After he returns to London, he spends the next two and a half weeks catching up on an ungodly amount of work. His time in Weardale had been wonderful, and he'd had so much fun with Rose—but he'd spent so much time helping her on her application as well as the patent documentation that he hadn't even once cracked a book to look over Luke and Clyde's data. Unfortunately, this doesn't go unnoticed by the boys. Both Luke and Clyde have been in his office repeatedly since his return: Their applications for their advanced studies are due soon and they really do need his help. Which—of course—he will give them, and with plenty of time before the deadline, but between Weardale and the patent documents, plus his normal workload and the fact that he's booked for Chamonix in just over a week, he's been so busy that he asks them to wait—which they grudgingly do, for the time being.
He always makes time for Rose, though. They talk on the phone nearly every night and exchange rapid-fire text messages in between his classes during the day—about the paperwork for the intellectual property office but also about skiing and her upcoming trip to London for the university tour and …almost everything, really.
It's funny, he muses, how something inside of him soars and he instantly smiles when he hears her voice now—when he gets a text from her, when he thinks of the times they've spent together, or the times he knows he'll see or speak to her again. He grins to himself just thinking about her. If it weren't for Jeanne, he'd almost have to say he feels like he's—
He shakes his head, sighing audibly, swallowing down the thought to banish it from his mind. It's completely ridiculous and utterly impossible for him to start entertaining such notions. She's twenty years old for God's sake—most of his students are her age, if not older. She also happens to be his instructor, and one of his few good friends, and if he wants to keep her—and her grandfather—as friends, he'd better damn well remember that. Plus there's the small detail that she lives nearly halfway across the bloody country, and while that might change if she indeed comes to London for university, that's how things are at the present time. And yes, she's utterly beautiful and they've gotten quite close over the past few months, but he's been working towards being with Jeanne for longer than that, hasn't he? And he has an e-ticket to leave for a flight to Chamonix in just over a week to prove it.
He feels an unsettling jolt course through him. He has hardly given a thought to his trip to Chamonix recently, which is odd in a way considering that he's leaving in just over a week's time. And he should be thinking about it, shouldn't he? He was certainly focused on it day and night at the beginning of this whole exercise. This was the entire point of his lessons, after all... initially, at least. And of course he's grown to enjoy skiing, and he's grown to care about Rose and Wilf—but he's been forgetting that all of this was about Jeanne.
A thought strikes his mind like a rogue ray of light through closed shutters, and he wonders at his own use of verb tense in that moment—that it was about Jeanne. Was. Past tense. That maybe this means that it had been about her at one point—maybe things have changed, maybe going to Chamonix is a mistake. He wonders if this is still is all about Jeanne, or if—
He picks up a Chamonix brochure from his desk, staring hard at it, remembering how it felt when he first got it in the mail, when he tore open the brochure package as soon as he got home and couldn't wait to open it. How he'd gone back out to buy a French/English dictionary just to translate the damn thing because he'd been in such a rush to order the brochure that he'd forgotten to get the English version. How he'd committed the photos to memory and started to plan his trip and, hopefully, his relationship with Jeanne. He remembers Jeanne's smile, the butterflies in his stomach when he got the invitation from her, recapturing that moment and how wonderful it had felt to know that someone he wanted so much could possibly wanted him back as well.
It is about her. It is.
He'd do well to remember that too.
—
He takes a long lunch break on Thursday to meet Rose at the rail station on the day of her tour, arriving early just to make sure he's there when her train comes in from Weardale.
As soon as the train arrives, Rose bounds off with her duffel bag and scans the crowd for him, giving him a bright smile and a wave as soon as she sees him. He grins broadly and opens his arms as she jogs towards him, meeting her halfway and enfolding her into his embrace, laughing as the strands of her hair tickle his nose.
"You didn't have to come," she says, smiling up at him.
"And you know I wouldn't have missed it," he says, smiling back down at her as she hums contentedly.
It feels strange to see her here, against the backdrop hubbub of the busy London railway. He's always associated her with Weardale, with the fresh country air and dizzying exhilaration of the outdoors. Something inside him flips giddily that she's here, on his stomping grounds, with him now, and he spontaneously wraps his arms around her again, drawing her close into him as she laughs.
She insists on carrying her own bag as they walk to his car, and she loops her arm through his own and looks all around at the busy station as he smiles down at her.
"Your tour's at 2?" he says.
"Yes," she says with a nod as she buckles her seat. "Just need to drop this off at Trisha's and change, then … guess I'm as ready as I'll ever be," she laughs, an almost self-deprecating sound.
He gives her a long look. "You'll be brilliant," he says. "How are you getting there, anyway?"
"Taxi, I guess."
He frowns. "I'll drive you, if you want."
"You don't have to—"
"… I want to," he says, and she smiles at him.
She gives him Trisha Delaney's address—luckily, Trisha doesn't live far from John's office, giving him a chance to head back to work for a bit. With one last hug, he lets Rose out in the building's carpark with plans to meet out front a little later.
Clyde's waiting in front of his office when he returns to school, sitting on the floor outside his door, and nervously jumps to his feet as soon as John rounds the corner.
"Dr. Smith, sorry I just—I know you're busy but applications are due next week so I just need the final abstract, which means I need your data set—I know you're headed out of town soon for your ski trip, so I just want to make sure Luke and I get our stuff before then, otherwise—"
"Of course, come in," John says, flicking on a light switch as Clyde follows him into the room. "Just finished yours last night, here's your copy."
The boy nods gratefully, carefully putting the folder in his backpack.
"I'm really sorry to bother you—"
John shakes his head. "No, I'm sorry it's taken me this long. I'm almost done with Luke's, I have to leave a bit early today but he can come by to get it tomorrow morning—I'll leave it in a folder outside my door if I'm not here."
Clyde nods. "Sounds good."
John works for the next hour finalizing Luke's paperwork before driving back to Trisha's building to meet Rose. She's standing outside, looking nervous, in a dressy peacoat instead of her usual pink ski jacket, and wearing a pink blouse with fitted black trousers in place of her usual jeans and jumper. A smile percolates at the corners of his mouth, and he's not able to take his eyes off her as she climbs into his car—he's never seen her out of jeans before.
"You—hush up!" she says, pointing a finger at him in a mock warning, and he laughs, giving her a sidelong glance she pretends to ignore, and thinking she's beautiful no matter what she wears.
They arrive at Jack's university well before the time of her tour. John's intent is simply to walk her to the correct building in the veritable labyrinth that comprises the campus of Jack's school, and to meet her back at the car later. As John motions to the front door of the admissions office, ready to turn and leave, the door swings open. John starts and his stomach sinks when he notices that it's none other than Jack Harkness exiting the building, walking towards them.
Jack raises an eyebrow, looking from John to Rose and back again. He gives John a long, appraising look, and John stares back at him. John swallows, wanting to ask how on earth—
"Saw you from the window. So this must be Miss Rose Tyler," Jack says, turning to Rose, every syllable distinct and infused with his brightest and most charming smile. "Jack Harkness. Ready for your tour?"
"Yes! And it's so good to meet you—thank you very much, I really appreciate it."
Jack shrugs casually. "Any friend of John's is a friend of mine," he says with a smile.
"I thought ..." John says, swallowing, his mouth suddenly dry. "I thought Gwen would be here."
Jack doesn't respond right away. Instead, Jack keeps his eyes focused on Rose, and reaches out his hand to shake her own.
"She called out today. It's good to meet you, Rose," Jack says warmly. "I've heard a lot about you."
Jack glances up at John judiciously for a moment, and John can almost hear the questions and comments rumbling through his friend's mind. Without a word, Jack soon turns back to Rose, giving her another reassuring grin.
"Have a seat in my office, John. We'll be back later," Jack says without another glance at his friend, as he opens the door for Rose and ushers her into the main corridor.
—
John's a bundle of nerves as he waits for them to return, pacing around Jack's office like a schoolboy sent to the headmaster to get punished. He wasn't expecting Jack there—he had never told Jack that Rose was the student he had wanted to help. He knows his friend damn well enough to know what he must be thinking and the comments he'll surely make once they're alone—about her being a pretty young blonde, his ski instructor, traveling halfway across the country to see each other… and questions about if she had anything to do with how upset John had been at the pub the last time they'd met… and, most of all, what this means for him and Jeanne. Nothing John hasn't thought of himself, in fact. He wonders what Jack will tell Rose, if anything, about him … most especially about Chamonix. He'd simply been trying to make things easier, when the hell did everything get so bloody complicated? He slides down into a tall-backed chair and buries his face in his hands. He should have told Jack that Rose was coming—he should have. And there are probably a lot of things he should have told Rose as well.
Jack and Rose return after what feels to John like hours, both with broad smiles on their faces, and Rose gives John a delighted look that he can't help returning. The tour must have gone well. He stops himself from squeezing her hand, knowing it would only elicit more questions from Jack, but resolves to give her a big hug in celebration as soon as they're alone.
"We'll be in touch soon with an official letter, Rose—but I honestly don't see that there will be a problem. You'll need to take some basic courses before you enroll, and classes start for those in a few weeks, so you'll want to complete them if you plan to start with us in the fall."
"Yes, thank you so much!" Rose says, beaming.
"John," Jack says, giving him a measured look, his smile only slightly less broad than before, and his eyes narrowing in a way that would be imperceptible if John didn't know him so well. "We'll talk soon, okay?"
John nods, his jaw clenching and his stomach sinking again. "Absolutely," he says. He doesn't mean it.
As they leave Jack's office and make their way down the street, Rose gushes about the tour—the facilities, how nice Jack was, how good of a candidate he thought she was, how well he thought she'd fit in and how happy Wilf would be and how she needs to sign up for classes now and tell Trisha she can move in and—
John laughs softly to himself.
"What?" Rose says, coming to a stop.
"I knew you'd be fantastic, I think you're the only one who is surprised."
She gives him a soft smile and opens her arms. He scoops her into a hug then, more lingering than usual, and she feels warm and soft against him in the cutting chill of the late afternoon air. As she finally pulls away he threads his fingers through hers to keep the contact between them, squeezing her hand as they unlock their arms from one another.
"This calls for a celebration," John says. "How about dinner—my treat?"
She chooses the chip shop, a rather bustling place near school. They thread their way through a crowd of students in the takeaway queue and manage to find a small, rickety table for two off in the corner. They order two baskets of chips and Rose grows quiet as the excitement of the afternoon slowly ebbs away.
"So … one more lesson," she laughs, a slightly forced sound. "Since I'm here for the next few days anyway, we could have your lesson down here at the indoor training arena if you want—they'll let me bring my own students in."
He nods. He really hadn't thought that far ahead—his room in Weardale still has a lot of his cross-country skiing gear, but he certainly has enough of his downhill skiing gear with him now in London to be able to have his lesson at the arena instead. His last lesson. He feels a pang that he won't be in Weardale for that, with both Rose and Wilf—the idea seems wrong somehow.
"I always kind of wondered why you came all the way up to Weardale for lessons instead of taking them at the arena … I'm really glad you did, though," she says, her face lightens with a soft smile as she leans a bit closer towards him.
He swallows, averting his eyes. Of course the reason is that he didn't want to risk running into anyone he knew. It was such an important consideration for him back then, and he muses that it seems so odd to him now—he's more than willing to go there with Rose now, anytime she wants, even after their lessons are over. In fact, he truly hopes she wants to. It had been silly to worry about so much about what others—including Jeanne, really—might think of him being a beginner skier, and it hardly seems like anything he should have even thought twice about. All the same, he's glad he cared about it back then, as he'd never have met Rose otherwise—nor Wilf. They'd never have become such a big part of his life—he can't imagine not knowing them now.
He sighs. "I'm glad I did, too," he says, the words soft but sure.
"You coming up again next weekend?" she asks, popping a chip in her mouth. "I know your lessons will technically be over, but we missed that one when the weather was bad, so I was just wondering..." she trails off, uncertainty lacing her voice.
"...Um, no, not next weekend," he says, clearing his throat, the knowledge that it is his weekend in Chamonix pulsating uncomfortably through his mind with every beat of his heart.
He grabs several chips and shoves them into his mouth at once, and it is certainly not to avoid any more conversation on the topic. He doesn't want to talk about Chamonix—but now would be the time, right? Bloody hell, he doesn't want to think about this, but it's impossible not to. His mind races with doubts again that he should be going at all at this point, and he can't remember how he'd convinced himself out of the same thoughts when he'd had them the other day. They have just one more lesson together … and all he wants to do in this moment is go with her back up to Weardale, not just this weekend, but every weekend. He needs to say something, he knows that, but his mouth is dry from the salt on the chips and he swallows uncomfortably, reaching for his glass of water. He splashes a few droplets on the table as he guzzles it down.
He looks up at Rose, his stomach churning, but she's looking at the table, at the dwindling number of chips in the baskets, and starts nibbling on the edge of her fingernail.
"I mean..." she takes a deep breath and stammers, still not meeting his eyes. "We'll both be living in the same city now, and it's really nice to spend time with you, and I didn't know if you maybe, sometime, wanted to –"
"Dr. Smith!" a voice calls.
John turns around to see Luke waving at him with a gaggle of his friends, including Clyde, crowded around the counter ordering chips. Luke leaves his group and heads over to John and Rose's table.
"Glad I caught you," Luke says. He smiles at Rose before continuing, "I was wondering if I could stop by your office to pick up the paperwork—
"Um, sure, yes—now is not a very good—"
"Can I get it this week? Clyde said you're leaving early next week for your ski-thing in Chamonix—if I could get it from you before then, I could work on it this weekend and have it back for review—"
"Ski-thing?" Rose interrupts.
The boy is still standing beside him, looking down at him expectantly, but John's heart is pounding in his throat, making it harder and harder to swallow down any air and he can't tear his eyes from Rose.
She's still smiling and the look on her face is merely questioning, like she is confused, as if she's misheard, as if she's gotten it wrong and is just waiting for him to correct her.
"You're going skiing? You never said ..." she trails off.
For a long moment, there is just silence. He wants to say something—anything—but his mouth is dry again and he just sits there, his gaze riveted uselessly on her.
"I mean, Chamonix, the trails are pretty advanced, that whole place is like ..." she laughs, a little unsure. She makes an expansive motion with her hands, and somehow, it doesn't need saying and he knows what she means.
That it's expensive.
Elaborate.
Romantic.
They sit like that for a long moment more, all words having fled his brain. He wants her to know that he doesn't mean it like that, hasn't meant it like that in a while. He's horrible at poker, as she's told him time and time again, and he knows the look on his face most likely reflects the growing knot in his stomach that is crushing the very breath from his lungs. Her breath catches a little and something falters in her eyes. His eyes drop to the table, unable to hold her gaze. When she speaks, her voice is softer.
"Are you going with any- ... I mean, that's not the sort of place you just ..."
She trails off, and after a moment his eyes flick guiltily back up to hers, her own eyes searching his face for an interminably grueling minute. He can't open his mouth to say anything, as she looks back at him, the confusion in her face slowly giving way to resignation. He can't keep looking at her, he can't watch this happen, and his eyes drop to his empty water glass. He can't think of what to say—he certainly can't lie to her, never to her. He could say he's going with a group of professors, which is true, but that wouldn't be the half of it, and he can't say that, and he can't even think of anything to say about Jeanne right now. He should have told her, heshould have told her, right at the beginning, and he forgets why he didn't anymore, and although he hasn't lied to her, he hasn't told her the truth, not really—and he can't lie to himself and pretend that—
"Oh," she says, in barely more than a whisper, and as he looks back up at her somehow he knows that she understands everything.
It's not just her eyes that fall to the table then, her entire face lowers. He doesn't know what to do, what to say, but the overhead light in the chippy reflects off the golden strands of her hair, and they're so beautiful—she's so beautiful, and no, this can absolutely, not be hap-
She raises her head then, her expression guarded in a way that he's never seen it before, not even when she was a complete stranger. The first time—every time—he sees her, she looks so open, so happy to see him. He's so used to being able to tell exactly what she is thinking from the look in her eyes, the smile on her face, and more recently, the way she reaches for his hand, but now she's just looking like she wants to get away and be anywhere, anywhere, but here.
Something inside him twists painfully as she gives a tight smile then reaches for her purse, her eyes focused on the table all the while. He notices she has a smudge of vinegar on the sleeve of her new blouse, and he stares at it, oddly transfixed, wanting to just reach over and—
"I'm sorry … I need to go," she whispers, that awful smile is firmly planted on her face but it's wrong, he's never quite seen her smile like that before and he never, ever wants to again—and she won't meet his eyes. She turns her head away and suddenly he can't see her face anymore. Panic flares in his chest and he feels nauseous, struck by the thought that if she leaves here now, he might never—no, he won't even let himself think it. As she turns from him, he sees her chest convulse slightly, as if she's coughing or—
"Rose..." he finally creaks out, whispering gruffly, an admonition and a plea all in one, his heart stuttering so fast he thinks it might shatter through his ribcage and fall to the floor at her feet as she begins to stand.
She doesn't look back at him, the metal legs of her chair clawing against the floor in a noisy shriek that makes him recoil, spurring him into action as he realizes she's leaving.
"Rose—Rose!" he calls, louder now, finally finding his legs and standing up to go after her, but she's already to the door and doesn't turn around, unlike the other patrons now turned around in their seats, staring at him. His face is flushed and he can hear his own pulse beating in his ears and he just can't let her leave thinking—
He shoves his own chair back as well, ignoring Luke, who's still standing there, gaping at him.
"Sir!" the waitress yells after him as he moves towards the exit. "You haven't paid for your baskets of chips yet!"
John turns around, flustered and hurried, as he reaches into his coat for his wallet and mindlessly tosses a few bills on the table. He's not even sure how much he leaves, he's got several £50 notes in his wallet he was saving for Chamonix intermingled with the rest of his cash, but Rose is leaving and fucking Chamonix is the last thing he cares about right now.
"I'll get you your change," she says, with a nod.
"Keep it," John mumbles, sloppily replacing his wallet in his pocket and banging his hip painfully against the table as he turns to hurry out the door, not even sparing a glance for Luke, still standing there bewildered as the door slams shut behind him and he races after Rose.
