It's Tyler.
In the next two weeks, John sees her four more times (not that he's been counting). She comes back on Thursday for yoga and then again on Saturday. Then on Tuesday and Thursday again. And then it's FRIDAY and she's here (isn't that a pleasant surprise!) talking to Benton to sign up for a year-long membership so she can come more often! Year long!
He would never admit it but as the weeks pass by he looks forward to the evenings at Benton's more than anything else (and isn't it strange to have something to look forward to again?). On yoga days (Rose Days, he calls them in his head, because he KNOWS she'll be there and also because he seems to be a daft, sentimental fool of late) he may arrive with a bit more spring in his step and he might, just maybe, make sure he shaves. She's come almost every day for two months now and it's a bit of an adventure each night, walking in and hoping she'll already be there or, if she's not, waiting with baited breath every time the door opens.
In that short amount of time, he's found out a lot about Rose Tyler. She's twenty-four (twelve years between them..not a huge age gap but not exactly in his favour - not that it matters, since he's barely even spoken to her. It's been quite a long time, but he's fairly certain speaking to the other person is a key part of actually being in a relationship), she works at a travel agency over on Totters Lane, her mum drives her spare most of the time, she's just moved out on her own and, in a few months, she's running the London Marathon.
Of course, very little of that information has been acquired by him directly. Rose has easily made friends with almost everyone in the gym and so he's overheard most of those details, (his satellite ears have to be good for something and he can't seem to get the nerve up to do any more than grunt at her occasionally). She still smiles at him a lot, sometimes even gracing him with this wonderful little tongue-touched thing that makes his heart skip and his brain file away for later in the shower.
Today, he is doing bicep curls while pretending not to check out Rose as she runs on the treadmill when Jack saunters by.
"So, are you ever going to ask her out?" he asks, picking up a dumbbell near John and joining him.
"Who?" John asks, feigning innocence.
It doesn't work, judging by Jack's eyeroll.
"Oh, gee, I don't know. Maybe that girl you've been staring at for six weeks now?" Jack replies, sarcastically. "Seriously, if you go any slower, you're going to be moving backwards."
"Don't know what you're talking about," he grunts, turning away and moving to one of the machines.
"You do too," Jack laughs. "Your eyes were locked on her arse. Which, I'll admit, is quite lovely. Were you fantasizing about her just now?"
"Shut up," John snaps, the red tinge to his ears all the answer Jack needs.
"C'mon, just ask her out for a drink. A bunch of us are going out later. You won't even have to be alone with her. Unless 'alone' is what you want," he continues, waggling his eyebrows.
"I don't do that," he says flatly.
Jack's eyes narrow slightly and he makes a gesture toward the other side of the gym where that prat Adam is eyeing Rose while pretending to look busy. "You better start," Jack cautions.
John lets go of the bar on his machine and looks up at Jack. "But how can I…" he begins and then trails off, casting another look over at Rose's bouncing form and back at Jack plaintively, forgetting that he doesn't do things like that. He doesn't go out for drinks at pubs with friends. And he certainly doesn't invite women to go out for drinks at pubs with friends. Especially not beautiful, friendly, wonderful women who make him feel like he's worth something again.
"You're acting like you've never asked a woman out before!" Jack laughs and then stands up, clasping the other man on the shoulder. "Just go over, say hello and ask her. We're meeting at Chesterton's a few blocks over at eight."
Over Jack's shoulder, Rose is stepping from the treadmill and toweling off, getting ready to head into the locker room. Following John's enamoured gaze, Jack turns slightly to watch Rose with him, grinning once more. "Now or never, buddy," he says, moving to push John lightly toward Rose's retreating form.
Against his better judgement, John stumbles over to her just as she's bending to put her towel back in her bag, affording him a very nice view of her - stop it, Noble, she's right there. "Oh, hi, John!" Rose says brightly, smiling and looking a bit surprised to see him looming so close to her.
"Hey," he manages and then feels very proud of himself. So far, so good.
"I've been meaning to talk to you, actually," Rose says and his heart can't seem to decide whether it wants to stutter or soar. She has been meaning to talk tohim?
"Jack said you've run the London marathon before and I thought you might have some pointers," she continues, still smiling at him and waiting for his response. The aforementioned Jack is standing over by the mens locker room giving John first a thumbs up and then a wildly obscene hand gesture he doesn't feel like he should probably be interpreting right now. "It's my first big race, so I'm a bit nervous. I mean, I've done marathons before, but this one is different, you know? I mean, it's the London marathon!"
Her smile drifts into something that's a little confused and a little nervous (nervous? why would she look nervous?) when he doesn't respond at all. "Are you, ah, are you running it this year?" she tries again.
He nods, dumbly.
"Oh, excellent! Maybe we could go for a run together along the path next week! That is, if you don't mind. I know you're a brilliant runner, probably much faster than me - if your treadmill workout is anything to go by, but I thought maybe you wouldn't mind. The weather's supposed to be nice and most of the snow's melted. It's been a while since I ran with anyone else, might be a little out of practice, but it's hard to find other marathon runners, isn't it?"
She's rambling a bit and seems nervous again and wait, did she just admit to watching him on the treadmill?
Oh, wait, she's waiting for a response from him.
He nods, again, this time dumbfounded. Rose Tyler seems to have just asked him on a date.
Sort of.
Wait, isn't that what he's meant to be doing?
"Well, ok, then. Sounds good. Maybe, ah, maybe we can set up a time to do that then?"
He nods once more and is just working up the courage to make an actual sound come out of his mouth at her when he's interrupted by a shout.
"Rose! Move it!" comes the Scottish lilt of the redheaded woman who runs the yoga class and is, apparently, Rose's friend now. "We've got to get out of here if we're going to shower and get to Chesterton's on time!"
Rose gives him one last smile and then bounds away toward the redhead.
Well, he came over here to get her to come to the pub and she's coming. If Jack asks, he's counting that.
-
About five minutes after arriving at the pub, he begins to think it was a mistake. Chesterton's is nice, homey place, run by a pair of retired school teachers, but it is a Friday night so it's still crowded and loud and the smell of alcohol is all around him. He sidles up to the bar and orders a soda, sitting down in an empty booth away from the noise to nurse it and wait. Soon enough, Jack appears, followed by a good-looking bloke that just started coming to the gym last week and a few more people he recognizes. Somehow, the group gravitates to his booth (Jack, probably) and, strangely, he finds himself forgetting his reticence. This is a bit nice, actually. Being out and around people is rather fun, he thinks.
Then Rose and Amy arrive. Rose is wearing a pair of low-rising, dark jeans that make those trousers she wears at the gym look positively demure and a tasteful but low-cut red jumper that displays her curves and hugs her body in all the right places. Amy is wearing something nice as well, he supposes, but he can't seem to take his eyes off Rose. As the evening continues, the conversation and crowd around his table rises and falls, some people drifting in and some drifting out until, at last, it's just him and Rose. Rose has been at the table nursing the same pint since she came in and he wonders a bit at that but it doesn't seem to be a good conversation starter, so he simply stares at his hands on the table. Likewise, she doesn't comment on his choice of drink, doesn't seem to need to.
"Whatcha thinking about?" Rose asks, drawing his gaze back up to her.
He can't think of anything clever to say, so he settles on honesty. He might as well try to get an answer to the question that's been bothering him all evening. "Just wondering why a beautiful young woman like you is wasting her time sitting here with an old man when she could be out there dancing with those pretty boys." His gaze flickers over to the group Jack is currently weaving in and out of, filled with young fit men, many of whom have cast looks over at Rose throughout the evening (not that he's noticed. Or sent back threatening scowls when Rose wasn't looking).
"First of all, you're not old," Rose laughs and he blinks at her in surprise. Her brow crinkles (adorably) and she tilts her head to the side, considering him. "You're what, forty? Forty-five?"
"Thirty-six!" he says, indignantly. For the love of - he doesn't look like he's forty-five, does he?
"See! S'not old at all, " she crows, grinning in triumph and he realizes he's been had. She holds a finger in the air and begins ticking off the rest of her response. "Second, spending time with you isn't 'wasting it'. Third, I don't want any of those pretty boys and, fourth, thank you."
"For what?" he asks, frowning slightly in confusion.
"For saying that I'm beautiful," she smiles again and this time there's definitely a bit of a blush there, a blush he's sure he's mirroring.
"You're welcome," he replies, gruffly. They sit in silence a moment and then John speaks again, abruptly. "You should do a half-marathon."
Rose looks surprised at his non-sequiter and simply tilts her head to the side again, encouraging him to continue. Taking a deep breath, he says in a rush, "S'good to run a half-marathon about a month out from your big race. You can check your pace and it gives you a bit o' rest before the long one. There's a fantastic charity run in next week that my sister Donna organizes. I could probably still get you in." He gauges her for a reaction and then looks down at his hands. "If you want."
There. That's the most words he's ever said to her in one go.
The look on Rose's face when he's finally brave enough to look back up at her indicates that she probably realizes that as well. "I'd love to!" she exclaims, offering him a huge smile that makes his heart skip a bit. "Thanks!"
He nods and then looks back down at his hands, silence falling over them once more. "D'you, um, d'you want to dance?" Rose asks, quietly and he's so surprised by her question, he jerks his head up to look at her but it seems that it's her turn to stare at her hands. That brilliant smile is disappearing with every second he doesn't respond and almost everything in him is screaming to say no, absolutely not, he does not dance. Because he doesn't.
Except, well, maybe with Rose Tyler he might. That smile of hers is gone now and he wants it back. He coughs slightly, straightening up in his seat and feigning a confidence he doesn't feel. He can do this, for her. "I've got the moves but I wouldn't want to boast."
Rose's head snaps up and she eyes him, probably in surprise at his unusually playful response. "You've got the moves?" she says, slowly, tongue going to the corner of her mouth (and oh, how is he supposed to even remember how to walk when she's doing that with her mouth?). "Show me your moves, then."
Almost in a daze, he stands up and lets her lead him to the dance floor, his mouth dry and cottony and his limbs like lead. Her arms move up around his neck and his hands automatically rest on the swell of her hips (and this is so much like one of his fantasies, he can hardly breathe, except he's tense and nervous and, admittedly, they both have a lot more clothes on than they usually do in his imagination). Rose leans in a little closer and he can feel her chest brushing against his and oh, that's marvelous, it really, really is. He's so focused on all the places his body and hers are almost mingling, he doesn't realize that he has yet to do anything even remotely related to dancing until her light teasing voice ghosts across his ear, "You'll find your feet at the end of your legs. You may care to move them."
He chuckles into her hair, relaxing incrementally until he feels boneless and weightless, like he could float away with an armful of Rose Tyler and be a content man. He probably could.
Things are different after that, as if they're under some sort of spell out there on that crowded floor, having cheesy pop music blasted at them. He can't put his finger on it but it doesn't seem to matter. He murmurs quietly to her and she answers, both of them feeling a simple ease in speaking to one another like this, intimate tones shared close in ears, a delightful tingle as lips brush skin, the thrill of new attraction. They talk about running and life and favourite guilty pleasure foods (her - chips, him - banana splits) and it seems like the universe stands still tonight, just for them. He tells her that he has a doctorate in physics but prefers to work with his hands and she tells him that she ran out of money before she could finish uni. Finally, there's the call for last round and, as they rather unwillingly untangle themselves from one another, they're both surprised at how much time has passed.
He holds her hand and walks her back to her flat (only two blocks from his, to his surprise), but he doesn't kiss her, not just yet. He does pull her into a tight embrace on the street corner, underneath the dim light of a lamp, and tells her how glad he is to have met her. She returns the fierce hug and whispers the same, her lips ghosting his cheek as she pulls back, making him shiver and then she floats away into her building with one last smile over her shoulder at him.