneath his fingers and he comes undone.

But they are too alike in their passions. At the same moment Peter begins to consciously act on his desires, Donna recovers from the delicious shock of finding his arms around her once more, his lips pressed desperately against hers. She finds her hands groping for the hem of his shirt and she’s tugging it up and she somehow manages to time it so that just as he finally breaks the kiss to allow the both of them some much-needs oxygen, she yanks his shirt over his head and flings it away, just in time for him to lunge back in and press his lips to hers once more. And all the while, that little voice in the back of her head, the one telling her to be reasonable, to back off, to be careful, to go slow? Donna grabs that little voice and she frog-marches it farther into the dark recesses of her mind, straight into a gloomy little cell, as far away from conscious thought as possible, and she crams that little voice in and slams the door shut, she locks it and promptly tosses away the key.

She can’t see anything but him, she can’t hear or smell or taste anything but him and that’s good, that’s fine, because she doesn’t want to anyway and she’s so happy, she’s so proud of his quick, responsive mind because when she decides she’s had enough of his soft, almost tentative caress, her lips and her hands and those sighs she’s making demand more of him and Peter readily complies. She's working the zip of his jeans and he’s stepping up and out of his trainers, kicking them off and away somewhere behind him at the same time his own clever fingers find first the drawstring that releases her trousers to fall to the floor, then the tiny row of hooks that run up the front of that gorgeous black silk barrier, the one that barely hides those spots he wants most to lap at, to nibble, to suck. She scrabbles frantically at his jeans and he wriggles his hips to help her work them off faster but that destroys his balance and he has to concentrate on staying upright just a few moments longer, at least until he can release all those asinine little fasteners that are preventing him from kissing all the way down her body, from the tiny little crease at the base of her neck and across her collarbone, over each magnificently lickable breast and finally into the valley between that leads unerringly to a pair of tiny black panties and the bright tangle of red-gold curls that conceal his eventual goal.

But Donna is no fool. She’s reaped the many benefits of his oral fixation, usually several times a night, and she knows exactly what will happen the moment he manages to free her and she’s too impatient to wait for what she craves. She doesn’t just want him now, she needs him, she’s needed him for hours, for days, for months, for her entire life, and yes, the things she knows he’ll do to her, given less than half a chance, are glorious, amazing even, and she wants everything he wants, but first, she has a few life-goals of her own, thank you very, very much! She starts to kneel, to tug that sublimely form-fitting denim down his body, dragging her fingertips over the perfect curve of his arse in the process and he inhales sharply in response, his arms tightening around her reflexively, pulling her up, firmly against him. He just manages to rid himself of his jeans, slinging them away with a convulsive twitch of his leg, off to join his trainers somewhere behind him but before Donna can divest him of his pants as well, he’s furiously working at those infernal hooks again.

She inhales deeply which causes her breasts to swell upwards, much to Peter’s delight and Donna leans back a tiny bit, granting him better access to the fasteners beneath her breasts and down her torso. He’s got most of them but, in his impatience, he’s futilely trying to shimmy the basque down and over her hips, entirely missing the original intent of the garment and completely ignoring the dimensional improbability of the tactic. Oh, really! Enough is enough, she decides, and in her considered opinion, this gothic confection she’s wearing should be classified as a torture device rather than a form of enticing lingerie. She pulls in her stomach and grabs both sides of the garment, pushing them together and away from her body in one fluid movement that pops free all the remaining hooks. Peter grins in admiration of her practical cleverness even as his eyes go wide, his eyebrows threatening to disappear from his forehead entirely at the sight of her finally bouncing free. He growls her name from deep in his chest and wraps one long arm around her, pulling her close and diving in to lick the skin just between her breasts as his other hand tugs impatiently at the scrap of silk still around her hips, in effect trapping her hands between them.

She releases the breath she forgot she’d been holding in a frustrated huff and he hears it, loosens his hold on her and looks up in confusion from his possessive exploration of her body and that’s all the distraction she needs. She pushes him back as she whirls around and when the front of the sofa hits the back of his knees, he falls, but since he won’t release her, he’s taking her with him. Her hands are tangled in his hair and as she realizes what’s happening, she swivels so that she falls beside him and before she can catch her breath, he’s twisting and turning, pursuing her, pushing himself along with her, up and onto the sofa cushions.

Donna, however, steadfastly refuses to be outmaneuvered, and she digs in with her shoulders, halting her upwards movement as she snatches at his pants, managing to pull them down as he propels himself further up her body. He pauses as realization hits, holding himself above her with one hand as he struggles to help her in her goal with the other. When his underwear is finally tangled somewhere about his knees, Donna manages to lift one leg sufficient to plant her foot within the offending swath of cotton and drags it off his body completely. He laughs aloud, a single, triumphant bark of joy before he dives back to his chosen task of making her scream his name.

She won’t wait, she can't wait and besides, she’s pretty confident that there’ll be time enough for their more…creative...forms of self-expression later on, free from the concern that they might be disturbing the peace of their neighbors, but for right now, she wants him. Donna wants to feel Peter, hot and solid against her and over her and inside her. She wants his delicious weight above her, pushing her down. But Peter Carlisle is a man on a mission, dead set on climbing down her body and burying his face between her legs just to hear those bloody fucking gorgeous sounds she makes.

He’s hard for her, so hard it almost hurts, but he has his priorities. He wants her, now and forever but she has to know that he does, he has to prove it to her with both body and soul. He loves that he can make her cry out with just his tongue, and there’s something faintly ruthless in the way he presses a hand to her belly to keep her in place as he adds to her exquisite torment by bringing those long, slender fingers into play. She squirms beneath the dual onslaught of talented tongue and dancing digits, twining her own fingers into his hair as he swirls his tongue delicately over that tiny bud of nerves at her core. She’s beginning to pant now and Peter smiles against her, listening intently as her vocalizations slip up the chromatic scale of her sighs until she’s moaning outright, growing louder and more wanton with each lick and twist.

She wants to speak, to use words to persuade, to beg, to order him to comply with what she wants but in all honesty, she can’t remember how to do that, even if she could recall what she intended to demand. She’s swimming in a sea of sensations, centered upon the man at her center, and she's nearly drowning in him as he goes down for the third time. She’s a banquet laid out before, him a feast for all his senses and he’s determined to see her arch her back off the couch before moving into her embrace. She’s almost there, he can feel it in the tremble of her thighs as she unconsciously shifts her hips, tilting upwards, opening herself to him further even as one leg wraps around his waist and she presses her heel desperately into the small of his back.

“Peter,” she chokes out, almost sobbing in her need of him. “Oh, Peter…"

She’s so close, she’s there, yes, right there, right THERE and just as she screams, as she pulls her hands away so that she won’t accidentally yank out his hair, he’s suddenly back above her and then he’s inside her, plunging deeply, again and again in hard, fast strokes until he's riding the crest of her wave. Her world flares white hot behind her eyes as every nerve ending explodes at once in a wash of exquisite feeling and the sheer elation, the joy of being alive and of being loved. Donna’s floating on the edge of consciousness and the delicious ripples of her climax rolling throughout her body as Peter gently rocks against her. He's saying something, he’s breathing it against her neck, chanting it into her skin, and he has been for quite some time, she realizes as she comes back to her senses.

“Donna, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sor—“ he whispers until she silences him with a finger laid against his lips.

“No, Peter,” she says quietly, knowing that he can sense the command behind the words. “I never, ever want to hear those words from you, not now, not ever again, not like that.”

He raises up on one elbow, shifting his weight onto his hip and she speaks again before he can protest.

"Do you hear me, Policeman?” she quietly demands. "Never again. You can apologize if you have to, you can tell me you have regrets, you can even say you wish something had been different, but I never, ever want to hear you say you’re sorry for something again.” He opens his mouth to protest and Donna silences him with one word. "Ever.”

“Besides,” she goes on, closing her eyes as he tenderly smooths her hair away from her face, “you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who should be asking for your forgiveness. I overreacted, I went all bolshie on you.”

"A chuisle mo chroí,” he murmurs, kissing her eyelids, “the fault was-“

“No,” she states vehemently, bracing her hands against his chest as her eyes fly open. “You were only doing your job. I know that, I do.” She shakes her head and bites her lip, looking over his head to avoid meeting his gaze. "I was being unreasonable and selfish, and I was...worried,” she finishes in a small voice.

“Worried?” he wonders, twisting a curl of flame-bright hair around his finger. He lets it slide free and drops his hand to her shoulder, following the curve of her arm down and taking her hand in his. “Whatever for?” he asks as he interlaces their fingers, pulling them up to rest against his chest. He takes a chance and lets his thumb softly caress that empty space on her left ring finger, just above her palm.

Her breath catches and she looks up into his face, her eyes large and luminous, bright with brimming tears. “I worry that one day, you’ll realize that I’m too much hard work and that you’re better off without me,” she confesses as the tears spill over and stream down into her hair. "I worry that I’ll drive you away with all my shouting and that you’ll leave me.” He lays down against her side and twists his free arm up and around her head to wipe away her tears, murmuring words of comfort that she doesn’t yet hear. "I worry that you’ll move on and forget me,” she sobs brokenly, turning her face into the crook of his neck, "and that I’ll never be able to survive being unable to forget you.”

He pulls back just far enough to silence her with a tender kiss, sweet and loving, and he can taste the salt of her tears on her skin. "Doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love,” he swears against her lips. He lifts her hand and brushes his lips across her knuckles and prays that soon, very, very soon, she'll never have to grope for that missing band again because the bare spot on the third finger of her left hand will be occupied by his ring, And he swears to heaven above and all the devils in hell besides that she'll never, never ever want to take it off, but especially not because of something he’s done.

Be Still My Shippy Little Heart

2016-05-17T17:47:04Z

The Tenth Doctor/Donna stories:

They are all perfect, wonderful, and magnificent, but Death and the Queen is the best of them.

Donna is in fine form and Ten is EXACTLY as I thought he'd act. I have always loved these two together but this is AMAZING.

Go on, toddle off and listen. Wallow in the shippyness of this.

That Awkward Realization

2016-05-15T01:10:36Z

I'm getting ready to go to a party and I just realized I'd much rather stay home and finish up the last few paragraphs of a porny bit I'm writing.

What does that say about me?

An Officer and the Noble Woman, Part 49

2016-04-26T09:45:22Z

An Officer and the Noble Woman, Part 49
Author: dtstrainers
Paring: Donna Noble/Peter Carlisle
Rating: PGA for Plot Galore with a heavy seasoning of Angst throughout.
Word Count: 4,407
Disclaimer: Donna and Peter- not mine, but in my mind.
2016 has finally settled down and looks to be at least somewhat promising. As a result, I offer you this entry, with the promise of a Deleted Scene/DVD Extra/Director's Cut coming soon that would have made the current installment R rated. It just didn't fit the overall style of the story, but I'm in love with it and it will be ready for posting soon.

If anyone's still reading, thank you. As always, all mistakes are my own alone.

Part 1 | Part 10 | Part 20.1 | Part 30 | Part 40 | Part 45

Saturday, 28 July 2012, 3:35 AM

"Nice," Ian breathed in appreciation as Peter pressed his thumb to the print reader then punched in his passcode on the keypad beside the door. "Though getting in after a night out might prove to be a challenge."

"Ye can use a key, but the system still requires a thumbprint," Peter replied tersely. He waited for the audible snick of the disengaging lock before he dragged his thumb down the scanner, obliterating any print that might have been left behind as he pushed open the door and quickly scanned the room. He paused on the threshold, surprised to see every light in Donna’s flat blazing, despite the late hour. The DVD player was on and Peter was momentarily taken aback as onscreen, Father Ted patiently attempted to explain the correlation of relative distance and apparent size to an obviously confused Father Dougal. He spotted Donna's slightly tousled titan mane peeking up over the far end of the sofa and was relieved to find her wrapped up in a blanket where she could watch the door, had she still been awake.

"She just dropped off a few minutes ago,” a feminine voice made rough with lack of sleep said quietly off to his right and Peter jerked around to see Maddie leaning back against the kitchen counter, a blanket from the couch wrapped around her shoulders and a fresh mug of tea in her hand. Ian stepped around Peter and into the kitchen to take a visibly exhausted Maddie into his arms. She let loose a ragged sigh, snuggling deeper into his embrace before she dragged her eyes open again and fixed them on Peter. “She was determined to wait up for you."

“Maddie, how is she?” Peter whispered urgently, not waiting for Ian to loosen his hold on her. "What happened after we left?"

Maddie blinked and set her tea on the counter, turning in Ian’s arms to face Peter. “The George was going wild when the torch appeared and even more so when they got a good look at the torchbearer,” she explained, shifting uncomfortably before looking up to meet his eyes. “That man really did resemble you, you know, and everyone knew you’d dashed out for the stadium, and well, it was a natural assumption….” Maddie trailed off, her face scrunched up in recollection as Peter nodded in reluctant agreement.

"Go on," he urged and Maddie blinked, forcing herself back to the present.

“Anyway, Mairead hugged Donna, thinking it was you with the torch but Donna? She set Mairead straight in an instant. She insisted the torchbearer wasn’t you, but Dr. Smith and then she dropped like a stone- but only for a moment,” Maddie tacked on hastily in response to Peter’s horrified expression. "I tried to call for the paramedics, but Donna was having none of that,” she explained, craning her head to look behind him to the couch where her friend was beginning to stir. She dropped her voice to a near whisper before continuing.   "She snatched my phone right out of my hand and told the operator it was a false alarm."

“Aye?” Peter murmured wearily, sniffing and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Count yerself lucky.   Her reaction was a bit more vehement the time I called the ambulance service after she passed out."

Maddie frowned as she considered his words. “Peter, Donna didn’t really pass out. She never lost consciousness,” she explained. "It was more like she was struck with a sudden headache, or, or a migraine. It didn’t last long, but she was…I don’t know….left drained by the experience?” She nodded decisively, pursing her lips as she considered her description. "Yes. That’s it. She was drained,” she declared. It was like when you go to sleep, but you either wake too soon or sleep too long. You know how you wake, feeling groggy and disorientated and you have a headache? That’s how she acted.”

"And there were no other symptoms? No sudden fever or…” Peter prompted, shaking his head and watching her carefully, unwilling to lead his witness by mentioning the unnatural, ethereal lights he’d witnessed emanating from Donna during previous attacks.

“No,” Maddie responded without hesitation. “No, I helped her to her feet. She was dazed and unsteady, but she didn’t feel warm or anything.”   Maddie watched Peter process the information, puzzling at the grim pall that settled over his fine features. He paused, clearly debating, then stepped closer, his voice dropping into an urgent whisper.

"Did she say anythin’ unusual? Anythin’ a’tol?” he demand, his expression both desperate and desolate. “Anythin’ bout runnin’ or about bein’ left behind? Did she say anythin’ about hearin’ strange singin’?" He chewed his lip anxiously, glancing over his shoulder as Donna shifted on the sofa behind them. “Did she wring her hands, act like she was lookin’ for a ring?"

“No, Peter, no. Nothing like that,” Maddie replied, struggling to remember. She chanced a quizzical glance at Ian and his eyes widened sadly in response.

“Somethin’ about midnight then, at a library? Or about roses?" Peter persisted, stepping a bit closer to touch her arm, his eyes dark and intense. "Did she say anythin' about knownin’ Dr. Smith?”

“No. She didn’t have time,” Maddie said decisively. "He appeared on screen, you rang off and she went down."

Peter exhaled heavily and stepped back, thrusting one hand roughly through his hair. He remembered himself and nodded his thanks to Maddie as he started for the living room but his progress was arrested by a soft hand graced with a dazzling ring.

“Peter, before you wake her, you should know,” Madeline warned gravely. "There was a bit of drama with her friend, Nerys, just after you left."

“Friend?” Peter snorted in disdain. “What sort of drama d’ye mean?"

"Mairead and I stepped away from the table to talk and give Donna space to recover. I know the George is your regular haunt and that Donna must have friends there, so I didn’t think anything of it when Nerys sat down at the table, though I could tell Mairead wasn’t best pleased,“ Maddie explained with a wry twist to her lips. "Nerys and Donna ended up having a ferocious row, and I heard your name at least once."

"My name?” Peter asked, his attention diverted by the soft noises coming from the living room behind him. Donna’s head disappeared entirely as she twisted in her sleep and Peter had to force himself to concentrate on Maddie again. "What was the argument about?"

"I’ll let Donna tell you. I wasn’t near enough to hear it all, and besides, it’s not my place,” Maddie demurred. “But I will tell you this: whatever was said, it wasn’t pretty, and from what little I did hear, Donna gave twice as good as she got.” Ian’s arms tightened around her and she closed her eyes, leaning back gratefully against his chest. She frowned thoughtfully. "Actually, now that I think of it, Donna acted as though she felt much better after, at least until we made ready to leave,” Maddie added, slightly surprised at the recollection.

Peter looked over to Ian, a frown creasing his face as he Maddie’s words registered. “Until ye left? What happened then?” Just as he was about to launch into another volley of questions, a familiar voice drifted in from the living room.

“Peter?” Donna mumbled as she turned over. “Policeman? Is that you?"

“Aye, a chuisle, right here,” he called, moving quickly to her side. “I’m sorry we’re so late, but-“

The rest of his apology was lost as Donna sprang from her makeshift bed in a flurry and threw her arms around him. Then, just as abruptly and much to Maddie’s surprise, she pulled away and delivered a resounding smack to Peter's arm. Maddie glanced up at Ian who merely shrugged philosophically, having witnessed firsthand the sound and fury that was Donna Noble when roused to anger.

“That’s for scaring me nearly half to death, Detective Dumbo!” Donna cried indignantly, her chin trembling as she fought back a sob. “What the bloody hell were you thinkin’?!?"

“Donna, I-“ Peter began, reaching out to her, but to no avail. She swatted his hands away and planted herself firmly before him, standing nearly toe to toe.

"Runnin’ off like that and then you hang up and don't bother callin’ me back!” Donna complained emphatically, stabbing her finger at his chest. “Not one bloody word from you for six hours, eighteen minutes and thirty-four seconds!” She clenched her hands into fists and whirled away in an impressive display of restraint to keep herself from punching him soundly in the jaw before whipping back around, advancing upon him once more. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to be left behind like that, Peter Carlisle? Not knownin’ what’s happened to you? Not knowin' if you’re alive or dead?” she raged, all but tearing at her own hair in despair. “And here I sit, waitin’ all this time, afraid to call or text you for fear your mobile will go off in the middle of somethin’ and you’ll end up hurt or-or-or dead, and it’ll all be my fault?!?” Donna cried, nearly vibrating in indignation. "You’re the one who keeps tellin’ me how dangerous you think my life before was, and then you go off and… and… and…,” she hiccuped, her anger dissolving in the wake of her relief at seeing him again.

In the midst of her tirade, Peter had gone strangely quiet, his hands held still at his sides. From the kitchen, temporarily forgotten in the storm, Maddie puzzled over the vaguely neutral expression he wore as he waited for Donna's fury to break. “Mo gradh, I’m sorry,’ he murmured softly. "I’m fine. A chuisle mo chroí, I’m here.” He slowly lifted his arms, opening them wide, and simply waited.

Donna hesitated, vacillating between laying him out with a punch or or a kiss. In the end, she did neither. “Oh, Peter,” she cried, flinging herself at him and hugging him tightly. “Don’t you ever even think of doin' anythin’ like that to me again!” She pushed herself away to look up into his eyes. "Are you…Did you….What happened?” Her hands fluttered over his arms and chest as she spoke, as if to assure herself that he was real and not just an insubstantial dream, ready to slip from her grasp. "Where’s Maddie? Where’s Ian?” she demanded, her eyes darting around madly.

“In the kitchen, Donna,” Maddie called, raising a mug. “Just making a cuppa and getting a biscuit for Ian. Should I get some for you?”

Donna nodded, relaxing fractionally as she saw the two of them stood together in the kitchen. “Oh, yes, please. I’m nearly gaspin’,” she replied, seemingly calm though her hands still trembled on Peter's arms. "Policeman?” she tried to ask casually, though the quaver in her voice betrayed her when she looked into his eyes.

“Uh…aye, right,” Peter stammered as his train of thought was unexpectedly derailed. “Tea and biscuits, yeah.” He blinked, suddenly remembering the hour and closing his eyes as the first ragged wave of exhaustion washed over him. “Make it three.”

“Of course,” Maddie replied, pointing Ian to the cabinet for more mugs.

When Maddie turned away, Donna’s lowered her voice to a near whisper and began to pepper Peter with more questions. "What happened at the stadium? Was everyone OK?” she demanded. "That running bloke, Farewell or Fairweather or whatever, was he all right?”

Still in the kitchen, Maddie breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m glad that’s over,” she murmured, leaning against Ian as she waited for the kettle to boil. “She was trying hard to hide it, but Donna was worried sick while the two of you were gone.“

"I wouldn’t count on that being quite the end of it, Maddie,” Ian replied, tucking her under his arm and looking over her head to where Peter stood, doing his best to calm his agitated lover. His gaze swept methodically over the room, making mental note of Maddie’s jacket and bag on the rack near the door and he offered up a sanguine smile when he realized Maddie was aware of his actions. “Peter hasn’t had his say in all this yet,” he explained, playing with a stray lock of her hair, “though judging from his reaction, he does seem to have learned something from their last spat.” Ian eased the errant strands back into place as Maddie chanced a quick glance at their friends before returning to the tea.

“Everythin’s fine, we’re all fine,” Peter crooned, instinctively reaching up with both hands to smooth Donna's hair away from her face. “We’re all fine, aye?” He was inordinately relieved when she didn’t flinch away and he closed his eyes and drew her close, kissing her in an attempt to ground them both in the moment. At the touch of his lips, settled into him with a sigh, until recent events came crashing back.

“But Policeman, I saw- then you rang off, but I- and then, he-“ Donna spluttered, pushing herself away from him and gesturing wildly but always managing to keep one hand firmly planted on his chest.

“I know, I know,” Peter murmured. “Be calm, a chuisle. Just catch yer breath." He folded her back into his arms, and waited for her frenetic movements to settle. When she finally relaxed and began to breathe normally, he spoke again. ‘’Everyone is OK, but, Donna, I’m sorry, I… I’m sorry,” he declared, his voice low and heavy with regret. "Doctor Smith, he…he got away.”

He watched carefully as Donna’s face went strangely blank and something behind her eyes shifted and changed, becoming somehow alien and positively ancient. She looked beyond him, her forehead crinkling as she sucked her bottom lip into her mouth. His gaze shot to her hands, but they remained still on his arms.

"Not surprisin',” she murmured, closing her eyes and slipping into the past, even as he desperately tried to draw her nearer. “He always was one to do a runner.” A single tear welled up and sat trembling at the corner of her eye and as it spilled over, Peter gritted his teeth. Donna swayed slightly but righted herself almost at once, splaying both hands against him and pushing herself back once more to arm’s length. She frowned immediately, shaking her head and leaning back into him, her right hand steady over his heart while her left ranged fitfully across the other side of his chest.

Peter’s jaw tightened as her awareness skittered away from the present but he remained outwardly calm. “Tell me what ye’re rememberin', Donna,” he breathed, fighting the urge to brush the tear from her cheek and chance breaking her trance. Her left hand continued to flitter back and forth across his chest until it settled beside her right hand, cupped protectively over his heart. Donna felt his single heartbeat beneath her hands, strong and true, and Peter watched as she relaxed into a beatific smile. “Donna, keep yer eyes closed an’ tell me what ye remember,” he coaxed, letting his voice guide her back to the present.

“Remember?” Donna echoed, shaking her head and blinking rapidly. She focused on her hands, then fixed Peter with a puzzled frown. “Remember what? What are you on about, Policeman?”

“Ye just said Dr. Smith wasnae above bunkin’ off when it suited him,” Peter responded more brusquely than he intended.

“I didn’t,” Donna declared. She eyed him as if he were mad, but then her expression fell slightly. She cocked her head to the side and frowned, biting her lip in consternation. “I didn’t….did I?” she repeated uncertainly.

“Ye did,” he insisted, grasping her arms. "D’ye remember he where would go? What was the protocol ye were to follow when compromised?” Peter persisted, his eyes dark and intense. “May be that I can still find h— "

“Peter, please, don’t do this," Donna interrupted, laying her hand back on his chest. She was dismayed to feel the rhythm under her palm quicken and she realized she could see his pulse pounding in a vein at his neck. “Peter, please, I told you. Just leave it,” she urged him gently, caressing his cheek and looking up into his eyes. "Just let it go.”

“No, no this time. I cannae,” he said flatly. “This time, yer Dr. Smith, he broke the law."

He stared resolutely at Donna, and just as determinedly, she refused to look away. “What?” she squawked in surprise, taking a step back and peering at Peter indignantly. “My doc—?“

“Dinnae argue with me, Donna,” he continued in a growl, forestalling her anticipated argument. “His actions have made it my duty. The man has brought this down upon himself, it’s no my doin’!"

She blinked at him in astonishment, taken aback at the stinging vehemence in his words before recovering sufficiently to launch her counterattack. "Lightin' the Olympic torch when the torchbearer is incapacitated is a crime now?” she challenged.

“No,” he corrected her almost petulantly, “but impersonatin' an officer of the law is."

“What!?!” Donna exclaimed, her eyes widening in sudden understanding. “That’s how he escaped?”

“Aye,” Peter spat back.

"He said he was you?” she demanded breathlessly.

“Yes!”

“He…he used your name?” she clarified, pointing at him in dismay.

“Well, no exactly…,” Peter admitted with reluctance.

In the kitchen, Maddie stood agape at the unexpected turn the conversation had abruptly taken as Ian eased a forgotten mug of tea from her grasp and placed it noiselessly in the sink.

“Exit, pursued by a bear,” he murmured in her ear, earning himself a perplexed look. He nodded in the direction of the two soon-to-be combatants and then smiled at her, moving to unobtrusively gather up her discarded belongings. Maddie looked from Ian back to Donna and Peter stood in the living room, not wanting to intrude but reluctant to leave without a proper goodbye. She watched as Peter all but writhed on the spot, scratching at his neck and grimacing at his own words.

“What is it, then?” Donna demanded, hands on hips. “Just what exactly did he do that made it imperative that you track him down now? And — If he did somethin’ wrong, and I’m not sayin’ that picking’ up somethin’ someone else has dropped and completin’ a task for an injured man qualifies as a high crime or a misdemeanor— why do you have to be the one huntin’ him?"

“Donna, I'm a Detective Inspector with the Metropolitan Police Force," Peter flung back hastily. "As he fled the scene, he let on like he was me. He insinuated that —"

“He. In. Sin-U-Ated,” Donna said emphatically, punctuating each syllable with a forceful jab at the air.

Maddie still gaped in horror at the train wreck occurring before her as Ian slipped the blanket from her shoulders and replaced it with her jacket, skirting her around the kitchen in a surreptitious attempt to reach the door unobserved.

"Aye,” she heard Peter snap defensively. “He encouraged the misidentification and did nothin'—"

“So what you’re sayin’, Policeman, and by all means, correct me if I’m wrong,” Donna cried broadly, throwing her hair back over her shoulder with obvious irritation, “is that it’s his fault that the officers on duty — it’s his fault that they assumed that he was you, yeah?"

“Of course,” Peter snarled back. “When they addressed him, he should ha—"

"Well, then,” Donna interrupted, hands on her hips, peering at him through narrowed eyes, “All he’s guilty of is having the audacity to resemble you, is that it? Cos according to you, he didn’t even say your name! He probably doesn’t even know you exist and you’re ready to arrest him for simple spatial genetic multiplicity!” She crossed her arms over her chest theatrically and tilted her head back in order to peer down her nose at him. "That’s hardly fair, don’t you think?”

“Spacial genetic….what in hell does that even mean?!?” he bellowed, stalking away before whirling back to face her. “And ye? I cannae believe yer takin’ his side in this! After all he’s done to ye, and ye’re protectin’ him!”

Ian eased the door open and silently ushered Maddie through. “I think it’s best that we leave them to it, don’t you?” he murmured after he'd managed to maneuver the door shut behind them.

“Do you think that’s wise?” Maddie whispered doubtfully. “They’re both bloody furious."

“They need to work this out, and it will go better, I think, without an audience,” Ian reasoned. “I’ve seen them like this before. They’ll rage at each other awhile and then it’ll be done.” He held out his hand for hers as he started down the stairs. "Let’s come not between the dragon and his wrath."

“I feel terrible, though, leaving like that. I’m going to have to call in the morning to apologize,” Maddie said, casting one last glance back up the stairs at the shadows flickering on the glass beside Donna’s door.

“I’m sorry, Maddie, for having to run off tonight. Truly I am,” Ian said as Maddie fought a losing battle against a jaw-cracking yawn. "Let me make it up to you. I’ll take you home and then, tomorrow, we’ll have dinner together, somewhere nice. Anywhere you like. Your choice.”

“Shut it, you,” she said fondly with a weary smile. "I knew what I was saying yes to when I agreed to marry you."

“Yes, you did,” Ian replied, his smile widening as he gripped her hand a bit tighter. “You know what life with a police detective can be like."

"I just wonder if Donna does,” she worried aloud, looking around for Ian’s car as they reached the street. A sudden jerk of her head put Ian on high alert as Maddie gasped aloud, pointing into the darkness to her right.

“What is it?” Ian demanded, whirling her deftly behind him as he faced the spot she indicated with a steady hand.

"Did you see him?” she cried, clutching at Ian’s arm as she peered out from behind him. "Standing in the shadows there? He was watching us. It was him, the same man, I know it!"

“Who?” Ian asked, nonplussed. “Who are you talking about? I don’t see anyone."

“I’m sure it was him,” Maddie insisted, twisting out of his grasp to walk directly into the gloom. “That tourist."

"What tourist?” Ian demanded from close behind her. “Who are you talking about?”

“Hello? Hello!” she called into the night before swinging back to face Ian with a muttered curse. “I swear it was him! The one who held the cab for us, tonight, at the George!” Maddie exclaimed in frustration, pivoting on her heel and searching fruitlessly for any movement in the shadows.

“Maddie, are you sure you saw someone? It’s only that it’s late and you’re tired, and there’s no one there now,” Ian explained, letting her circle him one last time. She huffed in frustration, blowing her fringe up and out of her eyes before allowing Ian to lead her to his car parked at the kerb.

“Maybe you’re right, but I could have sworn….” she trailed off thoughtfully and sighed. "When we were leaving the George, Donna had a sudden, severe migraine,” Maddie explained as Ian opened the door and waited for her to climb inside. She watched him make his way around and when he slid into the driver’s seat, she continued. “She was fine just after that fight with her friend, but as we got ready to go, the closer we got to the door, the more ill she looked. She tried to play it off, but when she stepped out of doors, her headache doubled her over and she could barely walk.”

“I’m glad you were there to help her home,” Ian remarked as he readied to pull out into the street.

“Oh, I was just thankful for the man who stepped out of the cab and held it for us,” Maddie said, stifling another yawn. “Honestly, his timing was spot on. It couldn’t have been more perfect if he’d planned it. I mean, just as I opened the door for us to leave, that American tourist —“

“What did you just say?” Ian snapped, jerking back to look at her curiously.

“There was an American tourist getting out of a cab in front of the George. Luckily, he noticed that Donna wasn’t feeling well and held the car for us, that’s all,” Maddie explained, eyeing him warily as she replied.

“What makes you say he was American?” Ian persisted, swiveling in his seat to face her completely.

“Well, when he paid the cabbie, his accent was unmistakeable—” she began.

“What did he look like?” Ian interrupted, unclenched his hands from the strangle hold he belatedly realized he had on the steering wheel. “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Uh, maybe?” Maddie replied with a shrug. "I mean, yeah, he was a bit nice to look at, but I didn't really see his face clearly. I was too busy with Donna to pay much attention to him. He held the door so I could bundle Donna in, then closed the door behind us. That was the last I saw of him.”

Ian nodded and put the car in gear, finally pulling away from the kerb and turning onto the high street. He turned the events of the night over and over in his mind, trying to make all the disparate parts fit into a coherent whole. Just when he resolved to let it all lie until morning, his thought were interrupted by a titanic yawn from Maddie.

"It must have been his first visit abroad,” she added, apropos of nothing, "what with his unseasonable attire.”

Ian could feel the blood freeze in his veins, but he promised himself that he wouldn’t visibly react as Maddie adjusted her seat and lay back, stretching out her legs and rubbing at her eyes. "Why do you say that?” he asked, carefully modulating his voice.

“Well, the poor man obviously didn’t realize it actually gets warm here in the summer,” Maddie replied wearily. "I remember thinking he must have been broiling in that greatcoat,” she finished with one last yawn as she snuggled into her jacket and finally let sleep claim her.

Part 1 | Part 10 | Part 20.1 | Part 30 | Part 40 | Part 45

Perfection, thy Name is DT. (And MS isn't too Shabby, either.)

2016-04-25T03:15:20Z

Yeah, I was one of the lucky ones who went to New York to see DT in Richard II AND MY FEELING WAS, "Hey, if I'm spending all this just to go to New York, I might as well get as much as possible out of the trip!"

And I did. Oh, how I did. I drug serenityslady all over Brooklyn and beyond in the process and had a wonderful time.

Richard II was an amazing experience both nights, even if I did have to share half my seat the first night with the kind of over-the-top obnoxious fanatic who gives Fangirls everywhere a bad name. The performance of every single member of the cast was compelling and gorgeous and perfect and DT had me in tears both nights. If you've read RII, you know it's not a very funny play but the stage business they've added gave it some much-needed levity and humanity and I will never in my life forget how happy I was to just be there.

And on Saturday, Matt Smith flirted with me. Seriously. I was asking them both a question about which roles they most regretted either turning down or not getting, to which Matt revealed that he and Karen had auditioned for Merlin and he'd been bummed about not getting it until this Doctor Who thing came around. Before I could get the question out, though- I was a bit nervous- I said something that Matt gave a bit of a cheeky comment in response and I said, "Oh, I'm not going there", to which Matt responded, "But I will." I laughed and told him THAT would be all over Tumblr by the end of the night, to which he replied that I would be all over Tumblr by the end of the night. He then said," Are we flirting? I think we're flirting." And yeah, it wasn't DT but it was still the Doctor and my little Fangirl heart nearly exploded in my chest.

Long story a bit shorter-

A Peace Offering

2016-04-04T01:41:44Z

No, nothing new from me yet, but I'm working on it.

However, I did find something so, so lovely that I wanted to share.

The author, Skyhiatrist, seems to have posted here before my time, then slipped away, not to be heard from since, which is a terrible tragedy. As proof, may I offer this little gem, Now or Never. It matters not how many times I've read this- I just keeps on getting more and more gorgeous.

If anyone out there knows Skyhiatrist, please pass on my admiration and affection.

Tamara

An Officer and the Noble Woman, Part 48

2016-02-14T00:27:40Z

An Officer and the Noble Woman, Part 48
Author: dtstrainers
Paring: Donna Noble/Peter Carlisle
Rating: PGA for Plot Galore with a heavy seasoning of Angst throughout.
Word Count: 5,171
Disclaimer: Donna and Peter- not mine, but in my mind. I started out optimistic about 2016, but it's quickly shaping up to be a very stressful year. All the same- this story will end this year.
If anyone's still reading, thank you. (Especially you dm12 and serenityslady) All mistakes are my own alone as I didn't ask for any beta reading before posting. LMK if you see anything that needs correction.

Part 1 | Part 10 | Part 20.1 | Part 30 | Part 40 | Part 45

Saturday, 28 July 2012, 12:43 AM

Peter Carlisle ducked his head momentarily, briefly rubbing at the bridge of his nose before glancing at the closed door opposite where he stood for the fourteenth time. He sniffed, scrunching up his face in an impatient grimace and rubbed the back of his neck, then looked up at the ceiling before returning his gaze to the monitor on the desk, lest his inattention and impatience was noticed.

“Detain that man!” roared his voice on the audio recording, in sync with the now-ubiquitous television footage replaying the unknown torch bearer ascending the stairs to the Olympic cauldron. “Do it now, damn ye!”

“Ye- yes, Detective Inspector,” came the stammered reply, “but why?"

Peter forced himself to watch, grinding his teeth in frustration and subtly shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Why? WHY? Does that man look anythin’ like a bloody Olympic torch bearer to ye?” Peter’s voice snapped irritably.

"No, sir, he doesn’t,” came the answering squeak. “He looks like you, Detective Inspector! I recognized you…him…before you…he…even reached for his…your badge! Is…the man a suspect in a crime?"

“Let me think— an entire stadium of people disappear, then reappear, with no explanation?” his voice responded with exaggerated, counterfeit patience. "Since a magic show is no a part of the scheduled festivities an' since we can both agree that the man carryin' the torch bears absolutely no resemblance to Mr. Fairweather, the athlete scheduled to do so, did it never occur to ye that the man not sanctioned to be there— but is — might, just POSSIBLY, be involved in the orchestration of the aforementioned disappearances?!?”

“Sir? People disappearing? I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know what you mean. My partner and I have been here on duty the entire time and—"

“Of course ye didnae notice, Putnam,” Peter bellowed over the mobile recording, “Ye were one of the disappeared, ye fuc-"

Forensic Specialist Hamish Chapman hastily leaned over and paused the playback, freezing the motion onscreen and halting Peter Carlisle’s retort in what he knew to be mid-scathing rant. He glanced up apprehensively at the man sat behind the desk, stern and silent with his fingers steepled before him, then returned his attention to his partner who resumed the emergency briefing.

“As you can see, Detective Chief Inspector,” Alec Turner explained, his tone precise and professional despite the high tensions and late hour, "using the time stamp in both the CCTV footage and the televised broadcast, when synchronized with the routine police recording of DI Carlisle’s emergency call, the evidence clearly supports his assertion that the person who lit the Olympic Cauldron was an impostor, posing as him.” He glanced over his shoulder to the man in question, now stood at ease in the middle of the room, hands clasped behind his back with only a slight tightness about his jaw to betray his contempt for the proceedings.

Peter Carlisle had spent the last two hours attempting to explain what he knew and to justify his subsequent actions, but it wasn’t until the two Forensic Techs had unexpectedly presented themselves at the door to the Detective Chief Inspector’s office that he managed to reign in his temper. Now he stood silently, letting the evidence speak for him while his emotions roiled and churned within, alternating between furious restlessness and desperate anxiety. The indignant adrenaline that had fueled the mad pursuit of his quarry to the Olympic stadium and beyond had long since burned away, and Peter was keenly aware that it had been hours since he’d spoken to the woman he’d left at the door of the George, trembling with what he hoped was simple fury.

Peter heard footsteps in the corridor and his eyes automatically flicked to the doorway. He visibly relaxed when Ian entered the room, nodding once in answer to Peter's unvoiced question before silently closing the door behind him. Alec looked between the two men, drawing his own conclusions as to the content of their silent communication before smoothly continuing his presentation. "Detective Inspector Carlisle was simply attempting to apprehend a key witness, if not a likely suspect, in the confusion following the Opening Ceremonies disappearances,” he concluded reasonably.

Detective Chief Inspector Reith stared openly at Peter for a long moment before addressing Alec once more. “This man DI Carlisle was pursuing,” he said sharply. “What became of him?”

Alec nodded to Hamish who advanced the recording to a prearranged spot before pressing play. “It seems that the spectators and athletes all claim they had no idea they’d disappeared, leading to some quite natural confusion when they rematerialized,” Alec deadpanned. "According to everyone at the stadium, nothing had happened, yet in the broadcast booth, Huw Edwards was going on as if they’d all returned from the grave. Every mobile in the place was going off at once with frantic calls from friends and relatives. And, as you know,” Alec said, pointing to the screen,” the suspect identified himself as DI Carlisle to effect his escape from the Olympic stadium.” On screen, Peter’s double flashed a wallet at the officers guarding the exit. His step faltered as one of the policemen addressed him and he paused, glancing at his own ID before breaking out in a toothy grin, waving and bounding off into the night. "Add to that the suspect’s uncanny resemblance to the DI,” he said with a discreet glance at Peter, ”and you can understand why the Uniforms in the venue were a bit slow to react.”

DCI Reith raised one incredulous eyebrow at that but said nothing, letting his silence speak volumes. Alec cleared his throat but displayed no other sign of discomfort as he continued.

“By the time it was realized that they should have been pursuing the suspect, he'd melted away into the crowd. CCTV inside the stadium was able to follow him until he lost himself in the confusion, here,” he explained as Hamish paused the playback. “However, we’re reasonably sure that this,” Alec indicated a smaller video feed synchronized with the larger picture, "is him.”

Onscreen, a tall, thin figure ambled away from the stadium, hands stuck deep in his pockets as he turned this way and that, taking in the spectacle of life surrounding him. “Specialist Chapman did a quick search of the available footage of the surrounding area and was able to trace his path. Due to his unseasonable attire, he was quite easy to track when not lost in a crowd.” As if on cue, the suspect disappeared from the frame and the video quickly cut to another image of the same man, taken at a different angle from farther along the parade route. He sauntered along on his way, passing close enough to the camera for Peter to make out the slightly deranged look of delight on what could easily have been his own face. He shifted his stance, inhaling deeply as he wrestled down the desire to bolt from the office and find Donna immediately.

"He managed to exit the Olympic Stadium unchallenged, then made his way back to the area where Mr. Fairweather first stumbled,” Hamish added absently, still staring at the monitors as he flicked a switch. The feed shifted to an oblique view of a quiet neighborhood along the route the torchbearer had taken, just as two people strode into view.

Peter watched his fetch amble down a suburban street, linked arm in arm with what appeared to be a very young blonde woman. His finger twitched in her direction as he shot an inquiring glance at his partner and Ian nodded once while the DCI’s attention was on screen. Peter looked back just in time to see the onscreen pair disappear between two portable toilets stationed along the torchbearer’s route.

“Unfortunately,” Hamish continued, sighing deeply and folding his arms as he leaned back in his chair, “that is where we lost the suspect and his companion. The angle of the camera only allowed us to track them to that spot and subsequent searches of all the footage from surrounding cameras has yielded nothing,” he shook his head bemusedly, “They simply disappeared into thin air.”

Detective Chief Inspector Reith’s expression twisted into a glower at his words. “With all the manpower and technology at our disposal, and you tell me that the suspect ‘just disappeared into thin air’?” he scoffed. The telephone on his desk began to chime softly, but the sound was lost in his mounting ire. “You expect me to believe that it’s simply a stunning coincidence that your twin,” he said with a disparaging wave of his hand at Peter, "shows up and apparently has the power to pop in and out of a sticky situation, at will, like some character from Harry bloody Potter?” DCI Reith stalked around his desk and planted himself in front of Peter and Ian. ”When in reality, it’s much more probable that he’s been able to exploit the incompetence of— “ His tirade was cut mercifully short by the unexpected sound of his office door swinging open.

“DCI Reith?” a quiet but confident voice called from the doorway. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but you have a call,” explained a compact, tidy brunette Peter judged to be on the backside of middle-age.

“Can’t it wait, Monica?” the DCI huffed impatiently earning himself a slightly indulgent smirk from his assistant.

"No, sir, I'm afraid it can't," she continued, completely unperturbed by his mood. “I tried to put him off, sir, but he’s insistent. He says you’ll want to hear this.” Peter noticed the slight stress the DCI’s assistant placed upon the pronoun, and he filed the detail away for later consideration.

Reith gave a reluctant nod before snatching up the receiver up with a growl. "What is it, Man? What’s so damned important that you have to speak to me now? You must have seen what happened at the Opening Ceremonies, so you know we have a situation here. The bloody video has over 85,000 views on YouTube already, at last count,” he barked, exasperation evident in his tone, but as he listened, his expression shifted minutely, from intense irritation to wary interest.

"You what?" he demanded, eyes flicking between Peter, Ian, and Alec before focusing his attention back on the call. "And you're sure of this? Absolutely positive?" he blurted out impatiently, turning away absently to gaze out the eastern window. “We’ve been over this, time and again. Just because strange things have happened in the past where he was involved, it doesn't necessarily stand to reason that it’s his doing—"

Ian chanced a sideways glance at his partner before mouthing silently 'He?' and Peter offered a bemused shrug in return.

“Yes. Yes, they did. You knew they would," the DCI huffed." He listened intently, rubbing his forehead and screwing his eyes shut. "Fine. Yes. All right, Man, all right. Point taken. I’ll do what I can,” Reith muttered as he rang off. He abruptly swung back around and dropped heavily into his chair. Crossing his arms over his chest and frowning, he looked between the frozen picture onscreen and the spitting image standing before him. “Play it again, the footage of this Dr. Smith,” he finally said to Hamish, who did as requested even as he surreptitiously lowered the audio.

"What about the girl? Are there any leads there?” DCI Reith demanded suddenly. Peter exchanged a curious glance with Ian as Alec answered smoothly.

“Ah, yes,” he said, prompting Hamish to bring up the smiling image of a young woman in her late teens. “She’s not been positively identified, but preliminary results using Aurora suggest that she might be one Rose Tyler,” Ian supplied, looking over to Ian and Peter. "She’s listed as missing and presumed dead in the aftermath of the Battle of Torchwood.” Peter’s gaze whipped up to Alec even as Ian laid a warning hand on his shoulder.

“Torchwood, eh?” Reith muttered darkly, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Man was right. The plot thickens.” Peter, Ian and Alec exchanged furtive glances as Reith seemed lost in thought. He exhaled heavily, staring off into space just long enough to ratchet up the already-tense atmosphere of the room before suddenly focusing his attention on the men before him.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said stiffly. "That will be all.”

“Yes, sir,” Ian replied, nodding to Peter and heading for the door with a tiny, triumphant quirk of his lip which only lasted until the DCI added, “Except you, DI Carlise. I’d like a word.” Peter met Ian’s suddenly-troubled gaze with an eloquent twitch of an eyebrow as he stepped back before Reith’s desk. “I’ll just wait for you downstairs, then,” Ian said quietly, hooking his thumb over his shoulder before making his exit. Alec stood and held the door as he waited for Hamish to collect the equipment they’d brought for their presentation.

Hamish glanced between Peter and Alec for confirmation as he leaned over to shut down the video feed. "Leave it, if you please,” Reith said quietly. Hamish reluctantly withdrew, Alec closing the door behind them, leaving Peter alone, standing resolutely before the DCI’s desk.

The DCI reached over and replayed the surveillance video, one eyebrow quirking up as his eyes darted between the screen and the man still standing stiffly at attention before him. “Uncanny,” Reith finally said. "The two of you could pass for brothers, if not twins. Just add a flash cut and a coat and you’re him.”

Peter took the comment as permission to relax and sniffed, rubbing at his nose. He glared uncomfortably at the man onscreen grinning like a loon before looking hurriedly away. He’d never publicly concede the point, but even he had to admit that the resemblance was striking.

Reith sat back, regarding Peter in interminable silence over steepled hands. Peter fought to remain unmoving and dispassionate, determined to wait him out. “I’m told you may have a personal interest in this case, DI Carlisle,” Reith finally commented, "beyond the obvious impertinence of the impersonation, of course.”

Peter remained silent, his face inscrutable as his mind whirled through exactly what Reith was likely to know. Between their spectacularly public spat in the Interrogation rooms and their visits to St. Stephens, his relationship with Donna was far from secret in the halls and at the water coolers of the Met, yet the particulars of their meeting were not exactly public knowledge. Even so, it was no stretch of the imagination to assume that any casually-interested observer might have drawn their own conclusions when considering the circumstantial evidence surrounding them both. Just as Peter decided that continued silence on the particulars of the matter was his wisest choice, Reith spoke again.

"Furthermore, judging from the swiftness of the Forensics team's response to the situation, despite the lack of a formal request for services, I’m fairly certain that they are aware of the personal nature of your interest in the suspect,” he probed, gesturing at the screen. As his superior officer eyed him with interest, Peter was even more convinced that keeping shtum was in the best interests of everyone involved.

Reith regarded him shrewdly, taking note of his stiff bearing, and prodded Peter once more. "If this is true, you should be aware that you and your associates tread upon dangerous ground, DI.”

Peter scowled slightly as he finally answered. “Thank ye for yer concern, DCI Reith,” he replied, struggling to maintain an impassive facade. “I’ll be cautious in my continued investigations into the matter.”

“I suspected as much,” Reith replied, mirroring his tone. “Detective Inspector, you will not take the law into your own hands and go off like some vigilante. There will be no use of department resources for personal matters. You will do nothing to publicly call the integrity of this office into dispute. Are we clear?"

"As crystal, sir," Peter replied through gritted teeth.

"That may be the way of things in Blackpool,” Reith intoned sharply "but you're in London now.”

“Aye, sir,” Peter snapped irritably. “May I go, sir? It’s late and my partner is waitin’ fer me."

DCI Reith considered the man before him, pursing his lips before speaking again. “Carlisle, though Torchwood is ostensibly gone, the name still carries weight, even now. The mere mention of it has shut down many an investigation, including this one, I’m afraid.”

“What?!?” Peter spluttered, erupting to life at his words. “Ye cannae—“

"Before your twin left the Olympic Stadium, before he’d even pulled his false credentials from his coat pocket,” Reith interrupted, riding roughshod over Peter’s rising complaints, "I received my orders from the highest level. They are absolute and unequivocal.” He fixed Peter with an ominous stare. "We are to cease any and all investigations into this matter and any organizations or persons involved, DI Carlisle, effective immediately.”

“A whole bloody stadium disappeared, then suddenly reappeared on a live, internationally-televised broadcast and we’re to pretend it didnae happen!" Peter cried in outrage. "Does no one think that, perhaps, just perhaps, SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE in the world, may have taken notice?” He paced in front of the DCI’s desk like a caged tiger, stabbing the air with his hand. "What do we do when uncomfortable questions arise, as they invariably will? When the reporters come to hound us for comments, how are we to go about the business of pretendin’ this never occurred?”

“It was all special effects, DI Carlisle, a planned part of the spectacle, kept secret from all but those involved in the illusion in order to preserve the surprise. A metaphor for the power of the games to unite us all, to draw us together,” Reith pronounced airily, observing Peter as he prowled around the office. “At least that’s the story that will be given out to the Press,” Reith added, almost as an afterthought.

“What, and we’re expected simply to go along with the charade, aye? To lie wholesale, upon command, integrity be damned?” Peter snarled as he slammed his hands down on the edge of Reith’s desk. "To deny a crime, committed before millions of witnesses the world over? And yer keepers honestly believe the public will buy this load of steamin’ horse shite?”

“Yes. Yes, they do,” Reith replied, stubbornly refusing to be affected by DI Carlisle’s obvious indignation. “And if past experience is anything to go by, the public will. It’s standard practice- obscure the truth to maintain the public order.”

“Oh, aye, there's the Met’s commitment to 'Total policing!’ ” Peter spat, launching himself off Reith's desk, flinging his hands above his head as he resumed stalking back and forth, seething with rage. “How bloody appropriate! We’re expected to contravene our personal as well as our professional code of ethics? Ay no? Because now, the true meaning of Making London safe for all the people we serve becomes glaringly obvious! It was never the general public we serve, now, was it?!” Peter came to an abrupt halt, leaning over Reith’s desk once more. "Noooo,” he drawled, shaking his head in appalled realization. “No, no, no, it was never the people of London we serve, not when Torchwood has an interest in something clearly outside the norm." He halted before the window, leaning against the frame and scowling out at the nearly empty streets below. "How this world is given to lying,” he muttered in disgust.

“Do you think this is the first time something like this has happened, DI Carlisle?” Reith declared tightly. He blinked, turning suddenly old, tired eyes on Peter. "That this is the first time this office has received an order, explicitly directing us to ignore the evidence of our senses? To be forced to lie in order to postpone the politicians having to deal with the challenge of exopolitics because they believe the public isn’t ready to accept the reality of life beyond our planet, of beings with otherworldly powers at their command?” Reith said and Peter took note of the rise in his DCI’s voice as the other man’s suppressed exasperation began to boil over his calm exterior.

“Are ye suggestin’ this was the work of ‘Little Green Men’?” Peter scoffed, turning and crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the windowsill.

“That’s a rather xenophobic oversimplification of the matter and you’re no simpleton, DI,” Reith replied hotly.

Peter glared back almost defiantly as inside he fought to reconcile his hostile reaction to the DCI’s suggestion. He’d long ago accepted that Donna had been the assistant to someone set on investigating extraterrestrials. Why, then, was it so difficult to accept that what they had been investigating might actually exist? He knew Donna suffered no fools, so it wasn’t likely she’d put up with that sort of nonsense, after all. Not without proof.

"Would you care for me to enumerate just the instances that I’ve personally had to manage at the behest of some bureaucrat intent on obfuscation rather than clarifying the real issue?” Reith offered, interrupting Peter's mental debate. "All the times this office has been complicit in ignoring the cover-up of an especially-visible UNIT operation, or worse, Torchwood’s involvement in their latest high-profile debacle?"

“It might do for a start,” Peter snapped petulantly, pushing away from the wall to face his superior.

“Where to start? The Battle of Canary Wharf, the Christmas Star episode, the draining of the Thames? My time here has been littered with these incidents,” Reith admitted bitterly, taking in the subtle shift in the DI’s attitude at the revelation.

“Ye know the truth of what happened that night, then, no?” Peter blurted out anxiously. "Christmas Eve of 2007?"

Reith’s brows knitted together as he considered his next words. “Torchwood,” he pronounced, as if that explained everything. "As a junior officer, I’d heard rumors. Everyone had, for years. Torchwood’s always been the bogeyman of law enforcement, but before being promoted, I never really believed all the cautionary tales.” He leaned forward, bracing his elbows against the desk. "I was wrong, but it took seeing it for myself before I believed. The Battle of Canary Wharf and the subsequent cover-up in the press that followed. That Christmas Star business, explained away as a freak electrical storm, despite the fact that Harold Saxon had the bloody military shooting at the thing from the streets. And in the middle of it all, Torchwood was there, before, during or after. Sometimes all three.” He shook his head in bitter recollection. "But my first personal brush with them was when the alien spacecraft crashed into the Clock Tower, early in 2006.”

“Spacecraft?” Peter interrupted, curious despite himself. He was back at the desk in two long strides. “No, the Clock Tower…..Wasnae that an attack on MI6 that went awry?” he demanded, frowning down at Reith. “I know the media was filled with crazed speculation soon after it happened, but it was proved to be the beginnin’ of a terrorist attack. An inexperienced pilot that lost control of the aircraft short of his intended target. All of London was on high alert after that, but it didnae prevent his accomplices from bombin' Downing Street and assassinatin’ —”

“That’s the explanation my predecessor was presented with and subsequently forced to provide to the press. Before my time- I wasn’t directly involved,” Reith confessed wearily, shaking his head. His eyes drifted out of focus for a moment before he snapped his gaze back to Peter. “Boxing Day, the next year, though: that was different.” He swallowed, looking away awkwardly before continuing. “My partner and I were called out on a murder investigation. Well, probable murder, rather a gruesome find, actually,” he added, almost in an aside. "It was the day after the attempted alien invasion and the Christmas mass panic, where all those people got up on the rooftops.”

“Are ye tryin’ to tell me that was real as well?” Peter blurted out, remembering waking late on Christmas morning and not seeing the news until Natalie turned on the Queen’s broadcast later in the evening. “Yer tellin’ me the flash-mob on Christmas day was part of an actual alien invasion? No some slick 'War o' the Worlds' publicity stunt, designed to encourage global unity?”

“Oh, no,” Reith’s words fairly oozed with sarcasm. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, regarding Peter curiously. “Did you really believe it was all an internet-organized event, designed to highlight how petty our differences are in the face of shared world-wide calamity, to emphasize how close we are to going over the metaphorical edge unless we all pull together and work for the common good?”

Peter felt a bit stupid in the face of Reith’s incredulous expression but went on just the same. "Even the Royal Family was up on top of Sandringham House, fer God’s sake!” he protested. When the DCI's withering gaze turned to pity, Peter demanded, “Well, what was it, then?”

Reith scratched at his nose and continued as if Peter had never spoken. “It’s Boxing Day. We get a report of a severed hand, found lying in the middle of the London Wetland Center. My partner and I think, all things considered, that it’s most probably the beginning of a murder investigation.” Reith paused, his expression turning sour. "We were sorely mistaken.” He stared past Peter into the past before shifting his gaze back to the present. He seemed to refocus on Peter for a moment, pursing his lips and nodding before continuing. "Just after we secured the crime scene, this Torchwood team swept in and announced they were taking possession of the evidence.”

“Of a severed hand?” Peter said incredulously, voice rising in both volume and pitch. “What could they possibly want with that? I thought Torchwood’s area of expertise was a bit more exotic."

“My point at the time, exactly,” Reith muttered drily. "The woman in charge, she kept going on and on about how their mandate superseded our authority. My partner and I tried to reason with her, pointing out the obvious conclusion, that finding a human hand on its own meant there was most probably a human body nearby, at best someone with a serious injury and at worst a murder victim. Whatever the case, the scene was clearly that of a crime over which she couldn’t possibly hold jurisdiction, but that didn't stop her. We received a call over the radio and that was that. Case closed." He sat quietly for a moment, lost in remembrance. "My partner was incensed. He stormed off, leaving me to to explain the situation to the ERU unit. He received an official reprimand as a result. Man was never the same after.”

Reith paused again before inhaling deeply and looking away with a frown. “That was the beginning of my unwilling involvement with Torchwood, and the end of my partner’s career advancement.”

“What d’ye mean?” Peter asked, shifting into the chair sat before the DCI’s desk. Peter’s pulse picked up as his mind whirled. Given his superior officer's first-hand experience of Torchwood and their operations, he knew he was on the verge of a discovery, that something crucial was staring him in the face and he only had to remain alert to see it. “Yer partner- what happened to him?”

“I thought it would all blow over after a time,” Reith went on as if in a trance. “But the next year, right after Christmas, he was brought in to investigate a Missing Person’s case brought by the family of the victim. It centered around HC Clements, as the missing man was one of their employees. He disappeared during the Christmas Star incident, was presumed dead, and once again, just as he began to make some headway, the MET was shut out. I’d been promoted by then, but the Bennet case was the last straw for my partner. He got a bit too close once he discovered that HC Clements was a front, actually owned by Torchwood."

“HC Clements?” Peter breathed, eyes widening with sudden understanding. “Bennet?"

“Man was fortunate, really,” Reith mused with a sigh. "Torchwood usually hid by sectioned any poor sod who had the temerity to question them, but they were in disarray after Canary Wharf and were all but decimated following HC Clements. Even so- I’m here now, and Man's still in homicide."

“Man…Manfred Cave was your partner,” Peter stated as the pieces fell into place. “Detective Cave was in charge of the investigation into the disappearance of Lance Bennet."

“Yes, he was. You see, DI, I followed orders. I kept quiet. I let it go,” Reith admitted, stroking his chin thoughtfully. He stared off into the middle distance, lost in recollection. “But not Man,” he added darkly. "He never would back down, couldn’t let things lie. So after we’d been warned off the case and our evidence confiscated, he pestered the ERU for everything they had, but virtually every shred of evidence had been confiscated. The only things left were a few digital snapshots one of the technicians took at the scene.”

“A few?” Peter interrupted, thinking of the slew of digital images he had at his disposal on the Morgan murder alone.

Reith nodded in understanding. "Remember, it was still early days for digital photography in law enforcement and the Forensics man, he’d forgotten to charge the battery,” he explained. "He was back at the van getting another when Torchwood started gathering up all the cameras. He saw what was happening, took a few quick snaps of the situation and switched out the memory card before they got to him."

“What happened to them, the pictures he took?” Peter persisted.

“Oh, the digital files became corrupted after they were placed on the department server. It was never determined if the cause was hardware failure or user error,” Reith mused with an absent wave of his hand. He fell silent then and Peter watched as Reith's memories played out in the expressions that flitted across the other man’s face. “ 'If it’s alien, it’s ours’,” he suddenly mimicked, swallowing hard and smiling without a hint of humour. “The only good thing about the whole debacle was when that damned American blew in and charmed his way past the Torchwood team.”

“American?” Peter demanded, out of his seat and leaning across the desk before he was even aware of it. “What American?” If Reith found his behavior odd, it didn’t show on his face.

"Before that infernal woman realized what he was up to, this American, looking like he’d just stepped out of one of those old newsreels from the War, he scooped up the hand from right under her nose, placed it in some kind of tank and just waltzed away." DCI Reith's smile of remembrance was dark and devoid of humor. "The look on her face when she realized he’d gone was priceless.”

An Officer and the Noble Woman, Part 47

2016-01-02T17:31:16Z

An Officer and the Noble Woman, Part 47
Author: dtstrainers
Paring: Donna Noble/Peter Carlisle
Rating: PGA for Plot Galore with a heavy seasoning of Angst throughout.
Word Count: 4,144
Disclaimer: Donna and Peter- not mine, but in my mind. It's been waaayyyyy longer than I like between chapters and I'm soooo guilty of binge-reading but not commenting for the past few months. (I'm looking shame-facedly at you, tkel_paris.) Fair warning- there be angst ahead, but the next part is almost written and I hope to return to a somewhat sane posting schedule with the new year. This last year was...interesting....but 2016 is looking so much better already. And I promise- this story will end this year. If anyone's still reading, thank you. (Especially you dm12 and serenityslady) All mistakes are my own alone an I didn't ask for any beta reading before posting. LMK if you see anything that needs correction.

Part 1 | Part 10 | Part 20.1 | Part 30 | Part 40 | Part 45

Saturday, 28 July 2012, 11:28 PM

Donna leaned forward wearily and surveyed the thinning crowd from her customary table, just right of the bar in the George. She rested her elbows on her knees, exhaling wearily as her head dropped forward on a suddenly-boneless neck. Rolling her head slowly from shoulder to shoulder before hauling herself upright and propping her forehead in her hand, she closed her eyes momentarily against the faint wave of nausea that washed over her and swore lustily under her breath.

She would have been embarrassed at her weakness had she not felt so bloody terrible. It was just sad, she decided, collapsing as she had in front of Maddie, Mairead and any and all who cared to see, but Donna consoled herself with the fact that, at least this time, she hadn’t lost consciousness. She wasn't entirely sure that the development was an improvement, however, if her headache was anything to go by. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, mentally playing back the events leading up to her most recent public humiliation. She clearly remembered clutching Peter’s hand and watching the Opening Ceremonies with dawning horror as the entire stadium full of spectators disappeared before the cameras. Donna's dread had deepened into full-blown fear when Ian and Peter naturally leapt headlong into the crisis, and her fear blossomed into outraged panic when she realized he actually intended to leave her behind. She'd known she was being unreasonable even as she argued with him, but it was the look in Peter's eyes as he’d finally turned to leave that haunted her. She’d hurt him, somehow, when she insisted that he needed her, but for the life other, she couldn’t remember exactly what she’d said in the heat of the moment.

But then Peter had called, startling her from her trance and, exactly as she’d insisted, he'd needed her. She’d been his link to the unfolding drama and just as quickly as it began, the crisis had passed. She’d laughed aloud then, with the rest of the George. She'd permitted herself the momentary luxury of sweet, vicarious relief and had almost allowed herself to hope that Peter and Ian would just turn around, that Peter would come back to her and that their evening of celebration with friends and later, on their own, might yet be salvaged.

And then, Donna made the innocent mistake of glancing back at the screen overhead. All color and sound melted out of her world as the camera found a lanky, maddeningly-familiar streak of nothing in a long coat. She stood outside of time for less than an instant, hearing Peter’s frantic voice come to her from miles away, but she was frozen, powerless to respond and when she snapped back to the present after a heartbeat’s absence, she knew it was already too late. Without meaning to, she’d stepped out of sync with him and Peter was gone.

She numbly watched as a stranger she knew streaked across the screen, carrying with him the torch he’d rescued from the fallen runner. She blinked hard, fighting to stay upright as stuttering, disjointed images of the man flashed before her eyes, full of heat and light, of hope and courage and of pain and loss. She couldn’t escape him. Every way she turned, she was surrounded by him, engulfed in an aching sense of remembrance that was just out of reach as she watched him leap up the stairs, two at a time, right up beside the Olympic Cauldron. He stretched out to light the flame and she was flooded with that frustrating sense of recognition as he turned to grin at the crowd, whooping like a madman while the flames filled the night sky behind him. When Mairead tackled her an instant later, shrieking Peter’s name in secondhand triumph, Donna wondered how anyone could manage to mistake the great big floppy-haired dumbo poncing about onscreen for her sweetly serious DI. Honestly, there was simply no comparison between the two of —

The next thing she knew, she found herself sitting in a heap on the floor with her head between her knees. Lewis had appeared from behind the bar to stop her tipping over, instructing her to breathe deeply as Mairead ordered everyone who’d surged forward to get back and mind their own ruddy business.

Donna vaguely remembered the darkness pressing down upon her as she struggled to gulp down great lungfuls of air. She’d closed her eyes to ward off the cacophony that suddenly rose around her and confused and disoriented, she wondering what all the ruckus she could hear, but not see, was about. It wasn’t until Maddie’s voice cut through the haze of pain in her head that she knew.

“Yes. Yes, I have a medical emergency,” Maddie had said in a strong, clear voice with only a tiny tremor to betray the stress of the situation. “It’s my friend, she’s just—“

Donna'd shocked everyone, including herself, when she snatched the phone from Maddie’s grasp, pressing it to her own ear and forcing out brightly, “No, no, no, my friend’s being overcautious. I’m just lightheaded with excitement and I tripped over my own feet, but I’ll be fine. No need to send anyone, really, and I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry for the inconvenience.“ She rang off and slumped back to the floor, blinking furiously to clear her head. “No ambulance,” she mumbled as she offered the mobile back to Maddie apologetically. When Maddie opened her mouth to argue the point, Donna closed her eyes wearily and leaned back against the astonished Lewis. “I promise, I’ll be fine. I am fine, Maddie, really. Lewis, just help me off the floor and give me a mo, yeah?"

That had been exactly six minutes and twenty-eight seconds ago. Donna reckoned that six minutes and twenty-eight seconds was a perfectly reasonable approximation of an idiomatic moment and set about the business of prying one eye open. She slowly surveyed the pub, offering up a self-deprecating smile to any anxious face she encountered along the way. She finally looked round to find Lewis eyeing her warily from the near end of the bar and Maddie, stood halfway to the loo where she’d been waylaid into conversation by a clearly anxious Mairead. Donna couldn't miss Mairead’s furtive glances her way and she had half a mind to get up and rescue Maddie, to assure Mairead that her nearly-fainting spell had passed and that it was no good fussing over her any further. Unfortunately for Maddie, at the present time, the other half of Donna's mind wouldn’t allow her to attempt anything quite so foolhardy as standing, so instead she remained stranded in her seat, praying that the pounding in her head would finally cease and this little drama would pass without further incident. So intent was she on remaining upright and keeping down the contents of her stomach that Donna completely missed the march of approaching footsteps.

“Well, you certainly look like death warmed up,” a voice as grating as fingernails on a blackboard sneered and Donna rolled her head back in her hand, just far enough to make out a face swimming in and out of focus, framed in a wreath of bottle-blonde hair. Donna blinked slowly and looked at the vague shape beside the pale yellow fury. She rolled her eyes as it resolved into the image of a young man who, in her considered opinion, looked barely out of his teens. He shifted uncomfortably on the spot, trying to subtly inch away from the table, all the while remaining tethered in place by Nerys' implacable grip on his hand.

“Oh, thanks for that, Nerys,” Donna finally drawled, pushing away from the table to give herself the needed momentum to swing her hair out of her face and over her shoulder. She instantly regretted that tiny bit of bravado. “It’s good to know I can always count on you for support in my hour of need, no matter what.” Donna closed her eyes again and sat up straight, determined to see Nerys off before she lost what little she’d eaten in spectacular fashion.

“What’s wrong with you?” Nerys continued, her nose wrinkling in disgust. "Too much to drink in celebration?" she spat contemptuously. She dropped into the chair opposite Donna without releasing her hold on her date who remained standing awkwardly beside her. Donna’s eyes flicked up to his nervous face, sizing him up before pointedly ignoring him.

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Donna replied as a weary half-smile of derision worked its way across her face. “Sorry to spoil your exclusive bit of gossip, Nerys, but I’ve not been drinking tonight. Our celebrations were cut short, obviously,” she said, indicating the empty seats around her. She grimaced involuntarily and pressed the heels of her hands to her temples to ease the deafening pounding of her heart in her ears.

“Well, I imagine it’s not advisable in your condition, anyway,” Nerys sniffed under her breath, rolling her shoulders as she settled in for the task at hand. Sensing he was about to be reluctant witness to an epic clash of titans and proving he had more IQ points than Donna would have credited him with, Nerys’ date seized on the opportunity.

“You, uhm,…you ladies seem to have some…, er, private business to discuss,” he stammered, hooking his free thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll just wait over there, shall I, Nerys?" He extricated himself from her clutches with visible effort and retreated to a table just inside the front door. When the boy was finally out of earshot, Donna spoke once more.

“All right, Nerys, cut it,” Donna said tightly. "I’m sorry I didn’t go find you tonight and invite you and your date over to congratulate Maddie and Ian on their engagement. Is that what you want me to say?”

“As if,” Nerys sniffed, waving her hand about haughtily. “I didn't need you tonight. I've got company of my own. And you didn’t have to set your pretty little police dog on me to keep me away.” She leaned forward, enjoying the tiny twitch in Donna's cheek as she laid her hands on the table before her, staring Donna defiantly in the face. "I couldn’t care less about another wedding, especially when it’s the wedding of your posh new friends,” she stated, biting off each word precisely.

“Yeah? Well, what the bloody hell are you prattling on about then?” Donna demanded, her headache forgotten in the wake of her mounting ire. “And make it quick, yeah?,” she added, taking a dismissive gander at Nerys’ date. "That boy’s out past his curfew. Don’t want his mum barging in here havin’ to look for him."

Nerys ignored the jibe with practiced ease, cocking her head to the side and regarding Donna coyly. “Really, Donna, why all the mystery? Why didn’t you just say it was him in the first place?” she hissed as she slithered closer, sliding smoothly into the chair Madeline had recently vacated. "Was it part of some police operation? I'll just bet it was all strictly undercover,” she sniggered with a knowing leer.

Donna closed her eyes and fought the urge to shake her head in disbelief. “The only mystery here is why I put up with your gobshite in the first place, Nerys," Donna snarled in frustration.   "Stop playin’ silly games, say what you’ve got to say and get on with it!” She opened her eyes again to fix Nerys with a baleful glare, the effect of which was only slightly spoiled when she winced at the light.

“Fine,” Nerys snapped back, flipping her blonde tresses angrily and stabbing a finger in Donna’s direction. "Why didn’t you tell me this Peter Carlisle was really your Dr. Smith all along? I knew I’d seen him before, but he pulled a Clark Kent with those ridiculous glasses and the tight suits and all. I know its been nearly four years, but did you honestly think we were all so thick that someone wouldn’t recognize him eventually?"

“What?” Donna roared, her sudden indignation blazing away the remains of her migraine. "Are you mental? Until four months ago, I’d never even laid eyes on Peter before in my life!” Her gaze narrowed dangerously as she replayed Nerys’ accusations in her head. "And just how exactly do you know anythin’ about Dr. Smith?” From the corner of her eye, she saw Maddie and Mairead turn to her curiously. Mairead shifted her stance, preparing to march over to the Throne Room but when her eyes met Donna’s warning glare, she hesitated.

“Oh, come off it, Donna,” Nerys scoffed, rolling her eyes and waving her hand scornfully, oblivious to the silent communications over her head. "After you pulled your hocus-pocus disappearin’ act, leaving poor Lance at the alter, you came swannin’ in to the reception with him in tow,” she sniffed, disdain dripping from every word.

“You mean MY reception? You think Peter was at...?” Donna blinked, taken aback. “Nooooooooo,” she breathed, realization dawning. “You. Are. Kidding. Me.” She sat back heavily, scouring her spotty memory and came up, wincing, with only a vague memory of Christmas baubles and brown pinstripes. She cocked her jaw to the side and regarded Nerys through narrowed eyes. "You mean you actually saw a man that looked like Peter- Dr. Smith- at my wedding?”

“Only at the reception, and if you must insist it wasn’t him, then yes,” Nerys replied with a truly epic roll of her eyes.

"With me?” Donna persisted, pointing at herself.

“I said so, didn’t I?” Nerys whined.

"You’re sure?” Donna demanded, accepting Nerys’ weary sigh as confirmation. “I know I was with Dr. Smith later that same day, but Mum and Gramps never mentioned him bein’ there and I don’t rememb —“

“Oh, for God’s sake, give it a rest, Donna," Nerys interrupted indignantly, losing patience with the conversation. "Is that what you really wanna go with here? That tired old 'I have amnesia' crap?”

“Tired? Old?” Donna bellowed, gripping the sides of the table hard enough that her nails left indentions in the varnish. "Nerys, I swear, if you so much as THINK one more word, so help me, I'll smack you so hard, you won’t be able to roll those beady little eyes of yours at anyone ever again cos they’re gonna pop right out of your skull!” She finished on a roar that echoed across the suddenly silent pub.

Nerys ignored the outburst from habit as she thumbed her mobile to life, smugly flicking away at the screen. “Just met him this April, yeah? Explain this, then,” she crowed, shoving her phone across the table at Donna.

“You have pictures from my almost-wedding of more than four years ago on your mobile?” Donna said disdainfully, disbelief etched on her features as she snatched the phone up from the table. As she looked at the photo, she realized the scenario shouldn’t have surprised her as much as it did. After all, Nerys never threw away a flattering photo of herself and, as far as Nerys was concerned, every picture ever taken of her was flattering. Donna glimpsed the image displayed there and heaved an exasperated sigh. In the middle of a candid photo of all the bridesmaids, Nerys sat, her head cocked to the side, lips parted invitingly, eyes halfway closed in a sultry, come hither pose. “Oh, a picture of you, flirting with the camera. Why am I not in the least little bit surprised?” she drawled, rolling her eyes in disgust. "I fail to see what this…”

Donna paused mid-sentence as she prepared to toss the mobile back to Nerys but something in the background of the photo caught her eye. She studied the screen, barely making out the image of a familiar form, clad in a tight brown suit before flicking impatiently to the next snapshot. She squinted a bit at the photo of her dancing with Lance, Veena beside them being dipped by her partner.   In the background, Donna thought she could just barely make out the desolate expression on Dr. Smith’s face as he leaned against the bar, watching from the shadows and the barb Donna had been preparing to fling at Nerys died on her lips.

"I was at home on my computer, looking through my pictures to update my profile,” Nerys gloated, “and I just happened to find those. I transferred them back to my mobile.” She leaned forward, crossing her arms on the table with a self-satisfied smirk. “So, Donna, to use your boyfriend’s lingo, in the face of this new evidence, do you care to update your story?"

"I don’t have any pictures from that day,” Donna confessed absently, still staring at the photo. "Mum and Gramps said the photographer didn’t have any. His camera was lost, destroyed in the confusion of the attack. I don’t remember this,” she murmured her voice wavering as she studied the slightly out of focus figure in the background, more to herself than for Nerys’ benefit.

Nerys continued with a smile the Cheshire cat would envy. "I told you. I still can't believe you had the nerve to drag him in there- Peter or Dr. Smith or whatever his name is- not after you pulled your little disappearing act to get out of marrying Lance.” Her voice dropped and she added, almost as an aside, “God only knows why you wanted to leave Lance, considering what you‘ve taken up with now.”

Donna’s hand trembled and she looked back to Nerys in confusion. Sensing victory, Nerys smiled cruelly, snapping her eyes back to Donna as she took up her verbal assault once more. “In the confusion after the terrorist attack, the three of you just disappeared and no one ever saw Lance again, dead or alive. Convenient, that,” Nerys simpered. “You never were a suspect, were you, in whatever happened to Lance?” she added, drawing lazy patterns on the table with her fingertip. "The police just took took you at your word when you told them... what? The DI had uncovered some terrorist plot where you worked and the three of you went in to try and save all of London? When HC Clement flooded, Lance drowned and his body was swept away? That you and the good Detective Inspector were lucky to have escaped with your lives?”

“Not one single word of that is true,” Donna breathed, staring in shock across the table at the woman she’d once considered her best friend. Every phrase had been delivered with a calculated dose of disbelief which mounted with each accusation and now Nerys raised one hand to examine her manicure with exaggerated care.

“And how would you know, Little Miss I-Have-Amnesia?” she shot back airily. "I guess taking that lanky streak of piss on as your lover had some benefits after all.”

Before Donna could recover from the vehemence of Nerys’ sudden attack, Nerys dropped her hand to the table and leaned in close, her eyes glinting with malevolence. “You’re nobody, Donna, and we both know it. Those terrorists at your reception? They weren’t after you. They were after him. So what is he, really, and where’s he been all this time? You can tell me, Donna. I know you were already doing the dirty on Lance with him even then, weren’t you, and that’s why the two of you had to get rid of Lance.”

“Excuse me,” Donna barked, reeling back in disbelief. “What. Did. You. Just. Say?” she demanded, punctuating each word with dramatic circles drawn in thin air. “Just what, exactly, are you accusin’ -?"

“But Peter…Dr. Smith… whatever,” Nerys went on theatrically, drawing ever closer to the vicious bombshell she’d been waiting months to deliver, “he got you up the duff, didn’t he? Mooky figured you had a bun in the oven and there was no way you could pass the baby off as his. That’s why you were so keen on leaving poor Lance after you'd hounded him into marryin' you in the first place. Peter, he shows up at your wedding and it’s all 'Goodbye to Lance'! You left him at the alter, but you bein’ you, you had to make some bloody big scene about it where you got to play the victim.”

“You are barking mad, Nerys,” Donna marveled, shaking her head as she sat back heavily in her seat. “You’ve officially gone off and lost it. You’ve gone completely bonkers. You need help, psychiatric help,” she insisted angrily. “Now why don’t you just sling your flamin’ hook and leave me be?”

“But gettin’ pregnant didn’t work out, did it?” Nerys mocked, smiling disparagingly. "Because when he found out, Peter legged it. So you ‘lost’ his baby, isn’t that right? Is that why you disappeared for a year?"

"I’m giving you once chance, Nerys. Just one,” Donna warned, her tone suddenly flat and strangely dispassionate. “Leave now. I’ll assume you were drunk, or joking, albeit in extremely poor taste."

"Then you went and won the lottery, and look who came traipsing back to you now that you have money!” Nerys crowed. "And this time, he’s got you right where he wants you. Look at you: you’re preggers again, aren’t you? That’s what all these 'fainting spells' are about. You’d best be careful with this one if you want to keep it and keep Peter- a woman of your age and all,” Nerys added, affecting a coy smile.

"You have officially gone too far,” Donna stated. “Nerys, we’re done here. We’re through. Get out.”

“This is a public house, I can be here if I want to,” Nerys shrugged casually. “Tell me I’m wrong, Donna. Lie and tell me I’m wrong. Or should I just text those pictures to Peter now? If it’s him, he might scarper again, knowing that he’s been sussed. If it’s not him, how is he goin’ to respond, findin’ out he’s a stand-in for another man?"

Donna ignored her, standing and stepping around the table. "Peter was right about you. You can’t be happy unless you make the lives of everyone around you a right old misery,” she stated quietly. “He told me-"

“You think your precious little Peter doesn’t like me, is that what he told you? That’s not what his eyes say when you’re not lookin',” Nerys preened, tugging her shirt low and tight across her breasts. “You just wait. Wait til you blow up like a Zeppelin and we’ll see what happens then. Best keep him on a tight leash, Donna. Peter will-“

"You’re not fit to even say his name,” Donna cut her off ruthlessly. "You're a cancer, Nerys, a disease, bent on destroying everythin' good in my life.” She leaned in close enough to smell the Glacier Mint on her breath. "We’re done. Get out of my life, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay out of it.”   Donna stood straight, crossing her arms and fixing Nerys with a stare cold enough to cause freezer burn. “Leave, now,” she added, indicating the door with a lift of her eyebrows.

“The George doesn't belong to you!” Nerys exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. “You don’t own it. You don’t control me and you can't toss me out!"

"No, but I can," Lewis said, appearing behind her. "Get out of my pub.”

The room behind him exploded in jeers and catcalls and Donna blinked. Their voices may not have carried, but there was no mistaking their body language, and she suddenly realized their very private conversation had gone terribly public.

Nerys must have come to the very same conclusion because she seized her bag and threw it over her shoulder, jerking her arm away as Lewis made to hustle her towards the door. "As if a man who looks like that would ever just choose someone like you,” Nerys spat contemptuously before turning on her heel and snatching up her bemused escort as she stalked out of the pub.

Stunned silence rang out in Nerys' wake as Donna plopped gracelessly into her seat, trying to process what had just happened. The quiet that had descended upon the George stretched uncomfortably, almost morphing into awkwardness until Lewis announced, loud enough for all to hear, “Oh, Donna, you have no idea how much I've always wanted to say that.” At that, the spell was broken and the George descended once more into a dull, cacophonous roar, Mairead and Madeline hurrying back to her side. As her friends unleashed a barrage of questions, Donna looked up to find Lewis, still smiling at her and making a show of dusting off his hands as he headed back behind the bar.

Part 1 | Part 10 | Part 20.1 | Part 30 | Part 40 | Part 45

Let the Epic Happy Dance Commence

2015-10-26T10:37:39Z

Ten and Donna!!!
It's about damned time Donna got some official love! Look at the third title in the series and get your keyboards ready!

http://www.doctorwhonews.net/2015/10/tenth-doctor-and-donna-team-up-for-big.html?m=1

Oh, Goody....

2015-10-20T10:40:04Z

I was just getting ready to post the next chapter of AOATNW, when a neglected character insisted on a subplot that ties in nicely.

Damn.

Let the revisions commence.

AAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

2015-10-17T22:51:47Z

I am currently running around in little, happy Fangirl circles.

Watch Doctor Who tonight to find out why.

Flashbacks and significant lines and fanfic starters, Oh, MY!!!!

Oh, please, oh, please, oh, PLEASE!

2015-08-09T12:58:31Z

Let the rumor mill churn away in sublime happiness:

Warning! Here there be possible spoilers for Season Nine...

An Officer and the Noble Woman, Part 46

2015-08-07T02:25:56Z

An Officer and the Noble Woman, Part 46

Author: dtstrainers

Paring: Donna Noble/Peter Carlisle

Co-Captain of this Ship: whosintheattic, for getting me started on this, but all errors are mine alone.
First Mate: The lovely serenityslady has graciously offered her awesome beta reader skills. Thanks always for the support and suggestions.

Rating: PGA for Plot Galore with a heavy seasoning of Angst towards the end.

Word Count: a surprising 7,468 words.
Disclaimer: Donna and Peter- not mine, but in my mind. If anyone's still reading, thank you. It's been longer than I like between chapters. Just a warning- we're going on an angst-fest for awhile.

Part 1 | Part 5 | Part 10 | Part 15 | Part 20.1 | Part 25 | Part 30 | Part 35.1 | Part 40 | Part 45

Friday, 27 July 2012, 6:40 PM

“So then Maddie turns to me and she said she needed to get a new shirt for Ian to wear to the opening gala and before we knew it, it just sort of grew into this massive shopping extravaganza,” Donna chattered, practically skipping down the sidewalk in her enthusiasm.

"Is this becomin’ a habit with the two of ye? Should I be concerned?” he asked, clearly smitten with her exuberance and smiling to himself, as they made their way hand in hand down the Chiswick high road, her lively recounting of her day’s activities washing over him. The street was bustling with people making their way to wherever they’d planned to spend this historic Friday evening and Peter found himself wondering just how overcrowded they’d find the George when they finally arrived.

“Well, yeah, when I do go shoppin’, it’s usually with Nerys, but this was different, wasn’t it?” Donna continued, gesturing madly with her free hand. "It was just so nice, goin’ out with someone who didn't expect anythin’. When Maddie oohed and ahhed over somethin’, it wasn’t a one-way ticket to a guilt trip into buyin’ it for her,” she explained earnestly. "We didn’t plan it, not really. We were leaving a plannin' meetin' for the charity gala to celebrate Urban Scrawl's project launch and it started pourin’ down buckets. We ducked into the nearest open shop which turned out to be Crombie's and we hadn’t been there five minutes when Maddie turns to me and says, 'Donna, I know Ian. He’s got one good suit and he wears it until it’s nearly fallin' apart. If we’re to do this thing properly, he’s goin' to need more than just that.’ “

Peter snickered and gave Donna a lopsided grin. “If I were to hazard a guess, dependin’ on her definition of ‘good’, I’d have to agree with Maddie's assessment,” he admitted. "Ian is a practical man. What with our line of work and his social calendar, there’s little cause for anythin’ beyond one actual suit.”

“That’s exactly what she said,” Donna crowed, not bothering to stifle a guffaw even as she pulled Peter closer to dodge around a couple with a pushchair. "So I told her she was just anglin’ for permission to go and buy somethin’ she wanted to see him in, and she laughed and the next thing I know, we're pickin' out suits and ties and shirts, and then we charged ahead, looking at shoes and overcoats and accessories!” She glanced over her shoulder at Peter quickly to gauge his reaction as she plowed on. "I mean, we picked out a simply obscene amount of clothes, Policeman, enough for an entire year for GQ’s bloody Best Dressed list, for God’s sake. We were comparin' colors, you know, to make sure the four of us wouldn’t clash, and then we’re schedulin' appointments for fittings. It was just the maddest thing-"

Peter stopped mid-stride as something Donna said brought him up short. “Wait…what?” he asked, pulling her. "The four of us? What d’ye mean, schedulin' fittings? For Ian, right?”

“Well, duh,” she laughed, mock-punching him on the shoulder as she prepared to launch them back into the crowd once more. "For you and Ian, of course.”

“Fer the both of us?” Peter squeaked and at the sound of his voice, Donna turned to him and the smile fell from her face.

“Peter, what’s wrong?” she asked as the crowd began to surge around them.

“Well, it’s just…” he began awkwardly, searching for the right words and rubbing at the back of his neck. He chewed his lip for a moment before chancing a look at her.

“What? What is it?” Donna demanded, her sudden misgivings hidden beneath a cocked eyebrow and a cascade of crimson.

“I dinnae want ye to do that, Donna,” he exhaled, dropping his hand from his neck and frowning at his feet. He looked up at her suddenly. “I dinnae want—"

“Oh, Peter, I’m rushin' you again, aren’t I?” she murmured, reaching out as though to touch his arm but then pulling back at the last possible second. “Me buyin’ you clothes, without even askin’, it’s too familiar, isn’t it?”

“Donna, —“ Peter said gently in an attempt to stem the oncoming rush of insecurity.

"I just, you know, assumed and I, I, I never asked,” she stammered over his attempt to speak, plucking at an invisible thread on her sleeve. “It’s just that I know my own wardrobe needs sprucin’ up— ”

“Don-na —” he tried again, to no avail as she plowed ahead.

“And then Maddie's so excited,” she rattled on nervously, staring down at her feet to avoid his eyes as she madly gestured about, "and I mean, yeah, Ian has to go to all these openings and parties now, doesn’t he, what with them gettin’ engaged and all, but that doesn’t mean you have to, it’s perfectly fine if you don’t and—“

Peter blinked and grasped her shoulders, turning to face her fully. “What?” he blurted out, his mind tripping over her hurried rush of words.

“What, what?” she asked, gaping at him in confusion.

“What was that about Ian and Maddie gettin’ engaged?” Peter demanded, grasping at the one coherent concept he could pluck from her torrent of babble.

"Well, nearly engaged,” Donna amended, blanching and taking a half-step back, barely pausing for breath before rabbiting on again. "I mean, it's not formal or anythin', not yet, he just blurted it out after supper Wednesday night, didn’t he?"

“What?” Peter repeated, feeing a bit stupid as he tried once more to assimilate the wild rush of information coming from the woman before him into some sort of coherent whole. He reached out and caught her by the arms and side-stepped them up against the bakery window, completely out of the flow of foot traffic. “What are ye on about, a ghrá?"

“Ian asked Maddie to marry him,” Donna said bluntly. She cocked her head to the side and regarded Peter curiously for a moment before continuing. "She said he’s been twitchy around her for days now and when they were out havin’ a curry Wednesday night, Ian was so nervous, he hammered back four beers before dinner even arrived. Then, when they finally did get served, he passed her the naan and tried to casually slip it into the conversation.” She popped her hands up, waving them about on either side of her face and launched into an exaggerated imitation of Ian’s baritone. “He was all ‘Oh here, Maddie, this naan is fantastic and would you please consider marrying me?’ and Maddie nearly choked on her vindaloo, didn’t she! When she could breathe again, she told him that if he came back with a ring, then the answer would be yes, because she’d know he was serious and had thought it out properly and it wasn’t just the beer talkin',” Donna explained, glad to have something to sidetrack their own conversation. “She told him that otherwise, she'd just pretend it never happened," Donna added, her growing concern colouring her voice. “You didn’t know?” she nudged when Peter stood there staring off into the distance, eyes unfocused and his tongue pressed up behind slightly-parted teeth.

"Well, that explains that," Peter mused to himself, gently running his hands up and down her arms, nodding absently. “No,” he finally responded, looking down at her. “No, he didnae say anythin’, but I did suspect that somethin’ of the sort was comin'. Ian took an overlong lunch by himself yesterday and when he got back, he spent the better part of the day frantically pattin' himself down, checkin' that no one had had picked his pockets in the five minutes previous.” He found himself smiling at the memory now that the mystery was solved.

“And he didn’t say anything today?” Donna asked incredulously.

“I didnae see him today,” Peter admitted. “The both of us were landed in last-minute briefings concernin' updates to security arrangements at the various Olympic venues and the emergency procedures in place in the event of any major disturbances. Ian was assigned as backup for the Opening Ceremonies tonight." He sighed morosely and scratched at his nose before sniffing loudly. "I drew the Aquatics Centre and Synchronized Swimming next week," he admitted and Donna had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing at his expression. "No that there have been any credible threats to the games, mind, and even if there were, it’s highly unlikely that anyone from our department would be called in, but with somethin' of this size and nature, better safe than sorry.” He fell silent, rubbing at his jaw.

"But Donna, about that fittin'…” he finally drawled, scratching at his ear.

Donna watched warily as she mentally replayed their conversation, her heart galloping madly as she waited for the inevitable. She took a deep breath and tried to hide it, looking down at his hands still on her arms. “It’s alright, Peter,” she assured him preemptively. "I’ll call and cancel. Like I said, I shouldn’t have assumed that just because I have to go to some posh shindig, you’d want to co —"

“No,” Peter interrupted firmly. "It’s no that. I want to be with you, wherever ye go. It’s just, ye dinnae have to shop for me. I’m perfectly capable of purchasin' whatever is required so as not to embarrass—“

"Policeman, I’m not embarrassed, not by you!" she exclaimed. "You could show up in jeans and trainers and your ratty old sweatshirt and I’d still be proud to have you with me. I just….I got carried away is all, shopping with Maddie and I know how nervous I am about this whole thing, not having the proper clothes and bein’ around all these fancy people and I thought, well, new clothes might help make you feel more comfortable there, too. I mean, my own wardrobe is sorely lackin' the appropriate attire. There’s just not much call for a temp to get all gussied up and hang about with Lord and Lady Muck and it’s not like I run with a crowd that requires-"

"Donna, stop. It’s no that. No a’tall,” he assured her with a shake of his head. "It was thoughtful of ye and I appreciate it, but the fact of the matter is that I’m no with ye for yer money.”

“I never thought you were,” Donna said, cocking her head to the side and fixing Peter with an incredulous stare. “Where on Earth did that idea come from?”

“Where did it come from? Well...,” he prevaricated, mentally grasping about for the proper words, bouncing his head back and forth for a moment before giving in. “From about six miles over yonder,” he admitted with a vaguely awkward gesture.

“I’m sorry?” Donna blurted out, staring at him as though he’d gone barmy.

"It’s yer mum, actually,” he finally sighed.

“My. Mum?” she enunciated, clearly not expecting that response.

“That first night I met yer family, properly, at dinner, it’s somethin’ she said to me when you and Wilf were gettin' acquainted with the baby,” Peter said almost bashfully. "She…she accused me of courtin’ ye for yer money and it’s bothered me ever after. I was fair affronted that she could think that, and more than a mite angry,” he confessed, studying the sidewalk beneath his feet. He abruptly straightened, looking at Donna earnestly. “I’ll no give her cause...I just dinnae want a repeat of…,” he stammered in frustration. He stopped again, closing his eyes and shaking his head before taking a deep, calming breath. When he finally opened his eyes, his voice was steady and determined. “I’ll no have her disrespectin’ ye that way again on my account, thinkin’ I’m only with ye for financial gain,” he vowed. “No if I can help it."

“What?” Donna repeated, her voice softening as understanding dawned. He took her by the arm and led her away from the crowds, just around the corner and into the alleyway.

“Of course I want to go with ye,” he whispered fervently, moving in close and gently squeezing her arms. “Yer foundation and yer work with Maddie are important and I want to be there with ye. I’m happy to get whatever ye deem necessary, no matter the expense. Ye dinnae have to kit me out to….to…to bribe me to escort ye, ye know,” he asserted.

“Oh, Policeman,” Donna breathed, “you really don’t get it, do you? It’s not a bribe. It makes me happy to fuss over you a bit. It’s nice to have someone to shop for.”

“Donna, I’ll keep the appointment, but if my wardrobe isnae up to the necessary standard for events of the type ye’ll be attendin', ye're t'tell me,” he persisted, locking her in place under his intense gaze. “And I’ll be the one to bear the expense. Aye?”

“All right, you stubborn prawn. You win- for now,” Donna laughed, prodding him in the ribs before linking her arm in his and stepping back into the pedestrian traffic. “Whatever you want."

“Besides,” he added almost petulantly, “I do have a kilt, ye know, for formal occasions….”

“You do?” she said, stopping dead again, much to the consternation of the man following who nearly plowed into her from behind. He huffed and made a theatrical display of stepping around them which Donna pointedly ignored. “I didn’t see it in your wardrobe when we were movin’ your clothes,” she said thoughtfully, cocking her head to the side with a frown. “And you weren’t wearin’ one in your weddin' photos.”

Peter scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Well,” he drawled, “that was Rosslyn’s doing. She didnae approve. She wanted a more modern ceremony.”

"But that’s not right, Peter!” Donna cried, indignant on his behalf.

"Well, they say the weddin’ is for the bride and the weddin' night is for the groom,” he said with an awkward grin as he started them off towards their destination once more, throwing his arm about her shoulders and pulling her close as she fell in step beside him.

"No,” Donna declared emphatically, frowning. “No. A. Wedding," she said, coming to a full stop and emphasizing each word with a twitch of her head, "is a ceremony that joins two lives. It should be a celebration for both parties. It’s a meldin' of traditions and should reflect the tastes and backgrounds of both partners.” She blushed furiously as she realized she was lecturing Peter on the subject of weddings. “Anyway," she blustered on, “I'll call to confirm the appointment for the fittin’.” She chanced looking up at Peter through her lashes and he smiled his approval, giving her hand a squeeze. Donna nodded and forced her eyes forward. “Then we’ll figure out what you like and we’ll argue then over who’s payin’ for what.” She paused just outside the door of the George, hand on the handle as she spoke. "But for the inaugural gala, I’d really like it if you'd wear your kilt,” she finished quietly without daring to look at him.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Peter answered without hesitation.

"What’s that, Policeman?” she asked.

Peter leaned in close under the guise of opening the door for them both. “I’ll wear the kilt if you promise to wear the same under yers as I do mine,” he breathed, letting his lips brush her ear and setting her pulse to racing.

“So it’s true then, what they say?!” she demanded, turning wide-eyed to him as he waved across the crowded pub to Ian and Maddie, already sat in their customary spot. “I mean, a True Scotsman really…?” She trailed off, waving her hand awkwardly before her own midsection.

“Weeellll,” he drawled, taking her hand and favoring Donna with a naughty wink, “Let’s just say that no true Scotsman would pass up an opportunity such as this.”

Peter navigated the throngs of people crowding the George, towing Donna behind and side-stepping several patrons who had stopped to watch the live coverage of the Olympic torch’s progression through the streets of London. She clasped his hand a bit tighter and as he glanced back at her in question, Donna was relieved to see him smiling despite the commotion. He plunged ahead, breaking free of the masses at the edge of the Throne Room. Peter barely had time to register that Ian and Maddie had ordered the first round when the general cacophony of the pub was suddenly rent by a matching pair of girlish shrieks.

“Did West Ham win the World Cup again and no one saw fit t’ tell me?” Peter quipped, reaching across the table to shake hands with a grinning Ian even as he tugged at his now nearly-deafened ear.

“Something a bit more improbable than that, mate,” Ian replied, standing just in time to be tackled by a blur of red and engulfed in an enthusiastic hug.

“Oh, Ian, Ian, Ian, I’m so happy for you!” Donna cried, giving him a quick peck on the cheek before abruptly releasing him and grabbing Maddie’s left hand once more. “Maddie, it’s gorgeous!” she breathed, examining the elegant sweep of gold sat upon the third finger of her left hand. An impressive solitaire was cupped between the ends of the band and the whole was channel-set with diamond baguettes in an almost architectural design. Maddie wiggled her finger slightly to set the light in the stones to dancing and Donna beamed at her friend. "Oh, you have to tell me just everythin’!” she cried, plopping down into the chair beside the beaming bride-to-be, leaving Peter to occupy himself with Maddie’s intended.

“Obviously, congratulations are in order,” Peter said drily, shaking Ian’s hand before pulling the remaining chair around the table to sit beside his friend. “And a word to the wise: for yer own sake and the safety of those around ye, no more disparaging cracks about West Ham, aye?” he added under his breath with a tiny nod of warning in Donna’s direction. Ian’s lips twitched into a knowing smile before Donna’s squeal of delight brought him back to the present and Peter suspected the man's face might actually split in two if his grin grew any larger.

“So that’s what ye were up to at lunch, aye? Ye could’ve warned me, man,” Peter said, watching the two women across the table as Maddie recounted the details of Ian’s proposal.

“So when I answer the door, Ian’s there, and he’s so pale, I’m positive he’s about to pass out on the threshold, and before I can even get a word out, he says, 'About last night,' and I’m absolutely sure he’s about to brush it off with an excuse about being a bit pissed when he pulls out this tiny little box and drops to one knee and actually says to me, “Would you, Madeline Pryor, do me the extraordinary honour, and be my wife?” Maddie gushed to Donna, admiring the ring shining on her own finger.

“Oh, Maddie, he didn’t?! It’s like somethin’ straight out of the movies!” Donna crowed, turning in her seat to slap Ian’s shoulder fondly. "That’s just brilliant! I’m so happy for the both of you.” She took Maddie’s hand and held it up to the light, twisting it slightly so that the central stone flashed and winked. “Oh, he gave this more than a passin’ thought. It suits you perfectly.” She turned back to Ian, grinning in delight. "Who’d have thought it? Oh, Ian, I had you all backwards. I always thought of you as a bit of a lemon, but I was wrong! You’re a sherbet lemon, aren’t you! All puckery and hard and sour on the outside but all the while hiding a bit of fizzy sweetness inside!” She smacked his arm again before turning her attention back to Maddie, leaving a bemused Ian to nurse his battered arm.

“Trust me, mate: it was meant as a complement,” Peter assured him, smirking as Ian instinctively flinched away from his attacker's animated conversation with Maddie.

“You’re goin’ to have to register that thing with the CAA as a flight hazard, you do know,” Donna teased as Maddie continued to admire the stones winking and flashing in the light. “Passin’ planes are gonna think you’re a landin’ beacon!” She reached over and took Maddie’s hand in her own, thinking that the shine of the ring was nothing compared to the light in the other woman's eyes.

“You want to try it on?” Maddie offered, extending her hand towards Donna who immediately demurred.

“Oh, no. No, no, no, I couldn’t," she murmured, shaking her head and blushing slightly, “It wouldn’t be right.”

“Oh, go on, then,” Maddie encouraged, slipping the ring off her finger and offering it up on her outstretched palm. “Just to see what it looks like?”

Donna reached for the proffered engagement ring and slowly slipped it on, holding it up for her friend to see. “It’s just gorgeous,” she murmured, admiring the play of light across the gleaming surface and Maddie noted that Donna made a point of not so much as glancing across the table at Peter. She looked down at the borrowed promise around her finger and her smile faltered. “But it looks so much better on you,” Donna said as she carefully handed it back to Madeline. She swallowed and glanced away before asking brightly, “Have you set the date?” and the two of them were off chattering away about possible arrangements.

The exchange wasn’t lost on the men across the table. “Soooo, where’s the torch, then?” Ian asked, leaning back slightly to look at the screen set overhead. “Ah, it’s just outside Stratford. Won’t be long now.”

Peter nodded noncommittally, gripping his pint and toying with the handle. He took a long drink and when he lowered the glass, Ian was waiting.

“Out with it. What’re you thinking?” he murmured, checking to see that Maddie and Donna were still deep in conversation.

“Ye’ve set the bar a mite high with that bauble,” Peter complained to Ian, watching as Maddie replaced the ring on her finger. “That’s goin’ to be difficult to match,” he admitted, tugging awkwardly at his ear.

“I wasn’t aware we were competing,” Ian replied mildly, watching Peter watch Donna. His eyes darted back to meet Ian's and when he ducked his head and cleared his throat, Ian took pity on him. "One of Maddie’s clients is an art jeweler. I knew she liked her work, so I went round and asked if she had something to suit Maddie. She was quite reasonable,” Ian told him with a knowing smirk. “I think it’ll be good advertising for her studio as well, having the director of Urban Scrawl as a customer. I’m sure she could take care of you when the time comes.”

“That’s custom work,” Peter observed, scratching at his cheek and turning a speculative eye on Ian. "When did ye— ?”

“Straight after our reunion, the morning after you and Donna met Maddie at St. Stephen’s,” Ian confided, raising his glass to his lips. “It was all still there between us, almost as if we’d never been apart.” Peter saw his normally stoic partner relax into a smile as he gazed at his fiancée and somehow, as if she could feel his eyes upon her, Maddie looked up and gave him a dazzling grin. Realizing Peter was witness to their silent communication, her cheeks flushed slightly and she returned her attention to Donna.

"I almost bungled it, though,” Ian continued when he remembered he’d been speaking.

“Eh, how’s that?” Peter asked, feigning ignorance with a wry smile.

Ian shrugged and took another drink before answering. "I got the call that the ring was almost ready and I should come by to collect it lunchtime Thursday and all of a sudden, I was petrified. I hadn’t really talked to Maddie and I wasn’t sure she felt the same as I did and I thought perhaps I was rushing into this. I mean, we’d only been back together a few weeks, and here I was, about to propose that we spend the rest of our lives together.” He rubbed his jaw and looked Peter straight in the eye as he considered his next words carefully. “But then, at dinner on Wednesday, we were chatting away about everything and nothing at all and before I knew it, I’d asked her.”

“From what I hear, you’re lucky she didnae choke to death on a hunk of naan before she had the opportunity to accept,” Peter said with a snicker.

“Oh, so she’s told Donna, then?” Ian mused, rolling his eyes and grimacing.

“With great fanfare,” Peter acknowledged, his voice dropping to conspiratorial levels. “But I’d say ye did just fine,” he added, clapping Ian on the shoulder, “and, in light of this historic occasion, the next round’s on me. Seein’ as how the size of this crowd is strainin’ the normally excellent service at this fine establishment, I believe I’ll be headin’ over yonder to place our celebratory order.” He stood and craned his neck about until he located Mairead behind the mob at the bar. "Ladies? Will ye be havin’ more of the same?” he asked as he prepared to wade through the sea of revelers watching the Olympic Torchbearer’s progress through the streets of London on the telly overhead.

“Ta, love,” Donna replied, with a fond wave. Peter nodded his agreement and turned just in time to catch sight of Nerys framed in the open door of the pub. She scanned the crowd before hauling her latest date behind, making a beeline straight for the Throne Room. Halfway there, a knot of boisterous patrons blocked her way, and looking up in exasperation, she found Peter eyeing her warily, standing square between her and her goal. She hesitated for only a moment before adjusting her course, slipping through the crowd and heading for the patio out back.

“Where are we going?” the tall, gangly young man behind her asked, nearly tripping over his feet as Nerys dragged him along. “I thought you said you had a place saved near the bar?” He looked mournfully at the full glasses laid three deep on the counter as they passed.

“It’s too crowded inside, and full of the wrong sorts tonight,” Nerys huffed loud enough for Peter and several other patrons to hear. “We’ll be better off outside.” He watched her flounce through the back doors as he signaled to Mairead behind the bar. She plunked four glasses down before him with a nod and a smile, deftly juggling the onslaught of orders coming from all directions.

“Who’s that, then?” Peter heard a woman ask, pointing at the image of the Olympic torchbearer on screen overhead as he scooped up the glasses and carefully threaded his way back to the table.

“Oh, that there’s Danny Fairweather,” her companion replied with a knowing nod. “Fittin'.” Peter paused and glanced up, hoping to see a ticker onscreen explaining what exactly made the choice of Mr. Fairweather so appropriate, but the scene had shifted to an aerial view of the torch’s route.

"The Torch Bearer getting even closer to the Olympic Stadium,” he heard Huw Edwards explain as the camera panned the crowd thronging the streets, "heading down the Strand before turning east along the Embankment.”

Peter gave a mental shrug, shuffling forward the last few steps before setting the drinks in the center of the table and plonking down next to Donna. “Look,” he said, retrieving his pint and pointing with the glass. “He’s gettin’ close. It’s all about to start.”

The pub quieted as conversation died down to murmurs and everyone turned their attention to the historic broadcast. A latecomer dashed in from outside and Donna craned her head around to look. “Donna?” Peter asked quietly, “What is it?”

“Oh, just looking out for Nerys,” she admitted. “She said she might drop by.”

“I may have seen her make for the back patio earlier,” Peter admitted reluctantly, fighting to keep both his voice and face neutral.

Donna chewed her lip in consternation, studying Peter’s bland expression and glancing towards the back doors. She closed her eyes for a moment and forced herself to breathe, in and out, steadily until she inhaled deeply and opened her eyes once more with an apologetic half-smile. “I’d better go find her, then” she said, heaving herself out of her chair with a sigh. Her eyes darted guiltily to Maddie and Ian, who only had eyes for each other, then back to Peter and he knew the reasons for her hesitation. “This is a special occasion for them, ye know. A celebration for their closest friends, yeah? And Nerys wasnae on her own," Peter cajoled offering up his most charming smile. "She knows where ye are. Maybe she just wants some alone time with her new bloke? Either way, it can wait, aye?" He cocked his head slightly, waggling his eyebrows as he patted the seat beside him and favored her with a mischievous grin. She rolled her eyes towards the heavens and smacked his shoulder lightly, the retort on her lips dying as her attention was captured by the broadcast again, even as Peter tugged her down to sit beside him.

"We're live on News 24. The opening ceremony of the London Olympics of 2012 is well underway, and people from all over the world are streaming into the stadium right now,” the announcer continued, and Ian grimaced.

“Glad we’re here and not there,” he said, squeezing Maddie's shoulder gently as Peter chuckled his agreement. “I hate crowds. I’ll be happy when all this is over and these tourists clear out of London again.” He smirked at his partner and raised his glass in a toast.

“Hear, hear, mate!” Peter agreed, clinking his pint against Ian’s and falling back into his chair, throwing his free arm around Donna. “Here’s to the Closin' Ceremonies! They cannae come soon enough fer— “ He never had the opportunity to finish as a collective gasp rose all around.

"My God! Er, what's going on here?” a confused voice said from the screen. Peter glanced around, taking in the scene as every person in the room stared blankly overhead and his eyes darted to Donna’s face when she blindly groped for his hand.

“They were there and now they’re not,” Donna breathed, pointing up. Peter, Ian and Maddie turned, following her gaze, and Peter briefly wondered why the broadcasters had chosen to show archival footage of the empty stadium.

“Donna, what d’ye-“ he began as she turned to him with a puzzled frown.

“They’re gone, they’re all gone!” she cried, clutching his arm, still pointing above. "I was lookin’ straight at the screen, that screen there, and - and - the stadium was overflowin’ with people, yeah? And then, they were just gone! There was no light, no screams, no movement, nothin' at all. I didn’t even blink!” she cried in frustration and before Peter could reply, the announcer broke in again.

"The crowd has vanished!” exclaimed Huw Edwards offscreen. "Er, they're gone. Everyone has gone. Thousands of people have just- gone. Right in front of my eyes! It's impossible,” he babbled as the patrons of the George turned to each other uncertainly. "Bob, can we join you in the box? Bob? Not you too, Bob?” Mr. Edwards almost whimpered and Peter recognized the confusion bleeding into the bright edge of panic in the broadcaster's voice.

“This wasn’t in the briefing,” Ian said quietly, all traces of merriment erased in a heartbeat.

“This is some sort of trick or illusion or somethin’, right?” Donna blustered, turning to face Peter as he leaned forward in his seat. “It’s like that show, with those two American magicians, you know? Penn & Teller: Fool Us? They’re pullin’ a stunt, makin’ the crowd disappear as a big spectacle, yeah?”

Despite himself, he glanced at Ian hopefully, but his partner only answered with a grim shake of his head. Peter scanned the room and actually heard the moment realization hit the rest of the patrons of the George as quiet shock, disbelief and denial gave way to a building tumult of fear, anger, and confusion.

"Over eighty thousand spectators and thirteen thousand athletes," the announcer continued, fumbling for words, anything to avoid the bane of every broadcaster’s existence, the universally-dreaded phenomenon known as 'Dead Air'. "They're gone. All of those people. It's a terrible, terrible turn of events."

“Gone,” Maddie murmured, reeling in her seat. “How can they all just be gone?” she asked, wide-eyed. A tear escaped, slipping down her cheek and she wiped it away in surprise. Everyone turned again to the televisions scattered throughout the pub, the pictures continuing to show the empty stadium even though the sound was drowned out by the babble of confused voices. “— since the battle of Torchwood,” suddenly slipped through the mounting clamor surrounding them and Peter’s blood ran cold. He and Ian were on their feet even before their eyes met. Ian reached for his mobile, pulling it free just as it began to trill in his pocket. Peter’s phone was already out and he nodded grimly as he read the Emergency Alert text that had gone out to every officer in London.

Peter turned to Donna and kissed her hard. “Donna, I'm sorry, but we have t'go,” he said, releasing her and swinging his jacket from the back of the chair, trying not to watch as Ian embraced Maddie.

“I know,” she whispered from a trillion miles away, blinking hard. “It’s just what we do.” She reached out blindly and found his hand, following behind as he weaved through the crowd towards the door, the now-forgotten broadcast of the Opening Ceremonies continuing in the background.

“— is still on its way. I suppose it's much more than a torch now, it's a beacon. It's a beacon of hope and fortitude and courage,’ Huw Edwards said calmly, regaining his composure as he slipped back into the role of commentator. "And it's a beacon of love."

Ian whispered something to Maddie and she bit her lip as she answered with a watery smile, pushing him towards the door just as Peter leaned in for a final kiss. “I’ll be right back,” he promised, letting his hand linger on her cheek. He gave her one last, longing look as he made join his partner. He made it all of two steps away.

"OI! Think again, Copper,” Donna snorted, grabbing his hand and jerking him off balance. "You’re not running off into danger, facin’ God only knows what, to play hero and save the world, leavin' me behind like a discarded pair of trainers!” Stunned into silence, Peter could only stand gawping at her like a fish out of water as Ian and Maddie watched warily.

"Policeman, if you think for one instant that I'm stayin' here and leavin' you alone after what happened on Midnight, you're barkin' mad!" she stormed, fist on her hip, wagging a finger under his nose. "It's my job to look after you! You get into such terrible trouble without me and if you think I’m goin’ to just let you—“

“Donna,” Peter said firmly when he’d recovered from the initial shock of her tirade, grasping her shoulder and laying a finger against her lips.

"Oh, no, not after The Library! You're not ditchin' me again," she bristled, jerking her head back with an angry hiss. It was all she could do not to bite his finger out of spite.

"Donna, I’m no ditching’ ye,” he stated carefully. “This is my job. Ian and I have to go, to see if we can help.”

“So go!” she retorted impatiently. “I’m right behind you.”

“No, Donna,” Peter insisted. "What I need is ye, here, safe. I need ye here to keep all these people calm. Ye can do that, aye? People do terrible things when they’re panicin’ and I need ye to keep them from doin’ that."

Donna crossed her arms, glaring daggers at him, but his air of calm authority left her no room to protest.

“Alright, Policeman, but this isn’t over. We’re having words, the two of us, when this is done.”

“Aye, we are,” he agreed wistfully, letting his fingertips graze her cheek once more before turning to leave. As Ian dashed out ahead of him, Peter gave her one last longing look before turning and following him into the night.

Maddie laid a comforting hand on Donna’s shoulder. “They’ll be all right,” she said soothingly. “You’ll have to get used to Peter dashing off at all hours. It’s the lot of a Policeman's wife, even more so when he’s a Detective.” Donna’s head jerked up at her words and she blinked rapidly in confusion.

“I know that,” she whispered from somewhere far away. She shook her head as if to clear it. “I do. It’s just that…” but her thoughts were interrupted by the voice of the forgotten commentator.

"So let's have a look from the helicopter. There we go, the torch bearer running,” he said and both Donna and Maddie glanced up for a moment as he continued.

“He must be getting close,” Donna murmured to herself, reaching for her mobile as it sounded in her pocket.

"Past Dame Kelly Holmes Close,” the voice from the telly continued in the background as she answered her phone.

“Donna, what’s happenin’?” Peter demanded as soon as the call connected. “Ian is tryin’ to raise the security team at the stadium but no one’s answerin,” he complained, bracing himself against the dashboard with one hand as Ian took a turn at high speed. “Ye’re my eyes and ears."

Donna opened her mouth to reply when the George erupted around her.

“Donna? Donna, what’s happenin’?” Peter demanded as the shrieks from the other end of the line drowned out her reply. "Donna, talk to me!”

"Just look at this! Utterly incredibly scenes at the Olympic stadium," Huw Edwards cried in evident relief from the television overhead. "Eighty thousand athletes and spectators. They disappeared, they've come back!"

"It's the stadium, Peter, everyone's back!" Donna laughed, bobbling the phone as Maddie threw herself into her arms and wrapping her up in a mad embrace. "Just as quick as they left, they're all back!” She grinned in relief, surveying the crying and hugging crowd and looked up just in time to see the torchbearer as he finally approached the stadium. "Listen!" she cried, holding her mobile aloft.

"They've returned. They've reappeared. It's quite incredible. Bob, this will certainly-“ Peter heard before the broadcast was drowned out by ecstatic cries of relief.

“WHAT?!?” demanded Peter, pressing his mobile harder to his ear and plugging the opposite ear with his finger. “They’ve all returned?”

Ian dared to tear his eyes from the road for a moment to hiss, “What’s going on?” even as Peter shushed him impatiently.

“Yes!” insisted Donna, “all of them! They’re all back in the stadium and….”

She broke off and Peter turned his attention to his partner for a moment.

“They’re back,” he said, shaking his head in confusion even as he heard Donna speak on the other end of the line.

“Oh, bloody hell,” she swore softly. “What is it now?”

“Donnnnaaaa,” Peter growled impatiently.

“Just keep your knickers on a mo, Policeman,” she admonished. “I’m tryin’ to figure out what’s happenin’ with the Torch Bearer. “

“... seems to be in a bit of trouble,” came from the broadcaster as a fresh hush fell over the crowd. "We did see a flash of lightning earlier that seemed to strike him...”

“Something’s wrong with him,” Donna said anxiously. “He’s hurt! Where are you, Peter? Are you close? Can you see him? Can you help?”

“How far to the stadium?” Peter demanded as Ian darted from lane to lane, cursing under his breath.

“At least six klicks. Damned traffic,” he groused, dodging around a Hackney Carriage and narrowly missing a Fiat crammed full of students on holiday. “Why couldn’t they have disappeared, too?"

Donna tore her attention away from their conversation just in time to see the runner on the screen crumple to the pavement.

“Oh my God, he just collapsed!” Donna yelped as a collective gasp rose from all around her. “Peter, you’ve got to help him! If you’re not there yet, I dunno, call an ambulance or somethin’!”

“We can’t get through to anyone,” Ian complained in answer to her overheard plea as traffic ground to a dead halt, packed tight with nowhere to go. “And we’re not going anywhere, either.” Peter raised an eyebrow in inquiry as he reached for the door handle and Ian agreed with a stoical sigh. “On foot, then,” he said, resigning himself to an evening irrevocably lost to circumstance.

"Does this mean that the Olympic dream is dead?” Huw Edwards despaired and Donna wheeled around in frustration, searching for a way to help when the commentator cried out again.

“There's a mystery man. He's picked up the flame. We've no idea who he is.” Huw Edwards might not have known the man onscreen, but Donna was fairly certain she did. She gaped in amazement, the nearly-forgotten mobile pressed to her head as she watched a man in a brown suit and plimsolls pick up the torch.

"Oh, you are kidding me....," Donna breathed into her mobile as she stared at the scene unfolding above.

"Donna! What is it? What's happenin'?" Peter cried frantically. "Talk to me!" He heard the roar of the crowd at the George over the line, then the commentator's voice carried to him.

"He's carrying the flame. Yes, he's carrying the flame and no one wants to stop him. It's more than a flame now, Bob."

"Policeman, it's him! He's there, he picked up the torch. He's headed for the stadium," Donna cried frantically, feeling as if all the oxygen in the room had suddenly vanished as the broadcast continued.

"Who?" he ordered. "Who is it?"

"Who the hell do you think it is, Policeman?" Donna snapped irritably. "I looked for that stupid git for two bloody years and there he is, larger than life for the whole damned world to see!"

"Dr. Smith!?!" Peter demanded, searching frantically for transport and finding none. "Donna, just stay there with Maddie and wait fer me," He swung back to Ian with wide, wild eyes, ignoring the frantic cries issuing from his mobile. "It's Dr. Smith. He's carryin' the Olympic Torch." His eyes darkened and he set his jaw determinedly. "I'm goin' after him."

Ian nodded while pointing back at the car and raising his phone. "I'll keep trying on the radio and my mobile. When I get through, I'll have him detained." He waved Peter away impatiently as he headed back to their abandoned vehicle.

Peter sprinted across the street, raising his mobile to his ear once more. "I love ye, Donna," he choked out and rang off without waiting for her reply.

"Peter," she whispered sadly, knowing he was already gone. She dropped her mobile back into her pocket and turned her attention back to the broadcast.

"It's more than heat and light. It's hope, and it's courage, and it’s—”

“IT’S DONNA’S DI,” Mairead shrieked from behind the bar, pointing and jumping up and down, throwing her arms around a surprised Lewis. “It’s Peter! He's carrying the Torch!” she cried, bouncing madly and flying around the bar to where Donna stood, rooted in shock. “How on Earth did he get there so quickly?” she screamed as the George erupted again, this time in delighted triumph.

Donna blinked hard as the spotlight followed the man with the wild shock of hair running up the red carpet to the lower cauldron, his long coat billowing behind him like the cape of some comic book hero as he turned to the crowd with a whoop of joy. He raised the rescued Torch above his head, grinning madly before turning away to light the gas. Everyone cheered and several people embraced Donna simultaneously as the fire ran up to the main cauldron, igniting the proper Olympic flame. Donna thought she might have seen a tiny flash shoot up from the cauldron as she was jostled about by the celebrants.

Maddie gave a giddy laugh and swung back to Donna, only to see all the color drain out of her friend’s face. “Donna, what is it? What’s wrong?” she asked, shielding Donna from the other patrons with her body.

Donna took two steps towards the screen, transfixed. “That was never Peter,” she breathed, lifting her hand to the screen in a futile attempt to stop the camera from panning away, swaying slightly as Mairead and Maddie caught her up. “But I know him. That man in the stadium?” she continued as tears inexplicably fouled her vision. "That's Dr. Smith."

Part 1 | Part 5 | Part 10 | Part 15 | Part 20.1 | Part 25 | Part 30 | Part 35.1 | Part 40 | Part 45

Happy Birthday!

2015-06-12T11:13:40Z

Wishing tkel_paris all the best, today and always!

Happy Birthday, dearest. May the scantily-clad Time Lord of your choice (Wonder who that might be!) hand-feed you birthday cake and share frosting kisses with you.

An Officer and the Noble Woman, Part 45

2015-06-11T11:13:46Z

An Officer and the Noble Woman, Part 45

Author: dtstrainers

Paring: Donna Noble/Peter Carlisle

Rating: PG for Plot Galore folowed by implied smut.

Wednesday, July 25, 2012 7:44 PM

"It’s now,” he thought bleakly, staring down at his mobile. He carefully disengaged it from the sync station attached to his laptop and paused, contemplating the device as it lay cradled in his hand. "It’s now or never. I’ve no reason to postpone-“

“Peter, how many boxes do you want to take tonight?” Donna called out from the other room, startling him from his ruminations. "I know we’ve got another four weeks to clear you out of here, but the more we take now, the less we'll have to do later. And should I gather up some clothes, too? We don’t have to take them from the hangers, we can just lay them over the boxes in the back seat and then move them to the wardrobe at home.”

“Uh, yeah,” he answered, feeling distinctly nonplussed. "Whatever ye want.”

She poked her head around the corner and frowned, taking in his odd, almost guilty expression as he slipped his mobile into his pocket. He pasted on a cheery grin which relaxed into a genuine smile as he realized what she’d just said: home.

“Are you all right, Copper?” Donna asked, coming into the living room and setting down the box she carried before picking her way across the cluttered flat to stand in front of him. “What’s wrong? What’s that look for?” she fired off, not waiting for his answer. “Don’t tell me, let me guess: indigestion? I mean I can’t believe the amount of food in that tiffin you put away tonight! I must admit, that bit of chicken tikka makhani you shared was good enough that I don’t half blame you, but you’re sufferin’ for it now, aren’t cha?" she babbled nervously, reaching up to push his hair off his forehead. "I’ll bet you’re gonna miss havin’ a place to crash so close after one of those massive meals at the Bulls Head."

"Donna, I’m fine,” he assured her quietly, reaching to take both her hands in his. “I'm no feelin' any ill effects from dinner, I promise. But there is somethin' I need to talk to ye about, somethin’ I found out yesterday. I’ve been thinkin’ about how best to tell ye and I think we should sit down,“ he said firmly, but his conviction wavered at the uncertainty in her eyes. He tugged his ear and nodded towards the couch, watching as the tip of her tongue darted out to wet her lips while she tried to process what he was saying. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, chewing at it nervously for a moment before she realized he was looking at her expectantly.

“OK, Copper,” she blustered, tossing her head to swing her hair over her shoulder. “But I warn you, it’s too late to tell me you want the right side of the wardrobe. I’ve already settled all my clothes and things and I’m of no mind to move them just to suit your whim.” Donna schooled her her features into cautious curiosity but Peter felt the tension in the room ratchet up with each beat of his heart.

“It’s nothin’ like that, a chuisle. Everythin's fine, I promise.” Peter smiled reassuringly as he led her to the sofa, pushing a box of books out of the way to make room for the both of them to sit. He settled her in beside him and turned so that he could face her. “I have some information I need to share with ye and after we’ve discussed the implications, ye'll have a decision to make."

“Oh, and that doesn’t sound at all ominous,” Donna breathed, sitting up straighter, her eyes searching his face for a sign. “Just tell me, Peter- are you havin’ second thoughts? Did I rush you into this, movin’ in and all? Cos there’s no hurry, you know, we can wait if you want. I mean-"

“Donna,” Peter sighed. “I’ve told ye, I want this. I want to be with ye. Do ye no trust me?”

“Of course I do,” she replied instantly, her voice wavering slightly. “But you’re makin’ me nervous, Policeman.”

“There’s no cause for ye to be upset,” he assured her. He squeezed her hand gently, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, looking down at their interlaced fingers for a moment as he gathered his courage. “I know I promised to stop lookin’ into yer past,” he said earnestly, gazing up into her worried, wary eyes. “And I had every intention of acquiescin' to yer wishes, I honestly did. But in this instance, yer past came lookin’ fer me.”

“What are you tellin’ me, Policeman?” Donna whispered, her eyes growing wide.

"That man, Jack Harkness, the one you confronted in S&G,” Peter said evenly, watching her all the while. “He found me the other night an-“

“WHAT?!?" she shrieked, almost rising to her feet in fear.

“Donna, shhhh. It’s fine, I’m fine, it’s all right,” he murmured comfortingly, reaching for her hands and drawing her back to him again.

"Oh, Peter, you said he was dangerous! When did this happen?" she demanded frantically, gripping his hand tighter. "Where were you? What did he want? Who was -“

"A ghrá geal,” he murmured, pulling her closer. “It’s all right. I’ll answer all yer questions, I promise. Just be patient and stay calm for me, aye?”

Donna eyed him nervously before giving him a short, sharp nod of agreement and Peter smiled despite himself.

“Two weeks back, the night you and Maddie went to inspect the lightin’ in the new gallery after dinner, Captain Harkness was waitin’ for me in the car park when I left Ian’s flat,” he said slowly, monitoring Donna’s reactions. She swallowed hard but otherwise appeared composed, nodding again for him to continue.

“He wanted to talk and judgin' by what he had to say, I’m fairly sure it wasnae an officially-approved visit,” he mused, scratching at the back of his neck, his face scrunched up in thought.

“Oh, any visit from him is officially unwelcome by me. Just the sight of that man makes me want to crawl right out of my skin,” Donna muttered, hugging herself tightly. "I dunno what it is exactly, but there’s somethin’ about him that just isn’t right. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll keep his distance in future,” she added with a dismissive nod. “And he may be pretty but he’s entirely up himself as well."

Peter snorted in amusement and allowed himself a tiny but proud smile before he continued. “As I was sayin’, the good Captain had some information to pass on and a bit of a warnin’. He admitted that Torchwood has been keepin' tabs on ye, monitorin' yer health remotely and even goin’ so far as to actively put surveillance on ye since we’ve been together.”

“But why?” Donna interrupted indignantly, her patience with her entire situation wearing a bit thin. “Why all this trouble about me? I’m nothin’, a nobody! I’m just a temp, for Go-“

“No, Donna, no in my presence,” he interrupted, putting a restraining finger to her lips. “Remember, ye’re no to talk that way any longer. Now, let me finish, aye?” Donna harrumphed, pulling her hands back and awkwardly crossing her arms over her chest. Her eyes flicked nervously between his face and his hands, laying limply on his knees where she’d left them.

“The good Captain wanted me t’ know that his mandate was to protect ye, and that yer memory loss is due to some sort of an accident involvin' Dr. Smith. Once again, someone somewhere seems t' think that because I bear a slight resemblance to that man, I’m somehow a danger t’ ye,” Peter continued, rolling his eyes at the stupidity of the supposition. He sat back heavily and ran his hand through his hair, shrugging his shoulders as he continued. “I figure that, for whatever reason, these people are relieved ye cannae recall somethin’ that happened to ye or somethin' ye saw when you were workin' for Dr. Smith. It's drivin' me spare that I cannae find out anythin' more about him. John Smith is an obvious pseudonym and I’ve no way to discover his true name. Until I do, all I can prove is that he's some sort of consultant for UNIT and that ye were that man's Personal Assistant." He spat the last two words out with a dark expression, his lip curling in disgust and Peter looked away, trying to control his temper as he searched for the words to go on.

"There's more you aren't tellin' me, Peter,” Donna stated bluntly, but her tone was patient.

He considered denying it then, just locking his suspicions away and burying them deep in his heart, but the bitter memory of what that particular strategy had yielded in the past forced him onward. "Maybe it's to do with national security, or some secret project, or, or... I dunno,” he went on, waving his hand about in exasperation. “Anyway, they’re afraid that ye bein’ with me will jog yer memory or some such nonsense, and that rememberin' will somehow put ye physically in danger.”

“That’s just bonkers, Peter,” Donna scoffed. She shifted around awkwardly, her knees bumping against his. “What could I possibly remember that could be so dangerous? And you! Why not tell me all this before? Why all the spy-movie secrecy from you?”

He sighed deeply and leaned forward again, bracing his elbows on his knees and running both hands violently through his hair before bringing them down to scrub his face. For a bare instant, Peter’s face threatened to crumple as he gazed up at her before he tried again to don his mask of cool competence.

"I suspect that he..." he began, then stopped again with a shake of his head. "From some of the things ye've said… especially durin’ that last incident, in the throes of fever…” He swallowed hard before trying once more. "Donna, I suspect that Dr. Smith ..."

"Out with it, Policeman," Donna said gently, laying a hand on his knee and giving it an encouraging squeeze.

“I fear that Dr. Smith may have assaulted ye physically and because of who he is, Torchwood stepped in and erased yer memory of the attack,” he finally admitted and at that, the dam within him broke and the accusations began to flow. "I think that because of the work ye did with that man, ye knew things that UNIT and Torchwood didnae want made public, but if they had simply followed their protocols and contrived a situation to make ye vanish, the ruckus Wilf and yer mum would have kicked up would have led to uncomfortable questions. And last, I believe Dr. Smith knows exactly where ye are and what yer doin’, and because he fears yer memories will return if ye see him, I think he’s enlisted Torchwood in surveillin’ ye and keepin’ ye in the dark.”

Donna opened her mouth to respond, but for the first time in recent memory, she was speechless. She formulated a thousand million questions, and Peter watched as she considered and rejected them all. She gaped at him in consternation, swallowing hard and nodding. “Peter, I don’t think… but I don’t know,,,, I can’t remember…”

"Donna, I’m afraid,” Peter confessed when she didn’t continue, slowly pulling her hands back into his lap. He rubbed a careful thumb across her knuckles, briefly wondering at how well her hand fit his, despite the undeniable difference in size. He forced himself to look back at her face, and the confusion he saw prompted him to continue. "Captain Harkness, he all but admitted that Dr. Smith is responsible fer everythin’ that’s happened to ye, that he’s the reason ye cannae remember and I’m afraid of what might have happened to ye. I’m afraid if ye remember, ye willnae be able to look at me the same way again. I'm afraid that I’ll be forever tarred with the same brush and that whenever ye look at me, I’ll be a naught but a constant reminder of whatever it is he’s done.”

Shaken by his admission, Donna smiled. “That won’t happen, Policeman,” she promised, raising a hand to his face to cup his cheek. “I know that much. I love you. That’s not about to change, whethe I remember or no. It’s not possible.” She tilted his head up slightly and was distressed to see the faint shimmer of tears forming as he met her gaze.

"I want ye to be happy. I want ye to do whatever ye need to do for us to be happy together," he told her. "Donna, I do nae want to lose ye, to lose what we have because of the ghosts in our respective pasts.”

“Our pasts, Policeman?” Donna said softly, stroking along his jaw. He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch for as long as his guilty conscience could bear before sitting back.

Peter inhaled deeply and frowned as he considered his next words. "Donna, ye know about Natalie. Ye know I loved her, I truly loved her, with all my heart and soul," he explained. "But because I loved her, I kept somethin' from her. Somethin' I should have told her straightaway, as soon as I knew. But I thought I was protecting her; her and Danny both, by keeping what I'd learned to myself."

"And what was that, Policeman?" she asked.

He shifted in his seat, glancing at the ceiling and exhaling heavily before he replied. “Durin’ a dinner party for her birthday, I accidentally discovered that it was her boy Danny was responsible for the murder I’d been sent to Blackpool to investigate. Danny Holden was the one who killed Mike Hooley.”

“And he just told you this?” Donna breathed, clearly horrified. “On his mum’s birthday?"

Peter’s lips quirked in an ironic smile. “No in so many words, no. Danny settled the bill that night before I’d had the chance to and when I went to find him and repay him, I found him sitting at the bar alone. I came up from behind the lad and laid my hand on his shoulder and told him that I knew what he'd done. Given the circumstances and a guilty conscience, naturally, he assumed the worst." Donna winced in sympathy but said nothing. "He didnae confess or do anythin’ to incriminate himself. Danny swiftly recovered his wits, but he knew his reaction had betrayed him and that the damage was done. He left the party soon after."

"So what happened next?" she asked.

He sighed and braced his elbow against the back of the couch, resting his cheek in his hand. "I skived off work the next day and drove down to Blackpool, lookin’ for a woman who’d been involved with the case. She knew both Holdens, Danny and his father, and I knew she knew more about what had happened that night than she was tellin' at the time. I found her at her new job and I … persuaded her ... to sit and listen while I laid out what I suspected. When I’d finished, I knew I was right. It all made sense. It was an accident, mind,” Peter hastened to clarify. “Danny’d been protectin' this woman when Hooley attacked her. He was barely more than a kid at the time, and Hooley? He was off his nut on drugs and whatnot. When Danny hit him, Hooley went down hard and stayed there. The boy had no way of knowin' that Hooley was bleedin' internally, dyin’, right there on the floor in front of him. He just knew his friend was in danger and he reacted instinctively. I can understand that.” He fell silent and stared out of the window behind Donna.

“Anyway,” he drawled abruptly, sitting up and vigorously rubbing his hands over his face once more, “it does nae matter, no anymore and no then, either. It was just my curiosity, my need for closure that made me investigate. I had no intention of reopenin' the case and draggin' Danny in to court, and no just fer Natalie’s sake.” He dropped his hands and gave Donna a curiously philosophical look. "It may not have been strictly lawful, mind, but Hooley got what was comin’ to him,” he concluded thoughtfully.

Donna raised an incredulous eyebrow, unable to believe her ears. “Peter Carlisle, you can’t mean that!” she said, aghast.

“But I do,” he swore passionately. “Hooley was a violent man. He had a history of abusin’ women and I’ve no tolerance for a man who would raise a hand in anger to those he’s sworn to cherish and honor, through this life and into the next. His fiancée should count herself fortunate to escape the hell her life would have been with him.” A shadow passed over Peter's fine features as he muttered, “A double blessing there will be no children made to see that, nor suffer a leathering at his hand neither.”

Donna’s expression softened as she realized this man had probably seen horrors she could scarcely imagine in the course of his duties. She wondered what that might do to a sensitive soul over the course of a lifetime and as he avoided meeting her gaze, she found herself praying his vehement reaction sprang only from his professional experience. Sensing the path to which her thoughts had turned, Peter offered up a wan smile and plowed on.

"After my suspicions were more or less confirmed, I decided I'd just let it lie. After all that time, I thought that it would just go away." He ducked his head and sniffed before scratching at his nose in a nervous gesture she'd rarely seen from him. "Little did I realize at the time that it was the worst thing I could have done. Danny confessed to Natalie soon after and told her I knew, too.”

“So she didn’t leave you just because she wanted to be on her own, then,” Donna murmured thoughtfully. “All right. OK. That I can understand.” She looked up to see the flash of pain on Peter’s face as he quickly averted his eyes. “Oh, Peter, it’s just that what you told me before, about Natalie leaving because she said she wanted to be her own woman? Well it just didn’t ring true. She went through all that drama and left her husband over you, and then she just up and decides she wants to be on her own? I didn’t buy it. I just couldn’t believe anyone would willingly let you go, that’s all,’ she hastened to explain. "But a mother afraid for her child? That’s something I can understand."

His lips quirked briefly into a reluctant smile before Peter swallowed hard and continued. "She never said anythin' and neither did I. My silence, it broke us, in the end. I didnae tell her when I should have. I thought I was protectin' us, but she did nae trust me after. And regardless of the kind lies she told me about wantin’ to be on her own when she left, I knew it was because she feared for Danny and no longer trusted what I said. If’d I’d just been honest about what I knew and when I knew it….I won't make that mistake again."

Peter reached behind himself as he spoke and pulled his mobile from his hip pocket. He stared at it, unseeing, before swallowing hard. “Donna, after Captain Harkness found me, I followed up with the ambulance service and the paramedic who answered the call I made in the park that day. I wanted to see if he could corroborate what I’d learned and shed more light on yer case. As it turns out, he did. Geoff Hinton, he .... He gave me a number.” He stared bleakly at his mobile before thumbing it to life and laying it on the arm of the sofa between them.

“What number, Policeman?” Donna whispered, warily regarding the device where it lay, staring at the number on the screen before looking back to Peter’s brave face.

"A number he is to call only if ever your fever rises to 41.2°C. It's a very precise medical target, Donna, one only a doctor would be likely to specify. Donna,” Peter whispered earnestly, “I’m sure that if you were to press that button and make that call, you'd be talking to your Doctor Smith."

Donna regarded Peter’s phone where it lay, clearly weighing up her options. He clasped his hands together, forcing himself to watch her deliberations, determined not to influence her decision even as his heart attempted to hammer through his rib cage from within. “You want me to make this call?” Donna asked slowly, her voice unwavering. “Here? Now?"

“If that’s what ye want. If that will make ye happy,” he replied immediately. Peter set his jaw and looked into Donna's eyes, determined to hide his pain and fear and remain supportive. “I just want ye to know, whatever ye decide, whatever happens…I love ye, Donna. I’m here for ye, no matter what. I want ye to be happy, and if that means that ye find yer past again and decide to-"

"Hand it over, Copper,” Donna interrupted with deadly calm, her palm turned up expectantly. He hesitated for the briefest of moments before passing his mobile to her. Peter held his breath and swallowed as Donna clasped it to her chest and closed her eyes for the span of his frantic heartbeat. She glanced once more at the innocuous device in her hand before looking back into Peter’s eyes and she calmly punched the button that deleted the entry entirely.

“I told you once, you prawn,” she said, her eyes shining as she tossed his mobile back. “You are the man I've been lookin’ for my whole life. It doesn’t matter that I can’t remember. I know I have have never loved anyone as much as I love you, and I never will again. That’s what you have to remember.” Her teasing smile stretched into a full-on grin when she saw Peter’s expression morph as he realized what she’d done. Donna reached out and stroked his cheek, leaning forward and pressing him against the box behind him as she kissed him deeply. “Now, what say you about the two of us goin’ to your bedroom to disturb your long-suffering upstairs neighbor one last time, for old time’s sake?”

“Oh, aye, Miss Noble,” he agreed, standing and pulling her up after him into a tender embrace. He smiled against her lips and whispered, “Let’s leave the upstairs and downstairs neighbors with somethin’ to complain about in the lift long after we’re gone from here."

Past Our Dancing Days

2015-04-24T21:46:22Z

A prequel of sorts, a last bit of character background for my Peter Carlisle in An Officer and the Noble Woman. I was asked to explain what had happened to Natalie, since at the end of Blackpool it looked as though they'd both found their Happily Ever After. I want Peter to be happy, but that relationship would never have lasted, as much as I liked Natalie. This is why. You can read this story on its own, but it'll make more sense if you know my Peter Carlisle. After this, back to An Officer and The Noble Woman and a major turning point.

Past our Dancing Days
Author: dtstrainers
Characters: Peter Carlisle with mentions of Natalie and Danny Holden
Rating: G
Word Count: 2,980
Thanks to the lovely serenityslady for the continuing support and suggestions.
Disclaimer: Peter Carlisle from Blackpool- not mine, but in my mind.

It's the little things, he mused, it’s always the little things that give you away in the end. He stood in the doorway, empty box in hand, and surveyed the echoing flat one last time. If he twisted his head slightly, he could see the spot where she’d kissed him the first night he’d brought her to his home. In his mind’s eye, his eyes slowly retraced the path they’d taken from the front door to the spot where his bed had once stood, giggling and groping, delighted that they’d finally found each other and convinced that this time, it would be forever. He blinked, flinching when he realized he stood on the spot where she’d casually asked if he thought his mother hoped for a granddaughter or a grandson first, and his heart mourned those never-to-be children. He let his mind wander, recollection flaring brightly one last time as his gaze wandered around the room but he stubbornly refused to turn and look at that spot, that precise spot where he'd known for certain that his last chance for happiness was lost.

He’d been standing right over there, in front of the fireplace, the time he’d realized his mistake. He’d ignored the little voice inside his head, the one that screamed, "Tell her, ASK her, just TALK TO HER!” over and over and over again. But every time he had summoned the courage, the words had died in his throat. He’d ignored his instincts, then and a thousand times after, long after he’d known the truth but refused to admit it, especially to himself. They’d been so good, so very happy together, for awhile, but then good things never seemed to last for a man like Peter Carlisle.

His mother had once told him the best thing for being sad was to learn something, and learn he had. Peter had made a name for himself in Kendal, for his quick wit and grim tenacity, but he'd taken it too far. He'd thrown himself into his work after the failure of his marriage, learned to hide his feelings behind a mask of indifference and cynicism, to put his pain and disappointment to practical use. He'd become more than a bit of a prat in his self-righteous zeal and arrogant need to be right about something - anything - in his life. He watched as routine daily circumstances ripped to shreds his illusions as to the noble nature of man, confirming all he long-suspected but couldn't quite acknowledge, proving time and again that expectation is the root of all heartache. He had answered his personal higher calling and dedicated himself body and soul to Misanthropy, but then, without purpose or preamble, without designation or design, she was there, and Peter found himself brimming over with optimism and hope once more.

In the beginning, they had been so perfect, so right. They spent their nights together in long, moonlight walks, just holding hands, or sharing a fish supper from the takeaway on the corner while havering on and on about anything and everything that struck their fancy. When the mood was upon them, they’d go out on the town, such as it was, dancing with wild abandon as if they hadn’t a care in the world, even as all of creation was about to end. They were mad things, silly and carefree, bound together by shared emotion so deep and true, with eyes only for each other. So what if they were daft and giddy and perhaps just a wee bit obnoxious in public? All mankind loves a lover, after all, and Peter had definitely been a man in love.

Their relationship was everything he’d ever wanted and had convinced himself he’d never find again. With her in his arms, little by little, the cloak of cynicism he'd wound about himself after his failed marriage began to loosen and fall from his shoulders, revealing the deeply romantic soul beneath. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Peter had felt free, secure in the knowledge that he loved and was loved in return. He no longer haunted his office late into the night to avoid the echoing silence of his flat, the damning evidence of his many failings as both husband and human being. He had a reason to go home, someone to come home to, to listen and listen to, to share his days and his nights.

He closed his eyes in a vain attempt to halt the unbidden memories that sprang up before him: clothes cast off in a whirlwind of passion, scattered to the four corners of Peter's modest flat as hot, frantic bodies writhed their way around his rooms. When he had finally pressed her to the bed beneath him there were no words then, as sighs became moans, moans gave way to groans and groans died in strangled cries of passion. Lost in her embrace night after night, Peter had been so sure that this time, with this woman, he’d finally gotten it right. He'd known beyond a shadow of a doubt that Natalie was The One. He should have known better.

I'm a detective, damn it, he chastised himself, shoving books from the one remaining shelf in the living room into his box. I should have seen it earlier. He knew he’d never forgive himself for this. He should have realized before, known for certain, and hidden it away, deep in his heart. If he’d just paid more attention to the details, puzzled it out before, he could have saved it this time. The fault was not in the stars, but in himself, he thought ruefully, but all the same, he knew was lying to himself again. It wasn’t inattention or impatience that cost him his happiness this time and the paradox made the loss that much crueler. This time, it was a heartfelt expression of gratitude and his own insatiable curiosity that shook him to the core and set his world to crumbling around him.

**********

"I know it was ye, so dinnae bother with protestin’," Peter had said warmly as he’d sidled up behind Danny at the bar and grasped his shoulder.

“Wha-?" The young man had spluttered, sloshing his drink over his hand as he'd hastily swung about. “Detective Inspector?!?

“Detective Inspector?” Peter had repeated with a frown. “I thought we’d moved beyond that.”

“Sorry, De-,” Danny’d stammered, his eyes darting nervously about, finally settling on a pile of serviettes down the bar. He'd lunged for them before sitting back and wiping his hand, mopping up the spillage before setting his glass back down. “Peter,” he’d finally said, looking back up with a curiously brittle smile. “Sorry, you startled me. What was that again?”

"I know it was ye’ who settled the bill,” Peter had replied as he’d studied Danny’s reactions reflexively. “Ye didnae have to do that. I may be naught but a humble policeman with a salary to match, but I was the one who extended the invitation this evenin’. I know the new leisure center keeps you busy and I appreciate you takin' the time and comin’ up fer yer mum’s birthday. ” At that moment, he’d looked over to where Natalie sat, smiling and laughing with a few mates from her work as someone thrust another brightly-wrapped package into her hand. She had glanced up and caught him watching and when she smiled back, Peter would have sworn he’d never seen anything as beautiful as she was at that moment. He'd broken into a silly, soppy grin, staring back, then, remembering his purpose, he blinked and reached for his wallet.

“No," Danny had demurred, waving him off with a nervous laugh. "No, Peter, I wanted to. You've been good for me mum. She's happy with you.” He'd regarded Peter seriously before adding, “After everything else, she deserves that.” He'd looked down, suddenly unable to meet Peter’s gaze, but not before the detective in him had seen something flicker behind the young man's eyes. He knew that look, try as he might to deny it. He’d seen it once before, when he’d sat at a table in a Blackpool police station asking questions of a schoolboy about a murder.

He’d taken the next day off without a word of explanation to anyone and driven straight down to Blackpool.

It had been easy enough to track Hailey down to a small salon but much harder than he’d anticipated to persuade her to listen.

“You bein’ here is bad for business,” she'd complained as he strode behind her, acutely aware of all the eyes tracking their progress across the room.

“I’ll speak to the owner,” he'd offered by way of brusque apology as she closed the office door behind them.

“You already are,” Hailey retorted, folding her arms over her chest and plopping down behind a rickety desk to face him. “Now what do you want?”

Peter had taken the seat opposite her and forced himself to still, to appear calm and composed. “What I want is to talk and fer ye to listen,” he'd explained in quiet, measured tones. He’d leaned forward and lain his hands before him on the desk as he’d continued. “This is no an official visit. There’ll be no arrests, no prosecutions, nothin’. Not for ye.” He'd paused significantly, turning both hands palms up for emphasis. “Nor for any other we might happen to discuss in the course of this visit. Ye donae have to say a word, no a single word, and when I’m done, I swear, I’ll walk out of here and ye’ll never see me again,” he'd promised. He'd waited patiently, giving her time to process his proposal before asking, "Are we clear?”

Hailey had eyed him dubiously then shrugged, feigning disinterest as he began. Her expression changed not one whit as he methodically laid bare before her what he suspected, but before he was done, he knew with bleak certainty that he was right.

The short drive back to Kendal had given him ample opportunity to ponder the situation. In the time it had taken signed divorce papers to make their way back and forth across the Atlantic, Peter had gotten to know both of Natalie’s children to differing degrees. Shyanne was cordial and distant, but that was to be expected as Daddy’s Little Girl had a new husband of her own. Danny, on the other hand, had always favored his mother and during his infrequent visits, Peter had found himself warming to the boy. He was a good kid, basically, a bit eager to please, soft-hearted and impulsive, perhaps, but a good kid all the same. Peter was certain that Hooly’s death had been accidental and that Danny had simply been in the wrong place at the right time, for Hailey's sake, at least. Furthermore, it was a good bet that if Danny hadn’t been there to defend the girl, he still would have been called over to Blackpool the following day to investigate a murder, albeit one with a different victim.

No that any of it matters in the end, no really, he'd reflected. It was all academic, at best. He’d not lied to Hailey. He had no intention of pursuing the matter further. What would be the point of reopening the case? Danny had been a minor at the time of the murder and there was no physical evidence to link him to the crime. Hooley was still a dead scally with a grieving fiancée and there was nothing anyone could do that would ever change that, but Peter finally knew what had happened that night in the White Cliff Apartments, and that was enough for him. The matter was settled, ancient history, water under the bridge and that evening when Natalie got home from work, he was waiting at the door. He barely gave her time to drop her bag before he laid her back across the sofa.

In the days that followed, he had tried to tell her what he knew a thousand times in a thousand ways, to reassure her that nothing would change, that they were all still safe, but when Natalie looked at him with such innocent eyes, the words evaporated before they could ever reach his lips. The longer he procrastinated, the more he could pretend that it didn’t matter, but by the time Natalie noticed Danny’s infrequent visits to Kendal had ceased entirely, Peter knew he’d missed his chance. Danny's stammered excuses over the phone had grown increasingly transparent and there was nothing Peter could do or say to keep Natalie from going down to find out why. She returned to Kendal the following day with the same sweet smile for him but Peter couldn’t fail to notice that it no longer reached her eyes.

Before her trip, they could talk about anything and everything for hours on end, and after she came back, they still could, as long as it was nothing of any consequence. There was a mechanical quality to their interactions now that hadn’t been there previously. Whenever Peter asked a question, Natalie paused just a moment too long before answering. When he tried to make her laugh, her smile was just a touch too bright. When they made love, there was a distance between them he could never seem to cross and for once, Peter denied his insatiable curiosity. He pretended that he didn’t want to know the reason for these changes until it became painfully apparent that growing old together was just one more thing they'd never do.

The day she left him came sooner than he'd expected. After so many years of wedded misery, Natalie was practiced in the art of deception and by the time he found the packed bag in the wardrobe, he knew their relationship was a casualty of a trap of his own making. He’d sown the seeds of distrust in her heart long ago, shutting the door of a Blackpool hotel with a calculated cruelty designed to leave a scar on her soul. Those seeds had lain dormant in her memory, waiting for the proper conditions to burst forth in flowers grown on fear and dark thoughts. The irony of the situation was not lost upon him. Now it was her turn to stand on the threshold, though the lies she offered him were kinder. Even as she declared her new-found need for independence and thanked him for the strength he’d given her to seek it out, custom-made deceptions designed to inveigle and obfuscate, he recognized her ploy. In his silence, he'd forced her to choose between her child and the fictional part he’d played once, of the Detective Inspector who’d slept with her just to get to the only real family she had left.

He’d left it too late to tell her the truth, to protest that his feelings were for real. He knew she had loved him once and that she loved him still, but it hadn’t been enough to stand up to a mother’s instinct to protect her child. When he’d slammed the door behind her in that hotel on the Promenade, she’d had a preview of what Peter Carlisle was capable of and Natalie had decided she could never trust in his present love to safeguard Danny’s future. Instead, she’d chosen to act as decoy, drawing Peter's anger and hurt down upon herself to confuse the situation and plausibly cast doubt on his motives if he should ever decide to reopen the case. After living with a policeman, one thing Natalie knew for certain was that there was no limitation period on murder.

**********

He should have left this place when she did, left and never looked back. He should have moved on then, started anew and thrown himself back into life. Instead, he'd stayed on as a form of self-abasement, insulated from reality, drowning in regret and wallowing in misery. He’d never bothered to make friends of his own before Natalie and of his fellow officers who’d risked the attempt, his cynicism had driven away half and his unwillingness to suffer fools had alienated the rest. He paid the price for his disdain in the the form of persistent gossip that followed him home. How had he ever believed that he could ignore the various rumors when the road back to Blackpool was little more than 86 kilometers and a little less than an hour long? By the time his superiors' subtle hints that perhaps Kendal was no longer a good fit for him became pronounced, he couldn’t pretend any more.

It’s for the best, really, he decided as he dropped that final box to the floor, heedless of the downstairs neighbor, and fished in his pocket for the keys he’d soon surrender. He couldn’t open his eyes without seeing Natalie's ghost everywhere he went and it was time to exorcise that particular phantom from his memory. He didn’t have the heart to tell his mother he’d failed yet again. He didn’t think he could stand to see her try to hide her carefully-controlled worry and disappointment as she did her utmost to assure him he wouldn't always be alone. He looked down at the pair of keys in his hand and didn’t bother to hold back the hot tears that sprang to his eyes. His face crumpled for a moment as he struggled to regain his composure and he ended up staring at the ceiling for a long moment as if transfixed. It’s goin' be alright, once the pain has gone away, his mother always said, but what would become of him if it never faded? He'd angrily scrubbed the tears from his face and snatched up the box from the floor. This pretty little fantasy was over and Peter Carlisle was determined to be a damned saint and an honorable villain and go forward, leaving his heart behind one last time.

Through with Feeble Hoping

2015-04-11T03:01:07Z

A prequel of sorts, a bit of character background for my Peter Carlisle in An Officer and the Noble Woman. It was originally part of the companion piece I'm writing for To Die, To Sleep - To Sleep, Perchance to Dream, which is a backstory for Donna Noble in my monster-on-my-harddrive, AOATNW. The only problem was this began to take on a life of its own and by the time I knew I needed to cut it for pacing, I'd already fallen in love with Coria. This can be read on its own, but it'll make more sense if you know my Peter Carlisle.

Author: dtstrainers
Characters: Peter Carlisle and introducing Coira Hardy-Carlisle
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,836
Thanks to the lovely serenityslady for the continuing support and suggestions.
Disclaimer: Peter Carlisle from Blackpool- not mine, but in my mind.

It poured buckets, from before sunup till far into the night, the day he’d finally come home. Peter stood outside the front door he’d slammed so many times as a child, torn between the comfort he craved and the condemnation he dreaded. He hadn't spoken to his mother in nearly two years - not properly, at any rate - not since the day he'd categorically rejected her counsel and married despite her express disapproval. When her prediction had finally come to pass, precisely as she’d promised, he postponed the inevitable as long as possible. He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there with his forehead pressed to the doorframe and cold rain dripping from his fringe before she saw him but when she did, she opened the door without a word and pulled him down the hall to the bath. He stood there shivering as she silently filled the tub and then turned to him to gently push his sodden jacket from his shoulders. “I’ll make the tea,” she'd said and shut the door.

When he eventually emerged, wrapped in a cast-off robe that had once belonged to his father, she was sat before the fire, tea in hand, waiting.

"How are ye, laddie?” she asked quietly and to his chagrin, Peter found he couldn’t look at her. He flopped into the chair across and halfheartedly rummaged through the tin she’d placed on the low table between them.

"I wasnae good enough, mum,” he finally mumbled, sitting back heavily and toying with a biscuit. “I wasnae good enough fer her and now she’s gone and left me, just like ye said she would.”

"No,” his mother insisted curtly. “It was never a matter of ye bein’ good enough fer her. It was a matter of ye bein’ right fer her, and her fer ye.” She leaned forward abruptly, shaking a warning finger in his direction. "Dinnae ever let me hear you or any other say yer no good enough.” She sniffed once and sat back with a firm nod of her head. “There’s no finer man to be found, and it’s a sore fight for any that says otherwise."

Peter’s lip quirked into the ghost of a smile. It would serve no purpose to openly disagree with her, he knew, but sometimes it seemed that all he’d been able to do for some time now was argue. Well-worn recriminations and favorite casual cruelties flashed across his memory in instant replay, and he ran his hands through his hair in frustration. This wasn’t how his life was supposed to be. He forced himself to examine every word, every gesture, searching out the tell-tale clues he should have seen, those tiny signs that should have alerted him when it all went wrong. He tortured himself, recalling the first time he’d seen her from afar before he pressed his face into his hands, rubbing his eyes and staring off into the fire. He let himself be mesmerized by the flames, watching them flicker and dance in the grate until he could feel his mother’s gaze settle heavily upon him.

Peter inhaled deeply then shrugged, speaking on the tail end of a sigh. "I know ye never liked Roselyn…"

"I did, if ye remember,” she interrupted, sitting back with a fond smile. "Och, she was a bonnie wee wain when ye brought her round, lively and quick. I could see why ye fancied her. She made ye happy fer a bit, and I thought where was the harm in that?” She settled her cup back into the saucer and pushed it back from the edge of the table, and at this unconscious signal, Peter readied himself for the tirade to come. "It was only when ye started talkin’ off yer haid about true love and forever that I laid some home truths at yer door.” she declared, waving her hands about airily. She dropped them to her lap and stared at him fiercely. “Did ye no learn anythin’ growin’ up in this house, laddie?”

She focused suddenly on the dark red robe he wore and for a moment, Peter could have sworn he saw his mother's eyes grow bright. She blinked rapidly and he chanced reaching for her hand, but at his first movement, her eyes sprang defiantly back to his and he was forced to reach for a piece of shortbread instead. She pressed her lips together and slowly retrieved her tea, taking an overlong sip before speaking again. "When I told ye no to marry Roselyn, it was because I saw this day,” she admitted, slowly shaking her head. "Ye were both too young, still findin’ yer way. But ye? Ye were a stubborn arse, same as yer father, so damned sure ye’re right an’ always in a hurry to get there.” She turned to face him, her blue eyes blazing. "What did I always tell ye, laddie?” she demanded. “ 'Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.’ ”

Aye, mum,” he mumbled mechanically, his eyes still downcast. She paused to look at Peter, worrying the substituted biscuit against the other lying on his plate, watching as they fell to bits in his hand and she sighed.

“Oh, but ye always did wear yer heart upon yer sleeve, love,” she murmured fondly, reaching out to push his fringe from his face. Peter bit his bottom lip and ruthlessly tried to suppress the tears that sprang to his eyes but his mother knew him too well. She opened her arms and a tiny sob broke free from his control as he moved to join her on the worn sofa. "Even as a child, always the fairy stories and happy endings,” she whispered, stroking his hair as he hid his face in the crook of her neck. He let himself be petted as silent tears trickled down and caught in her collar. “Even in all yer detective stories, where a clever mind was all that was required to make everythin' right in the world.”

He inhaled a juddering breath and hugged his mother tightly before pushing away and falling back on the sofa beside her. He stared unblinking at the ceiling and but for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, he might easily have been mistaken for the dead. "Ye do know that I always hoped the two of ye would prove me wrong,” his mother finally whispered. “Peter, I didnae want this fer you, or fer her. I wanted to be wrong. I wanted ye to be happy.”

Peter blinked slowly and his mother’s hand itched to wipe the tears from his face. He let his head loll back against the sofa and blinked again as if seeing her for the first time. “If ye knew this was goin’ to happen, why did ye no stop me?” he breathed. "Why did ye push me away?“

“When has it ever mattered what I had to say?” she scoffed, frowning at the rain still pounding against the window.

“Everything ye say matters,” he replied. "To me.”

Coira Hardy-Carlisle stared at the beautiful, broken man beside her, her little boy no more, wondering when was the last time he’d let her see him cry. He watched her for a long moment before her expression softened and she shrugged. "Ye had to live yer own life. Ye had yer own mistakes to make. Ye had to find out fer yerself, but I didnae have to watch and pretend to like it,” she stated. He seemed to consider her words before slowly closing his eyes with a tiny shrug of his own.

“Knowing ye as I do, things were said that ye wished were no,” his mother guessed, and when Peter only snorted in reply, she grew pensive. “So where is Roselyn now?” she finally ventured to ask. “Ye did leave her somewhere safe?” When Peter raised an eyebrow with a sideways glance, she wagged a finger at him once more. “I’m no implyin’ ye did anythin’ to her, laddie. I know ye're no like yer father that way.” Peter relaxed fractionally but continued to look at her askance. She sat a bit straighter in her chair and sniffed. “I know what yer thinkin’, and even though I don’t care much fer her in light of yer current situation, I must remind you that I am a civilized woman.”

Peter almost smiled in response. "With occasional lapses,” he murmured wryly and his mother gave a small snort of assent but otherwise remained expectantly silent. “I left her at ou….the flat,” he finally admitted, picking at a frayed spot on the pocket of the robe he wore. “She’ll be gone by the time I go back. It’s no like we had much to begin with and she’ll have had help with her things.” He stared without seeing at the threadbare crease in the pocket he'd worried into a proper hole.

His mother absorbed the information dispassionately. “What will ye do?"

“I’ve had an offer down in Kendall,” Peter admitted, watching her shoulder twitch as he spoke. She stared at him thoughtfully before nodding.

“Runnin’ away, are ye?” she challenged, but without any real heat.

“Mum, I -"

“No, maybe a change of scene would do ye good,” she admitted grudgingly. “Kendall’s no far. It’s no like yer movin' all the way to Cardiff, or God forbid, London.” When Peter lapsed back into silence, his mother leaned forward into his line of sight. “I know ye’re miserable, laddie, but the best thing for bein’ sad is to learn somethin’ from it. Ye understand?”

“Aye, mum,” he mumbled automatically, looking out the window as thunder rattled the glass in its pane.

Watching Peter retreat once more into melancholy, she reached over and slapped his thigh smartly. "We'll be havin' none o' that, no in my house! Haid doon, arse up! The one fer ye is out there still."

"Ye would say that," Peter groused, rubbing the spot she'd assaulted. "But the truth is I have learned somethin' from all this. To be wise and love exceeds man's might, and I'll have no more of it," he growled. He crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his chin up to eye his mother defiantly. He held her gaze as long as possible before his determination wavered and he sniffed and looked away. "I'm done with love," he declared bitterly, with only a tiny waver in his voice to betray him. He glared back at his mother then, daring her to contradict him.

"I'm sure ye know yer own heart better than ever I would," she replied with a sad smile. She stood and reached down to flick his damp fringe, gaining a bashful flicker of his eyes to hers in return as she wrapped him in her arms. She stroked his hair gently and just as Peter relaxed in her embrace, she whispered, "But just ye keep in mind, bairn: whit’s fer ye’ll no go past ye. Keep lookin'. Ye'll find her in the end."