The morning sun rises bright and insistent, piercing through the curtains of John's room. In a futile attempt at avoidance, he flops over listlessly on his mattress and pulls the richly threaded white sheet over his head. It doesn't provide much comfort—not that he was expecting it to. While the rest of the professors have made plans to rise early and return to either Les Houches for the day or explore the more advanced ridges at the Vallée Blanche, John has already decided to stay in bed. It seems to be his best alternative, as he has nowhere he particularly wants to be right now. He has no desire to relive yesterday's joyless experience at Les Houches—hell, he has no desire to relive anything from yesterday, really. And Rose had warned him against attempting the more advanced trails at the Vallée Blanche, and so that leaves him here…
Alone. In the dark. He closes his eyes and swallows thickly.
His head throbs and his eyes feel like they are scratching against the cotton-wool insides of his eyelids, and his heart just… he swallows. His throat is so dry that it feels like it's covered in parchment, raspy and crackling with every breath. He grimaces, knowing this is doubtlessly due to all the wine he consumed last night at the cocktail party—in addition to what was clearly the horrific idea of drinking far too much Jack Daniels when he'd finally scurried back to his room.
He opens his eyes slowly, and glances at his phone on the end table. No messages, and six hours until his flight leaves. He rolls over one more time and stares at the ceiling. He doesn't fall back to sleep.
His flight takes off from the Chambéry-Savoie aéroport much later that day than he'd expected, the plane having been delayed due to ice. He's clearly much more annoyed by this than the several other professors booked on his flight, who are laughing and sharing pictures and already discussing the next excursion, leaning over each other's seats like children on a school trip. The rest of the group—including Jeanne, he supposes—he'd never actually asked after all, are booked on a flight the next morning. All John wants to do is sink down into his seat and go home—he's tired of being tired, and even more tired of being here. Once again he's fortunate enough to sit alone and spends the flight staring out the window into the inky black sky as the plane speeds back towards London.
Back towards Rose.
He's not sure how that thought makes him feel now—he's not sure what he should feel now. Let alone if his quickening pulse at the thought of talking to her again is due to anticipation and hope or dread at what she might say to him, or perhaps equal parts of each.
No sooner has the landing gear touched down on the tarmac than John's phone is in his hand. He turns it on to check the time, which is late—12am—and it's certainly far too late to call Rose. Not that he should call her—should he? She'd said they'd talk after he gets back, but did she even know when that would be? She clearly didn't know his schedule, and doesn't that mean he should be the one to call her? The thought makes him slightly queasy, and he closes his eyes for the first time since boarding the plane. His mind has been going in circles over all of this—over her—for more than a week now, and he feels almost dizzy. This has been so bloody exhausting. But he'll call her, he knows that, it's not even a question. Tomorrow then, maybe?
He nods to himself wordlessly. Tomorrow.
—
It's almost 2am when he arrives home after the tiresome ordeal of collecting his luggage from the baggage carousel and his car from the carpark. Plunking his bags down into the chilled dark hall of his flat, he realizes that it's colder than he'd been expecting it to be, uncomfortably so—he'd clearly forgotten to program the heating back on before he left. Bloody brilliant, that—the latest in a long line of mistakes he's made recently.
The next thing he notices is the same thing his eyes have hungrily sought out ever since things went all wrong with Rose: the voicemail light on his phone is blinking. It's a steady and insistent little red beacon, and he disentangles his fingers from the strap of his bags and rushes towards it before even turning on the lights, wincing as he bangs his knee against the hard corner of an end table.
He hits play from muscle memory and waits, knowing the message won't be from her but hoping nonetheless. He's right, of course; it's a message from Jack. He sighs, flicks on the light, and stops the replay before Jack finishes speaking. Jack wants to get together for drinks after work—of course he does. To find out about Chamonix, about Rose—everything John has questions about himself, in fact.
He flops onto his bed, not even removing his clothes, and falls into a dreamless sleep.
—
He wakes blearily a few hours later to the sound of his alarm—it's Monday morning, a new day and a new week, and it's time to head back to his office at the university. It feels a bit surreal—and he slowly realizes he has no idea what he even is supposed to do now. At first, he'd spent so long entirely focused on his trip to Chamonix, as if it were some grandiose event that would represent some sort of a new beginning in his life. And then he'd spent weeks trying not to think about it and what it meant that he didn't want to go. He'd never really spent any time at all considering his return and that somehow this utterly brilliant beginning might feel instead like an ending—
Sighing, he cuts off his train of thought, annoyed at himself—at both his own blithering self-pity, and at the fact that he's gotten himself into this whole… this whole damn situation, whatever the hell this was, in the first place. If he's going to be this damn maudlin, he may as well wait and do it properly over drinks after work with Jack.
He brings a groggy hand to his forehead, hard enough that it thuds against his brow. He swipes it across his face with a sigh and slowly rises from bed. Pads across the cold kitchen floor in his bare feet to start a pot of coffee. Strips off his stale clothes from yesterday. Takes a quick, hot shower. Shaves. Brushes his teeth. Gets dressed. Pours his coffee in a travel mug. And then heads off to work. As usual.
The only call he makes that morning is to Jack. As much as he wants—needs—to call Rose, and as many times that morning as he looks down to check the time on his phone, and finds his fingers unconsciously navigating to his contact list and ghosting over her name, he stops himself. He needs time to think of what to say to her, to script it out in his mind so that he can get it right this time, whatever he ends up saying. He can't help but wonder if maybe if he'd planned it out better the last time he'd called her, if he'd made it clear that he by far would have preferred to be with her than to go to France, then maybe their conversation would have ended differently. Maybe she would have let him help her… maybe he could have made things right between them—he'd have settled for even seeing her. He realizes that they haven't spoken in close to a week now—and he hasn't seen her in close to two, longer than they've ever gone without each other. Even just thinking about her absence gnaws at him, this hole inside him getting bigger and more numb with each passing day.
Jack picks up on the first ring and they make plans to meet up later that afternoon at their usual off-campus pub. Although talking about Chamonix is the last thing he wants to do—and the first thing he knows Jack will want to know about—he could use a drink. And a friend.
—
The afternoon sky has already started to darken into a somber, woolly grey when John finally arrives at the pub and opens the heavy wooden door. The warmth of the brightly lit interior fogs his glasses for a moment, and it's such a stark contrast from the brittle cold of the outdoors. It takes him a minute to spot Jack sitting at the bar through the mixed crowd of university students and locals enjoying a football game on telly, but Jack waves to him and motions to the two ales sitting in front of him.
"You sounded like you needed one of these," Jack says with a small chuckle, nodding to the ale as John jostles his way through the crowd and drops bonelessly down onto the stool beside Jack, his sigh inaudible through the din. "How've you been?"
John looks down at his drink and shrugs, fingering the edge of the paper coaster under his ale, already damp from the condensation on the glass. The whole situation feels a bit like deja vu, and he pauses, thinking back to the last time he was here, and with Jack nonetheless. When he was about to cancel his plans with Rose for a stupid art show—when he was still trying to find excuses to not tell her about Jeanne. And he could have told her then, couldn't he? They'd still be friends, then. It wouldn't have been too late, would it? He flicks his fingernail against the paper coaster under his glass, the cheap paper tearing under the strain. This happened the last time he was here too, didn't it? He presses his lips together as a wave of revulsion washes over him. Good lord, he'd been ready to ditch her then, hadn't he—oh he certainly hadn't thought of it that way at the time, but he'd had a chance to be with her—she'd wanted him with her, and he'd been ready to throw that away. And for what? Bloody hell, he deserves this—deserves all of this, doesn't he? No wonder she won't talk to him. He doesn't deserve her.
"You ok?"
John takes a long, deep swig of his ale and places it back on the bar, slowly swallowing a mouthful of the bitter hops. He keeps his eyes focused on the deep mahogany bar and tells Jack about… well, everything, really. Everything that matters, everything that's been on his mind. He starts at the beginning, with a wrong turn taken down country roads on a snowy night. He tells Jack about falling that first day on the slopes with her… and falling on the ice with her when she'd taken him out for one of the most fun days he can remember… and again in the attic when he'd found her father's patent documentation on Christmas and she'd bowled him over and they'd laughed… and how he'd just held her. Jack doesn't say a word as John tells him about Weardale and Wilf and cooking and the old B&B where he'd had his own room and which had started to feel more like home than his own flat. His voice falters at times—she'd become one of his dearest friends, and reliving their closeness makes their distance now ache even more, the dull throb of the past week turning more searing with every word. He gets to the part about school applications and the tour at Jack's university and pauses, his stomach sinking at the memory of that horrible day. He takes another sip of his ale and falls silent. Even talking about it makes him feel like he's being dragged through it yet again, a viscid, prolonged torment that soaks deeper into every pore the more time his thoughts spend steeped in it.
John nurses his pint as the emotions threaten to overcome him. It isn't until Jack's even, quiet voice prompts him to continue that he manages to muster up the will to keep talking.
So John tells him about the chippy. About Luke. Running after her. How she needed time. He takes another gulp of ale and begins to tell Jack about Jimmy—backtracking a bit because he'd left out that part earlier in the story, and wanted to make sure Jack could appreciate exactly how rude Jimmy is. The very thought of the other man—if you could even call a boy his age a real man—ignites something inside John, and for the first time since he started his diatribe he tears his eyes from the bar to look up at Jack, his eyes blazing.
"And there's this… this punk—"
He cuts himself off as his eyes fix on a point over Jack's shoulder. A blonde head, silky golden strands hanging like a curtain over her profile. She's not faced towards him, and she's sitting on the other side of the pub… but he'd recognize her anywhere. Without finishing his thought he's up and out of his barstool, propelling himself through the crowd, shouldering past strangers and not even caring, not able to take his eyes away from her. Not noticing until he's just a metre away that she's not alone… Jimmy's sitting there too.
It's clear she doesn't see him approach until he's at the edge of her table, she doesn't even look up until he's standing there, his mouth agape with something between a sigh and a smile, and he wonders if he looks half as dazed as he feels right now. His thoughts are muddled between the noise of the crowd and the surprise over seeing her… but she's here, and that's all that matters.
She looks up at him, almost a double take, and her eyes widen. He can't tell if she's happy or upset to see him, the obvious surprise on her face drowning out anything else she might be thinking. But she meets his eyes—she looks at him, she doesn't turn away—and that's more than he's had in over a week and he'll take it, it's enough.
"Hey," she says, her voice so quiet he can barely hear her, her eyes guarded but gentle.
"Hi," he replies. He takes in a quick breath and looks stupidly from Rose to Jimmy and back to Rose again. Panic flares inside him as he realizes he has no idea what to say now. Jimmy's glaring at him over the rim of his glass and doesn't say a word. Rose swallows.
"So…um, when did you get back?"
"Last night—well, this morning, really. The flight was delayed."
She looks down at the table and nods, and they fall into silence once again. He's still standing over her, and he can't quite see her face to read her expression. There's a long pause and his stomach quivers nervously, every synapse in his brain racing with the thought that he should say something—anything. He attempts a smile which feels more like it's ended up a grimace, but she's not even looking at him and oh no this is not going how he'd hoped—whatever it was he'd been hoping for.
"I was… I was going to call you tonight actually. So… um, it's good… seeing you here. I'm—I'm here with Jack, you … uh, you remember him" he says. She looks up, and he motions idly over to the bar with his head, his eyes never leaving her face.
"Did you… were the trails good?"
John pauses, his eyes still fixed on her, his pulse thudding so hard he can almost hear his heartbeat buzzing in his ears over the sounds of the match. He makes a small shrugging motion with his shoulders and shakes his head in an attempt at saying no, wanting to sit down beside her, take her hands into his own and tell her that nothing was good about his trip, that nothing's been good for over a week now—
Jimmy laughs, a snide, bitter sound that's reminiscent of a snort. John's eyes flick to him reflexively and finds the punk smirking at him, his smile downright lewd. He looks back to Rose, still staring at him, and he loses all train of thought.
"Um… I can… I can call you. Tonight even, or um, tomorrow, if that's good. We can talk… if you want… about the paperwork. And—and maybe get that signed?" he says, the words racing from his lips and god he can't believe he's talking about paperwork of all things. He should have thought more about this, what he would say to her—but all that matters is that he cannot do this, he can't have this conversation, not here. Not with Jimmy sitting right there, the boy's gaze steady and growing even more hostile.
She nods again, and he slowly turns and begins to walk away. His head is thrumming with everything he didn't say, should have said, and he curses himself for going over there at all when she was so clearly—
"John, wait!" he hears her call, and he turns around, and she's stood and is walking towards him, looking as uncertain as he feels. He sighs, moves over an empty table that hasn't yet been bussed—messy chip trays and empty ale glasses litter the surface, but it's as close to a semblance of privacy as they're going to get, and he'll gladly take that, too.
As soon as she stops in front of him, his eyes search her face, and the words rush out unbidden.
"I miss you," he says, his voice a whisper.
Her eyes drop then, her breath hitching as she fingers the edge of the shellacked wooden table. Her thumb finds a divot in it, a blemish worn down by time, and she traces it gently with the tips of her fingers, almost transfixed. Her mouth opens slightly, and he can't help but stare as she moistens her lips.
"I miss you, too," she answers, her voice soft, almost hesitant, as if she's not sure the words would be welcome.
Something twists inside him and he takes a step towards her then. His fingers skate slowly and gently along the smooth surface of the table, towards her own. Her breath catches slightly and her movement stills, her fingers pulling back almost imperceptibly. He notices though—how could he not notice, when it comes to her of all people.
He takes a deep breath and flicks his eyes up to hers. She opens her mouth, her lips parting as if she's trying to well up the courage to say something.
"Food's here," a familiar and unwelcome voice announces. Jimmy comes up alongside her—much too close to her. "We should eat."
Rose's head darts towards Jimmy, and she nods.
"I'll call you tomorrow?" John asks.
"Yeah," she says, her eyes meeting his for a brief moment before falling away as she slowly turns back to her table. As he and Rose walk away, Jimmy's hand comes to rest on the small of her back.
And then once again she's sitting there, wedged next to Jimmy at a small table in the pub which has been John's favorite for more than a decade. Someplace he enjoys, someplace he would have wanted to take her. He feels Jimmy's eyes on him, almost belligerent in their intensity, and the boy slowly stretches his arm around the back of Rose's chair, before casually picking up a chip with his free hand and popping it leisurely into his mouth. John can't tell if she even notices, her eyes are fixed on her salad. But his jaw tightens, and the room suddenly feels suffocating. He makes his way back towards the bar, much more slowly than he came, and the heat of the place has become oppressive. Jack's staring at him, nearly expressionless, except for his eyes full of silent understanding.
"Let's go," John says, heading towards the door, barely sparing a glance for Jack and his half-full glass of ale still resting on the bar.
"So um… how was Chamonix?" Jack asks, as they walk down the street away from that bloody pub.
"Fine," John mutters. "Expensive."
Jack falls quiet and they walk on in silence for another few blocks.
"I can't believe the nerve of him. He didn't even say hello—and I was the one trying to be polite! And the way he grabbed her, steered her even, like she's some sort of plaything to him, like she's a toy and he owns her—and she—she let him!"
"Who?"
"Rose, of course. And that … that idiot," John says, his voice rising and catching slightly on the last syllable. He sounds a little more brusque than he means to, but damn it to hell he's annoyed at having to state the obvious. He pulls his coat closer in around him, the winter night air bitter and harsh against his skin, and continues to seethe inwardly.
Jack shrugs.
"Didn't look that way to me. Looked like he was staking his claim. If she talks about you even half as much as you've been talking about her all night, kid's probably a little edgy."
John sighs, annoyed at Jack's obvious misinterpretation of the situation—particularly at the implication that someone like Jimmy Stone has a claim to stake at all—and at that grabby, rude, obnoxious punk.
They walk, neither one speaking, for another few blocks, before Jack breaks the curtain of silence that's fallen between them.
"So have you told her you're in love with her yet?"
John stops short, staring at Jack, inhaling sharply at his friend's words.
"And I'm not talking about Jeanne," Jack continues more softly. "Although believe me, I'm dying to hear about how that turned out too."
"I..." John says, his voice faltering, his words trailing off as he realizes he has no idea how to respond to that. He looks at the pavement, at the dirty snow and salt trampled under their shoes, and sighs deeply. "I don't know what I can do, Jack. I don't know how I can fix this."
Jack looks at his friend for a long moment. John waits for some words of wisdom, or encouragement, or something, but Jack remains silent, his eyes full of empathy. After a moment he puts his arm around John's shoulders and nudges him down the street, away from the pub.
"C'mon, John. I've got a good bottle of scotch at home."
—
He enters his flat just after dark, after another hour of reliving the past few weeks in conversation with Jack had made him tired, and long for nothing more than his bed. No sooner does he flick the light on in his front hall than his home phone begins to ring.
He bangs his knee once again on that damned end table, but ignores the pain in his leg, and hurriedly takes the last few strides towards his phone in the kitchen. He recognizes the area code immediately—1388, more specifically Weardale—and his heart leaps. He grabs for the phone on the very last ring, putting it up to his ear just before it would have gone to voicemail.
"Hello?"
