John drives up the day before Christmas after shoving his duffel bag, textbooks, and an extremely large cardboard box into his car. He heads north on the M1 and smiles, feeling daft beyond belief but not caring at all as he sings along to Christmas carols on the radio for what seems like the first time since he was a child. Oh, it's not as if he's been a complete Scrooge in years past – he observes Christmas annually, of course, albeit in the muted way that people tend to celebrate when they are only really celebrating vicariously through others. This year however, it feels nice to be invited and wanted, and to have an actual place to belong on a holiday. And an actual family too, he hasn't had that since –

He banishes the thought from his head. Today is not a day for feeling alone, after all – and instead he begins singing anew: this time it's a chorus of Deck the Halls, unabashed and loud.

He arrives to find that Wilf has already picked out an elaborate menu for Christmas and John can't help but feel like it's on his behalf. They resolve to cook together the next day: steaming chestnut soup in a chicken and butter broth, roasted Christmas goose with cranberry sauce, brussel sprouts grilled with shallots and bacon, and plum pudding steamed with spice and ale. Wilf has already gone shopping for most of the ingredients, only realizing he's short on butter after having returned from the general store. Despite his long trek from London, and over Wilf's objections, John offers to drive back to the general store while Wilf begins to steam the plum pudding and Rose finalizes her application for school for him to review over the weekend.

Although he's been to the town of Weardale twice before, this is the first time John has actually driven there, having ridden with Rose on the snowmobile on both prior trips. Or, rather, having held tightly on to Rose's waist as she sped through the snowy paths to bring them to the town. He smiles to himself at the memory as he navigates his way off the main street and into the snowy, gravel carpark in front of the Stone General Store. It's the only shop with its lights still on, the rest of the street having fallen silent and dark, most places likely closed early for the holiday. In a semi–abandoned town like this, he thinks that it should feel unsettling, but Weardale feels so much like a second home to him now that instead he smiles to himself, enjoying the quiet peace of the place.

It's warm inside the store, and the door creaks slightly and chimes as he enters and stomps his snowy boots on the worn 'Happy Christmas' mat inside the entrance. It's already dusk outside, and the store is nearly empty except for Bev, who greets him with a grin.

"Why hello! It's John, right?" Bev asks him. "We were about to close up for Christmas Eve, you made it just in time!" Her voice is warm and welcoming, and John instinctively smiles back at her.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jimmy taking down an end-cap of holiday supplies – stocking stuffers and tinsel and mistletoe. Jimmy's head snaps up at his mother's mention of John's name, and he stares at John with a blank expression almost bordering on disbelief.

"Yes! That's me – just need to pick up some butter for Wilf, won't be but a minute."

"You're … spending Christmas here?" Jimmy says as John makes his way to the refrigeration section and picks up a package of butter.

For once, the boy's words don't sound rude, or steeped in some adolescent angst-ridden resentment. Instead, he almost sounds resigned, and the look in his eyes not so much cold as truly questioning.

John bites back a sudden temptation for a snarky comeback, instantly embarrassed about even having considered it. Even he can see how much Jimmy fancies Rose – or, at least he doesn't like the thought of John being anywhere around her. Instead, he gives Jimmy a tight nod – the boy may be a complete and utter arse, but it's Christmas after all. Jimmy looks back at him for a long moment, his face blank, before giving a slight nod back at John and slowly turning back to the display.

The next morning, the B&B is awash in the succulent, warm aromas of roasted goose and freshly–brewed coffee even before John gets up. He descends the stairs slowly and soon smiles as he's able to sniff out the additional, unmistakable scent of banana pancakes, which he hasn't had in quite some weeks here since he last requested them. He finds Wilf in the kitchen over the oven, several pairs of green and red felt reindeer antlers on his head, and Rose nursing a cup of coffee at the table, a university application sprawled out in front of her, ostensibly in preparation for her tour at Jack's school in a couple of weeks' time.

She bounds up to her feet with a smile as soon as she sees him, and greets him with a hug and a 'Happy Christmas,' which he is only too happy to return.

After breakfast, when Wilf suggests they move to the living room to open their presents, John lingers back for a moment as Wilf plops down in his easy chair next to the Christmas tree and Rose sits cross–legged on the carpet in front of the sofa. It's not that he's hesitant to participate – on the contrary, he wants to take a moment to savor this: the decorated Christmas tree, the holiday music piping in via the Sky Box he'd helped set up, the roaring fireplace complete with stockings. He starts slightly when he notices that there's a stocking for him, as well. Oh, he'd gotten gifts for Wilf and Rose, of course, and clearlyhe had put a lot of thought into Rose's gift in particular. All the same, he stills for a moment at the sight, committing it to memory, enjoying the way it feels to belong somewhere, before going to sit beside Rose on the carpet.

Wilf presents him with a cookbook of traditional British recipes, some of which John has made here at the inn over the past few weeks. As he looks inside, he finds that Wilf has written in the margins as well, crossing out some instructions with notes about how rubbish they are, adding others – and even leaving special tips if John should choose to use ceramic cookware (although Wilf makes sure to note that he still prefers cast iron for some of the recipes). There are even a few handwritten recipes snuck in on the back pages for some of Wilf's specialties. For his part, John gives Wilf a universal remote control he built that will not only work on every television set on the premises, but also the stereo system, and includes light switch adapters so that Wilf can even use it to turn on and off all the lights on the ground floor.

John is hesitant as Rose opens the large and somewhat unwieldy package he brought up with him, wondering if perhaps he should have wrapped it instead of simply putting it in a cardboard box so it didn't get damaged while moving it – or if he should have added something extra, like a card. He wishes she'd open it faster instead of being so careful, because then he'd know more quickly what she thinks about it, if it's something that she actually wants or something that she'd already decided that she definitely didn't want and that's why she never simply just got one for herself, and the more he thinks about that, the more sense it makes that she may not want this at all, and the sooner he knows, the sooner he can stop wondering if –

She pulls out the contraption… two long, dark blue pieces of metal, the same hue as her snowmobile. She looks up at him, her eyes quizzical like not quite sure what it is, or what to think. He shrugs, attempting to affect a noncommittal posture, and inhales a short breath.

"It's a ski rack… for the snowmobile. So you don't need to use bungee cords to tie your skis on anymore."

She turns the rack over in her hands, carefully running the tips of her fingers over the frame and the midnight blue paint, as if to admire the craftsmanship.

"... You made this?"

He nods, proud but still a bit cautious as she stares at him for a moment before breaking into a soft smile. He can't quite read the expression on her face, and he feels a fluttering in his stomach, and all he knows is that he really wants her to say something – anything – and to know that she actually likes it. He supposes he could have boughtone, but none of the ones he saw were particularly attractive, or had design flaws, and he obviously wouldn't have been able to paint them as easily, or especially to –

From the quick breath she sucks in, he knows the very moment she sees the inscription – Prentice Forever – the text emblazoned in pink paint, shellacked and encrusted with the glistening dust from pink and gold crystals, the bonnie bits he'd purchased then broken down in a hydraulic rock breaker he'd borrowed from the geology lab.

She falls silent, and although he can feel her gaze rise to meet his, he's suddenly and inexplicably nervous, his eyes flicking instead to the empty cardboard box, abandoned on the floor.

"I ... um … I used some of those crystals …" he trails off. "I didn't know if you'd like –"

"I love it," she says, the words rushing out so quickly and so softly that he's not sure that he heard them correctly at all.

She puts the rack down beside her and scoots over next to him on the carpet. He's expecting a hug, one of the embraces that have become so typical of them recently, and starts only slightly when instead he feels her lips graze the stubble of his cheek, light and quick and almost imperceptible. The surprise of it shoots straight through him, weaving its way down his cheek and throat and looping in a crescendo back up his spine, leaving a trickle of frissons in its wake, through his stomach and lungs and into all the muscles of his arms that of their own volition wrap around her in a hug, pulling her closer. As she squeezes him back, he inhales a long breath. The scent of her shampoo mingles with the scent of the Christmas tree, and he smiles.

"Thank you," she murmurs.

As Rose pulls away, his arms drop from her slowly and he feels a slight shiver, like the whole room just got a little colder. She reaches behind her for the one gift that's left on the floor, a thick white envelope. In a quick motion that's slightly at odds with how much she's worrying at her lip, Rose hands him the package.

"You don't have to open it now," she says, her words coming out in a rush as he begins to tear the seal, and his gaze rises to meet hers.

"It's a data CD, and … some photocopies. When we went to the museum, you just seemed interested in your family history because you … well, you didn't know much, you said. So I emailed the proprietor, she knows a lot about genealogy and ... I haven't looked at it," she says, quickly, as his eyes fall back down to the package. "I just … I just wanted you to have it, because … you really should have that. Something of your family, I mean."

He stares at the package for a long moment. It's strange, he finds – the contents are all he has from his family now, all he has besides his own memories to remember them by, and all of this information, all of this history fits inside the palm of his hand. He's never had this much of them before, he's never had any sort of a legacy – it never even occurred to him that he could – and yet it's occurred to Rose, who of course has known grief and loss but nonetheless has always had someone to love her, has always had roots, and a place to call home. A place she's wholeheartedly invited him into, as well. He swallows slowly, and looks up at her again. It strikes him how uncertain she looks in that moment, as if she's concerned she's made a mistake, and that he won't like it. The thought that she could doubt herself at all amazes him – she is brilliant and kind and one of the most caring people he thinks he has ever met. And in that moment, he might even say she's the most –

He swallows again. Without a word, he opens his arms and gently pulls her into another embrace, but the angle is awkward, with her arms around his waist and his mouth breathing out a small puff of air against her temple. He doesn't say thank you, he can't quite force out the words over the lump in his throat, but as she sits back up she's smiling at him, and he somehow knows that she knows. He gives her a broad grin, and squeezes her hand.

He hears a contented chuckle and looks up at Wilf, sitting back in his brown chair and smiling down at them. John smiles back at his friend, not sure which one of them looks more pleased right now.

Wilf leaves them in the living room shortly thereafter, ostensibly to make some phone calls, and they stay seated side–by–side together, still in front of the fireplace. It's a comfortable silence, the soft lull of holiday music on the Sky Box contrasting only slightly with the crackling logs in the fire. He absentmindedly fingers the envelope from Rose, and mulls over all that this truly gives him – something of his family, where previously he had nothing at all. It's a precious gift, almost unfathomably so, to suddenly have something that you never thought existed at all. It brings up a question that has been simmering in his mind lately, something he'd been hesitant to broach before now, not wanting to get Rose's hopes up, or ever risk disappointing her. But the idea that it could help Rose – and Wilf – matters more than anything and wins out.

He looks over at Rose and takes a deep breath. "You said your father had been trying to invent a special pulley system for the mine … do you know if he ever finished?" he asks.

"No, I don't think so … well, the plans maybe yes, but it was never built."

John considers this and nods slowly. "Do you keep your father's old paperwork?"

"Yes, I think so … why?"

He shrugs. "Just something I've been wondering. About the patent."

She looks questioningly at him, but says nothing further. Instead, she gets to her feet and brings him up several creaky flights of stairs to the attic. It's a large, somewhat dusty room filled with boxes that had been unceremoniously shoved away for decades, and it smells distinctively of mothballs and stale air. Rose shuffles through several boxes and bins, finally pulling a box out from the bottom of a large stack, wiping at the lid with her sleeve in an attempt to get rid of the dust.

"Here it is!" she says. "All this stuff is from his office."

He sits down cross–legged on the floor, whips his glasses out of his shirt pocket and puts them on, picking up a stack of papers. Her gaze lingers on him for a moment longer than normal, and he looks over at her, curious.

"Sorry … I've just never seen you in glasses before."

He gives her a cheeky grin, and her gaze drops from his to the floor, a smile still on her face. He looks back down towards the papers.

The box is disorganized, papers unfiled, pages bent, and carelessly shoved into the box. He can't help but wonder if it's Pete who kept his own filing system in such disarray, or if it had been put in here like this after the man's death, as if the person who'd filed it had wanted to just shut it away and couldn't bear to look at it. His eyes flick up to Rose, who is looking at him with curiosity. Regardless of the mess, John has written enough grant proposals and filed enough patent documentation on his electronics over the years to know exactly what he's looking for, and carefully sorts the papers as he flips through them. After a few minutes, he finds what he needs, and pulls it gently from the stack, careful such that it doesn't rip. He spends several long moments looking it over before turning to Rose.

"Your father never finished filing the patent on his invention…" John says, looking up at her and pointing to the half–completed forms. "It doesn't look like he ever filed this with the Intellectual Property Office."

"Oh... Is that a bad thing?"

She looks down at him, frowning slightly, her eyes searching his face as if trying to gauge if this piece of old information matters at all.

"Well, it means that you can file it yourself, and let companies use it, for a fee of course. Could make quite a bit of money from that, actually. Enough to help out Wilf here, maybe help with your education," John says.

He pauses, and then continues more softly, "And it means that a piece of your father still lives on, is still helping you, and helping other mining workers. Just like he wanted."

Finally making eye contact with Rose, he finds her eyes shining. For a brief moment, he wonders if these are sad or happy tears, or tears at all, and if he's made a mistake saying anything at all about this. His question is soon answered however as she kneels on the floor beside him and throws herself into his arms. He breaks into a wide grin as the force of her embrace pushes him off–balance, and they tumble on the floor, both laughing.

As they hug, he holds her closer than usual, and for quite a bit longer than he typically does. He can't quite explain it, but somehow that feels right, too. He's not quite sure how long they stay together on the floor like that, but as they finally rise, smiling at each other, he thinks he finally understands what it feels like to spend the holidays with people he cares about.

––

The next morning they pack a picnic of hot cocoa and sandwiches, and set off to go skiing through a section of the countryside that borders the River Wear. Swinhope Moor is closed for the holiday, so per John's suggestion they instead head off to go cross–country skiing on the snowmobile, its new ski rack proudly attached. As they trek along the embankment, he catches the occasional glimpse of the river, the icy branches of the trees along its banks lilting down as if to sweep it with a dusting of snowflakes. As usual, Rose is an excellent guide, even occasionally stopping to point out some of the old abandoned mining shafts by the river. The entrances are smaller than John had imagined, and they look eerie, boarded up with half–rotted timbers and forgotten, the snow ghosts in the breeze their only visitors.

Eventually, they ski past the shafts and towards an outcrop of rocks overlooking the cold, meandering river below. They sit here for a bit, rolling out a big thick blanket onto the rocks and pouring out their cocoa for energy and warmth. John stays silent, his thoughts straying to the mine, and all the patent paperwork he plans to file for Rose this week, and it takes him several minutes to realize that Rose has been uncharacteristically silent as well. He turns to look at her, warming her hands on a small steel cup holding her steaming cocoa, her expression unreadable and a far cry away from the carefree smiles he normally associates with her. The silence suddenly seems oppressive, awkward even, and so unlike them – not that there's a them, of course, clearly they're just friends, but even so –

"Are you all set for your campus tour?" he finally says. The tour itself isn't for nearly two weeks, but the application deadline is shortly thereafter – and if she gets accepted, which she most assuredly will, she'd probably need to begin basic coursework soon after that, as well.

Rose pauses for a moment, and then nods.

"Yeah … I've got a flatmate lined up – Trisha Delaney, she grew up around here, lives in London year-round now. If this all works out."

"... it will work out, Rose."

She shrugs, her shoulders dropping slightly, and she stares down into her cocoa. When she speaks again, her voice is softer than before.

"It's just ... I've never left here, I've never done anything like this before."

He puts his own cup down on the rock, then turns to face her.

"I never skied before, and you helped me do that. I can help you with this as well. They'll adore you, Rose."

She looks back up at him, her expression still inscrutable.

"It's your friend who's giving me the tour?"

"Jack? Nah," he says, shaking his head. Although he knows Rose would like to meet his friend, he can't help but be relieved that Jack is busy that day and that someone else will be giving the tour. He still hasn't told Jack that Rose is the prospective student he wants to help, knowing it would lead to questions, comments – and knowing Jack, probably lascivious jokes as well. Nothing he feels like dealing with right now. "His assistant will show you around. Gwen, I think."

Rose nods again, slowly exhaling a long breath, still palpably nervous. He feels a rush of bravado come over him, wanting more than anything else to comfort her – to assure her that everything will work out, everything will be alright. To make her smile, in the same effortless way she always makes him smile.

"Everything will be fine, Rose – I promise."

He reaches for her hand, and threads his fingers through her own, giving them a squeeze. Finally she looks up at him, her expression relaxing as he smiles down at her, and she leans in against him slightly. They stay like that, hands lingering together and intertwined for a long moment as they turn and gaze out at the icy river below them.