A/N Thank you so much for the kind reviews - feedback is much appreciated! And as always thank you to fadewithfury/foxmoon for the beta!
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"So," Jack says. "How are your lessons going?"
"Fine." John takes a long swig of his ale and nods for emphasis. He spins the slightly damp paper coaster around on the counter-top with the tip of his finger, stopping only as it begins to tear under the friction of the motion.
They sit at the bar in the little-known off-campus pub they often frequented while at uni together. It's the first time they've seen each other in the near-month since John started his lessons, and John normally looks forward to these outings with Jack, and to their easy, cavalier conversations. Tonight however, he finds that skiing is the last thing he wants to discuss - which is particularly unfortunate, as this seems to be the main topic of interest to Jack.
"Just fine? Come on, you were over the moon about Chamonix. Is it too difficult?" Jack asks.
"No, not too difficult," John says. He can't blame Jack for pressing the topic. Last time they had spoken, weeks ago, John was eager to get started – an update was of course to be expected.
Jack's still the only one who actually knows for a fact that John is taking lessons - John wonders however if Clyde and Luke might know, thanks to a receipt from Swinhope Moor for his lessons with Rose he'd accidentally left mixed in with the data he'd brought back from Weardale last week. His plan had been to keep the entire excursion secret lest Jeanne of all people find out, but now …
"What have you learned?"
John shrugs, noncommittal, and leans forward to rest his elbows on the shiny mahogany of the counter, staring into the frothy amber of his ale.
"This and that. Bit of downhill, bit of cross-country. Rose is a good teacher."
"… Rose?" Jack says, with a chuckle, sipping his drink and giving John a sidelong glance.
From anyone else, this would have sounded like an innocent confirmation of interest, and quite polite, even - John wouldn't have even thought twice about it. But John knows his friend too well - there's something about Jack's slight eyebrow raise and the smirk in his voice that suddenly and inexplicably causes John's jaw to clench.
"That's her name - do you suggest I call her something else?"
He means to sound casual, almost flippant, but even to his own ears it's a quite a bit snippier than he intended.
"Whoa, easy there. Just teasing you."
John opens his mouth as if to respond, and whether it will come out as a warning or an apology he's not sure, but instead he merely sighs. He feels Jack's eyes on him, curious and maybe slightly concerned, but doesn't turn around to meet his glance. Instead, he turns back to his beverage and draws a long swig of the remainder to avoid further questions.
Not that Jack's questions are really the problem - John knows better, even after several ales. The truth is, he wishes he had simply been able to tell Rose that he couldn't go to the ice festival with her. It has been lingering on his mind all week, much more than he was expecting it to. It's ridiculous, really, how much he's been thinking about this, and he doubts she'll even care that he can't go. He momentarily wonders if he should call her, and then quickly dismisses the thought - he doesn't want to make a thing of it, and surely it's not a big enough deal for her that it can't wait until he sees her next. He's not quite sure why it bothers him so much - wellll, that's not exactly true, and it compounds his frustration that he's clearly even attempting to be disingenuous with himself inside his own head. She's been marvelous, and incredibly kind to him. She's become a friend to him - one of the few he feels like he has - and he dislikes feeling like he's somehow doing wrong by her, or being dishonest with her. And the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that he has been, hasn't he, in a way? Surely the reasons he's taking lessons at all are his own private business, but as both his new friend and his teacher, perhaps Rose ought to know, shouldn't she? He was initially embarrassed about admitting his reasons for his lessons, but now that they know each other better, would it really be so bad to tell her about everything, really, about Chamonix, about Jeanne -
The thought causes an inexplicable twist of tension in John's stomach. If he tells Rose he has to cancel his plans with her because of Jeanne, this would naturally lead to a conversation about Jeanne and Chamonix. Rose would obviously understand if he told her about Jeanne, wouldn't she? She's been so empathetic – would she understand? Or maybe she wouldn't – maybe she'd be upset that he hadn't told her before. Not that there's a reason for her to get upset, they've only just become friends. But Chamonix – and Jeanne – is what all of their lessons together are based on, isn't it? So it would certainly make things simpler if he could explain why he's been taking lessons – he wouldn't have to hide that fact – not that he's been hiding it exactly, merely withholding it. But would she see it that way? He looks down at the counter, at the remnants of his paper coaster now torn to shreds … he must have been mindlessly ripping it all this time and he didn't even realize … funny, that –
John's startled out of his reverie by the soft sound of someone clearing their throat behind him, and Jack's amused laughter. He turns around instinctively, the familiarity of the sound making something clench uncomfortably inside him, and his gaze meets a pair of beautiful blue eyes he knows oh so well. He hadn't heard her even come up behind him.
"Jeanne! What -"
"You were in your own world there," she says with a flirtatious smile. "Welcome back, we missed you."
She leans down and gives John a lingering peck on the cheek, then walks over to Jack with a big smile as he enfolds her into a friendly hug.
"I - I didn't see you there," John says. "What are - I … I didn't know you came here!"
John tenses, his mind racing, wondering if she overheard his conversation with Jack, wonders if she heard anything about his lessons - about Rose - and if she thinks him a fool, but she gives him a brilliant grin as she sits down on the stool next to his own. Her knee rests briefly against his, the warmth of her thigh palpable even through his trousers, and she leisurely crosses her long legs. After a moment, he relaxes.
"Lovely to see you," John adds quickly, as Jeanne smiles back at him.
"We just finished a research project," she says. "They wanted to come here to celebrate - oh! That reminds me. John, I'm sorry - I have to cancel our plan for the art exhibition. My mum's having a small procedure done that week, and she'll need me -"
She turns towards him, eyes gentle and apologetic, her hand coming to lightly rest on his arm as she speaks. He can't explain it even in his own mind, but he breathes a sigh at her words, feeling like the knot is unraveling inside him, even as he's vaguely aware that perhaps he should be feeling disappointed. His first thought is of Rose, and it's a relief, really - that his thoughts have been tangled up over something that will no longer be an issue at all.
"It's fine," he says quickly, nodding. "We can see it any time, really - on a weekday after work, perhaps?"
"That would be lovely," she says.
"And … your mother? Is – is she going to be alright?"
"Oh yes! It's just cataracts. The procedure is simple enough, but her doctor says I'll need to drive her around for a week or so afterwards."
"Good … good. Glad to hear it's not serious. She's lucky to have you," he says, giving her a gentle smile.
Jeanne returns his grin, soft and slow, her hand still on his arm, giving him a small squeeze.
"I should be getting back to my group now – I'll see you later, then?"
John nods back at her, giving her a small wave as she turns to depart. As she walks away back to her table, her high heels click-clacking on the floor with every graceful stride, John's eyes only follow her for a brief moment, and then turn back to Jack, who is staring back at him, a sly grin on his face. This time, John lets himself smile in return, and Jack chuckles, elbowing John in the ribs.
"See? That's all you needed - she put you in a better mood, didn't she?"
John nods back at his friend, and the smile drifts off his face as he flags down the bartender for another ale.
"Yeah."
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The next few weeks race by in somewhat of a blur, as John makes the trek from London to Weardale and back again. He feels better about things now, that he won't have to cancel plans with Rose, and he's becoming comfortable and confident in this dance between his weekdays and weekends. He feels like he's fallen into sync with this, really - weekdays in London, weekends in Weardale – his travels up north are a delightful excursion for him to look forward to.
Wilf teaches him how to make an old recipe, Westmorland pepper cake, and the whole B&B smells of spice and ginger and cloves all day long as the concoction bakes in the oven. Wilf serves it to the guests after dinner that night, alongside his usual offering of ales and ciders, and John is nearly giddy with the compliments he receives on it. Which he should consider ludicrous, really - he's spent 10 years working day and night on postdoctoral studies in physics, he should not be getting this excited over baked goods, but he finds that it makes his week. He especially beams when Rose has two servings and teases Wilf that John might put him out of a job soon if he keeps teaching him all of his best recipes.
He learns more skiing, too, of course - one weekend is spent back on the slopes of Swinhope Moor. John does marginally better this time around, not falling quite as frequently, and even learning how to somewhat successfully turn while moving downhill. It's just as much fun as last week - because he's able to stay upright more often, Rose is no longer giggling at his repeated falls. Rather, she cheers his successes, with both delighted laughter and big hugs: the first time he makes it all the way down the slope, the first time he turns properly, and even the first time he uses the ski lift without falling when he gets to the top (although that does earn a giggle and a tongue-touched grin). They ride the snowmobile over to Stout Point for a drink after his lesson that day, and sit at the bar with Mickey and Adam and Owen. And Jimmy, of course. The other blokes are friendly, but when his eyes meet Jimmy's, both men look away quickly, without greeting.
Another weekend was intended for more time at Swinhope Moor, as well - but John hears the rat-tat-tat of sleet and freezing rain against his window during the night. In the morning, he looks out from his window and sees the snow pitted and glossy, obviously coated with ice. His first thought is for Rose, the fear that she could fall and hurt her knee - a thought clearly shared by Wilf as well, judging by the whispered argument between them that John hears as he descends the staircase that morning for breakfast. When John tells her he's canceling his lesson for the day (although he will clearly pay in full regardless), and that her safety is obviously more important than his lesson, Rose objects - of course she does - but he tells her the lesson that he really wants that day is to learn how to beat her in poker, and darts, and she laughs as he grins back at her and slyly pulls out a deck of cards from his jacket.
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The ice sculpting festival is ridiculously fun.
They play ice chess for the better part of an hour - Rose was right, of course, and the participants actually are the players on the life-sized chessboard, pushing around ice carvings of all the pieces in the game. He ends up as a knight, sitting proudly astride a horse-head made of ice until the moderator yells at him to get off, and Rose laughs - she's voted queen on the opposing team, and he smiles. They play until his jeans are frosty, and the bottom cuff of his pants is a frosty block of ice itself: he's still determined to catch her, but she keeps eluding him, until she finally gets a clear path to him and rams her piece into his own, knocking him off the board and out of the game. Rose laughs, declaring victory, and soon relinquishes her coveted title to someone else. Arm in arm, she scurries off with John in pursuit of hot cocoa to warm themselves up.
There's a bar there, too - they drink vodka from shot glasses made entirely of ice, the frozen tumblers frosting over from the cold mist of their mingled breaths as John clinks them together, and raises his aloft as if to make a toast.
"What do you want to drink to?" Rose laughs.
"To the best ski instructor I've ever had," he says, and she giggles.
As soon as he downs his beverage, and attempts to move his hand, he finds his tumbler has gotten stuck to his moist bottom lip. Rose laughs as he gently pries it off, her eyes riveted on his mouth even as he frees it. Pleased with his victory, he smiles, noticing that her gaze still lingers on his lips - doubtless to make sure he hadn't injured himself in the process - then gives her a wicked grin, taking her arm and leading her off see the other sights of the festival.
There's an ice sculpting competition, of course - John's not quite sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't teams of two artisans wielding high-powered chainsaws, crystalline shards flung exuberantly into the air as the blocks of ice are eviscerated down into dragons, and angels, and even a miniature horse-drawn carriage. One sculptor makes a dolphin, delicate tendrils of frozen water trailing from its fins as if it had been captured in motion, mid-splash, from the ocean itself. It's breathtakingly loud and fast and intense, and although of course he'd seen pictures of ice sculptures on telly before back home in London, the process itself is simply beyond anything John had imagined. He glances over to Rose, eager to see her reaction, and instead finds her watching him, as if reveling in his enjoyment of this even more than her own. He smiles at her, her eyes sparkling in response, and she squeezes his arm in delight.
After the contest is over, she links her arm with his own and leads him over to the graffiti wall. He looks down at her and smiles, not minding this at all – they've been arm in arm most of the day, it seems, running from one event to the other, and by this point it feels quite natural. The wall itself is actually several large blocks of ice piled on top of one another as if they were bricks mortared together. The wall is flanked by buckets containing ice picks, in a variety of shapes and sizes, and Rose bends over, retrieving picks for each of them.
"What do people normally carve?" he asks, hesitant.
"Names, slogans, that sort of thing - there's not much room but you can usually find a spot," she says, eyes focused on the block in front of her.
She soon drops to her knees with her own pick and begins to chisel something out. Curious, John moves towards her. He can't make out the etchings she's making on the glistening ice, so he stands behind her, carefully watching as she carves. After a few minutes, she drops the pick back into a bucket, wipes her gloves on her trousers and stands up, admiring her handiwork. The ice itself is bumpy, and from this angle it's hard to see what she's carved in the sunlight.
"What does it say?" he asks.
She smiles, then looks away, almost embarrassed.
"Prentice Forever," she says, softly. "It's a family tradition. Dunno even how it started really, but Gramps told me about my dad carving it every time he'd come here so … that's what I do now. It's silly, I guess, just -"
"Not silly," he says. "It's lovely."
She looks away from him, smiling down at the ground. After a moment, her eyes flick back up to his, almost mischievous.
"So um ... if we're done here … do you like ice skating?" she asks.
After stopping back at the B&B to retrieve some skates, they're able to take his Volkswagon most of the way there. It's a slightly bumpy drive along a thin and winding road running through an area that looks even less inhabited than the rest of Weardale, if that's even possible. He pulls off to the side of the snowy country road when Rose motions for him to do so. Based on his past experiences and resultant deductions about the safety of the local driving conditions, he's at first a little concerned about the probability of this move landing them into a ditch, but Rose says it's okay, and he trusts her, thinking no more of it.
He gets out of the car and stretches, even though this has been only about a twenty minute ride from the B&B. They're parked on the edge of what looks like a long, wide plain, dotted with leafless trees and conifers in clusters off in the distance. There's something almost exhilarating about this place, as he looks around - it's energizing, and so unlike his day to day drudgery back home, from his flat to his office and back to his flat. It makes him want to run and skate and ski and hike, and, impatiently, he leans into the boot of the car to grab his borrowed skates.
"Oi! What do you think you're doing?" she asks teasingly.
"Getting my skates, of course," he responds, slightly confused.
"Well get your skis on first - cross country - we'll have to get there over the moor first," she says, nodding to the flat snowy plain across from where he'd parked the car. "It's about a kilometer across this way, then through a small grove of trees, then we'll be at the pond. It's gorgeous, you'll love it!"
"Skiing and skating? Rose Tyler, how you spoil me," he says as she tosses her head back and laughs. It suits her, really, the gentle winter breeze blowing through her hair, and the sun reflecting of the blond strands makes her look a bit wild, a bit untamed, and underscores her natural beauty. His gaze lingers on her for a moment until he sees she's noticed and has stopped laughing. She's looking back at him a bit questioningly, and the silence is suddenly palpable in the air between them.
He fears he's being rude, and takes a deep breath. Swallowing hard, he breaks his eyes away from hers to grab his skis and skates, and they trudge off to the pond side-by-side.
