She stills in his arms, and his heart strains with an ache to draw her closer towards him. He hesitates, wondering what she's thinking, what she will say. She doesn't respond immediately and there's a long, heavy pause in which he feels like he can barely breathe waiting for her answer. Her head remains pressed up against his chest, a few wispy blonde strands from her ponytail splayed in delicate contrast against his brown wool coat, and he wonders if she can hear his heart racing through the thick fabric. He's not quite sure what to do with his hands and leaves them resting against her back the same way he always did when they used to hug… before. Raising her head, she begins to pull out of his embrace and his heart starts pounding even faster—perhaps she has no interest in talking this out after all? Oh god, maybe this is too soon—perhaps he should have waited? Should he have let her make the first move? Maybe she's busy—he shouldn't have assumed she'd be free to talk, he'd only asked if he could drop off the food, after all. Explanations stutter through his brain, thudding to a stop at the tip of his tongue as his mouth goes dry. His arms fall from around her waist as she moves back and nods, taking a deep breath. She looks up at him, giving him a quick reassuring grin that doesn't quite meet her eyes, and drops her gaze to the floor.

"Yeah—yeah, sure. Ok."

"Ok," he echoes, and it comes out a whisper. He exhales in relief, and the bright smile that spreads across his face is only dimmed by the flicker of doubt he's not sure if he's imagining in her expression.

"Are you sure? If—if you're not, it's OK, I just…" he says and her eyes dart up to meet his. He wants everything to be perfect, he wants her to feel comfortable… and if she's not, then best to delay this, right? Best to give her an out? God, he just wants to do something right for once.

"No," she says and his heart sinks. She closes her eyes with a nervous laugh, shaking her head as if to dislodge the words she intends to say and to force them past her lips. "I mean yes. I mean—it's OK," she says. He swallows and beams once again at her—good, this is good. Maybe they can start to move past this.

She opens the front door a little wider and smiles in a way that seems almost self-conscious, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. He takes a step past her, forward into the flat—and he wonders if Tricia is here, his stomach quivering slightly as it occurs to him that there may be an audience for this conversation. Oh no—or worse… what if Jimmy's here? Surely she would have said though, wouldn't she? He's not sure he trusts himself to ask directly without letting a sneer creep into his voice at the very mention of the boy's name—and that would never do. Not that he wants to bring Jimmy up at all in fact: this conversation is about John and Rose—it's not about Jimmy at all, and he doesn't want to justify the existence of Rose's 'relationship' with the boy by asking about it. Besides—Jimmy can't be here—she would have told him, or she would have said now wasn't a good time.

John turns around and meets her eyes as she shuts the door behind them, and gives her a smile that feels just as questioning and hesitant as he's sure it must look on his face. Her own expression softens as their eyes meet, and although she's still worrying at her lip, she smiles too. Her eyes drop again to the floor as she gives him a small, self-effacing shrug, and raises her hand to her head to tuck a strand of her golden hair behind the soft skin of her ear. One wayward lock remains curled insistently around her hoop earring, and he stills the urge to raise his own hand up to it, to let the pads of his fingers graze over the strands of hair and across her smooth skin—to have an excuse to draw her close against him once again.

The desire surges so powerfully inside him that prudent or not, he's just about to take a step towards her, when she momentarily turns her head back towards the door, and the lock of hair releases its hold on her earring. He swallows and averts his eyes.

There's another pause, heavy and awkward, and so unlike how they used to be,that he's not sure how to fill it, what to say, and is just about to open his mouth to say something—anything—when her voice fills the void, quiet and apologetic.

"It's a small place—sorry for the mess."

"Please don't worry about it," he says, his voice gentle, as he looks around the tiny carpeted area that passes for the front hall. There are bags and jackets stuffed onto a small coat rack on the back side of the front door, and he thinks he can just make out the edge of her ski bag protruding from the front hall closet. He wonders how her lessons at the indoor training arena just outside the city are going—wonders if he should ask her, or if that would be too much of a reminder of his own lessons with her, and how that ended… no, best not to say anything, he decides. So far so good, and he'd like to keep it that way if at all possible, keep them moving forward and away from more painful topics and reminders of Chamonix.

His eyes drop to the floor, at the various pairs of shoes wedged against the front door. He recognizes a pair of her trainers and a pair of snow boots she had worn on occasion back up in Weardale, and wonders if the others—a collection of tangled strappy high heels he's never seen before—belong to her or to Tricia. He imagines how sexy they must make Rose's legs look—god he'd like to find out. He's only seen her in skirts a few times, but her calves are slender and toned. He sees a pair of men's boots there as well, and his heart sinks—wondering if they're Jimmy's—or perhaps Tricia has a boyfriend? Or a brother?

His eyes drift back to Rose's. She's looking up at him, biting the edge of her thumbnail in a way he'd only seen her do once before, when she was in an argument with Wilf one day about whether or not she should cancel her ski lessons due to an ice storm. He swallows, remembering the tension in her posture and voice that day and hoping she's not expecting something similarly unpleasant now.

"Where should I put..." he trails off, looking down at the bag in his hand and nodding at it. Rose lets out a short bark of nervous laughter and reaches out to take the bag from him, the tip of her finger brushing against his own as she curls it around the plastic handle. His own fingers still and he looks back up at her, but her eyes stay riveted on the bag.

"Thank you," she whispers, giving the bag a gentle pull, and he lets go, letting it drop into her hand.

"Anytime."

She ducks into the tiny kitchen so quickly that her ponytail whips over her shoulder as she turns around and leans over to open the refrigerator door. Her jeans ride low on her hips, tight against her rear and he can see the strip of soft skin between the jeans and her jumper at the lower curve of her back. He can't stop his eyes from caressing her hips the way he'd like his hands to be able to do, and thinks back to all the times up in Weardale she'd be similarly crouched down, and he'd avert his eyes because she was simply his mate, and he thought he was in love with someone else, and that he shouldn't be ogling her that way. He swallows down the regret that he should have been smarter, he should have made a move then—perhaps it would have been welcome then. Now, however…

She fiddles for a moment to rearrange the items inside the refrigerator before placing the bag on one of the shelves and closing the door, then turning around to face him. She's standing somewhat awkwardly—the posture of her shoulders and back is straighter than normal, and it makes her look tense, as if she were a wild animal ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. She gestures to a door off to the side of the tiny living room with a short motion of her hand, squeezing in the small space between him and the wall, making sure to not bump against him as she passes him. His gaze drops as she passes by, and his eyes trace her the gentle slope of her clavicle, down towards the V of her jumper where it gapes slightly at her chest, mere centimeters from his own.

"Tricia—um, she'll be getting in soon," Rose says, and he nods—well, at least they're alone for now. "There's more privacy in here," she continues, opening the door to what clearly is her bedroom.

He takes a deep breath and follows her into the room, and she closes the door behind him. The door looks old, thick with dozens of coats of paint that make it look doughey and pockmarked, and it doesn't quite close all the way. Instead, it remains insistently ajar despite the small shove she gives it before shaking her head and stepping back towards the center of the room.

It feels intimate being in this personal space with her. At first it seems almost strange to step foot in here—he remembers her bedroom in Weardale so clearly even just from the few times he'd had reason to step inside. He can't help his eyes roaming over the dresser and nightstand at the collection of makeup and jewelry, lotions and nail polish and hair brush—all the little baubles and odds and ends that go into her day and are a part of her routine, same as always. He feels himself smile at the familiarity of it all, at the thought that even back then, even as stupid as he'd been, he'd clearly paid attention to the little things that go into her day. It just goes to show that some things in her life here are the same, just as they were in Weardale—surely that must be a sign that there's some hope for their relationship to go back to that point too? Her bed sits unmade in the center of the room, pillows askew, and his lips quirk—he remembers seeing it similarly mussed in Weardale as well.

He wonders if she still wakes up as early as she used to in Weadale, or if she sleeps in.

Then again… he wonders if she wakes up alone, and then swallows the thought, his smile dropping, and his eyes flicking back up to her.

She's standing at the far side of the room by the window, her arms loosely crossed in front her and staring at her trainers. As he moves to take a step closer to her, she looks up at him, her expression nearly unreadable except for her eyes, soft and earnest.

"If this is about Chamonix, we don't need to talk any more about it."

"We haven't talked about it at all," he says, his voice quiet, but she cringes slightly, almost as if he had shouted the words instead.

"Really, John… it's fine."

"It's not fine…"

"You said you're sorry—it's ok… I mean, I just—"

"There are a lot of things I should have said besides 'sorry', Rose… it's not ok. We're not ok—" he says, gently gesturing between them and finally taking a tentative step closer to her. His heart is hammering hard against his ribs as if it wants to interrupt, to launch its own words at her—tell her how she makes him feel, how much he needs her, how everything that matters these days is about her—how all he wants to do is to hold her close and kiss a thousand apologies against her skin for being so bloody stupid all this time. "But I want us to be. So much."

She nods, her eyes dropping again to the floor. His heart swells with the desire to take her hand in his, to punctuate his words with some sort of an action—but her arms are still crossed in front of her, almost protectively, and so his own hands remain uselessly at his side, his fingers opening and closing slightly, as if they too want nothing more than to be intertwined with hers.

"I—I just wish you had told me, you know? 'Cause it just felt like you and me—" she says in a rush then blinks rapidly as she cuts herself off, and looks towards the door, as if she'd rather escape from this conversation than finish her sentence. When she continues, her voice is weaker, strained, and the words sound carefully chosen. "It just felt like you and me got close, yeah?"

"Yeah. Yeah we did—we are, I hope," he says, taking another step closer to her. His heart thrums a staccato beat and he hopes she didn't mean anything by the past tense of that sentence. His voice drops, rough and tender and sincere. "Rose, you mean so much—"

"But why," her voice cracks. "Why did you let me—why didn't you tell me? You never said a word—"

God, he doesn't want to talk about Chamonix or Jeanne or any of that. He wants to move past this—to tell her how much she means to him, and how sorry he is for the mistakes he's made, and how he will learn from them—has learned—and more than anything just wants to be close to her again. Closer, even… his desire in that moment to take her in his arms is so heavy it nearly knocks him over from the force of it. But… she's asking him this. And she deserves to know, doesn't she? Perhaps honesty will make this better—make them better. Even though all he wants to do right now is to tell her how much he cares for her—how much he wants her, and not to think about everything that he did to drive her away in the first place. This is all his fault—he destroyed everything between them. He takes a deep breath. What can it hurt, really? It's not as if he's telling her something that she didn't already surmise from the chip shop.

"It just… at first it was the reason I started taking lessons. But it stopped being the reason I was coming. It—it wasn't important after a while, not at all," he says, the words choppy and rushed. His words don't make sense even to himself—he can't even recapture his reasoning or why avoiding the topic of Chamonix had felt so crucial. "And… and I don't know why I didn't say anything at first. It was embarrassing, I guess. And then… after a while, the trip just wasn't something I wanted to think about—"

"What was embarrassing?"

"What?" He startles for a moment, genuinely confused—his words had come out in such a rush that for a moment he's not sure what she means. "Oh… not being able to ski."

"But you signed up for beginner lessons with me."

"Not you, I mean—" the words come out in a rush before he can catch the implication, and oh no, he does not like the direction this conversation is now going.

Rose almost flinches, as if someone had doused her with cold water. "You mean she—she didn't know that you couldn't ski?"

He nods—he's not sure what else to do. She's looking at him with such a plaintive expression in her eyes, and he does not want to talk about Jeanne but he can't lie to her. Not even a lie of omission. She deserves to know, right? She always deserved to know. And more importantly, she needs to know how much he's willing to show her how important she is to him—to not take the easy way out here. Not anymore. And of course he won't compound matters by talking more about Jeanne or his trip more than necessary—and certainly not saying that he once thought himself to be in love with the other woman—but still, Rose deserves to have her questions answered.

"So you had me teach you," she says, and the words are soft, earnest—and he's not sure if it's a question or a comment, and his mind races, realizing he has no idea how he should respond to this.

There's a pause and they stand still, facing each other. He doesn't want to nod—can't nod, can't make himself affirm that, even if it's technically accurate because it seems so dismissive of everything she is to him. And even if maybe for his first visit it was accurate, it certainly wasn't after he got to know her better, after he fell—

She ducks her head, turning away from him, towards the window looking over the carpark outside the building.

"Rose…" he whispers, taking another step towards her, his hand reaching out and hovering lightly under her elbow, although whether the gesture is more to reassure her or himself he isn't sure. "It wasn't—I never meant it like that. You're so important to me, do you have any idea how much I—I never meant—"

He cocks his head to the side, trying to get her attention—to get her to look at him again, but she stares out the window and he's not sure she's even listening to him—if she's hearing anything he's saying at all. Her expression becomes puzzled, her eyebrows furrowing, and her head turns to look at him so suddenly that he almost takes a step back.

"You brought… the snowmobile?"

He starts slightly at the abrupt change in top and glances out the window. From this vantage point he can clearly see his vehicle parked in the carpark, the bright blue snowmobile hitched to it by a trailer. It seems like as good an excuse as any to lighten the mood and he feigns surprise, his eyes widening in mock shock.

"I suppose I must have! That must have been what was rattling behind me the whole drive back!" he says, and he can't keep the facade up for long, his faux alarmed expression melting into a wide smile as she looks back at him, eyebrows raised.

She bites back a laugh, her eyes crinkling slightly from mirth before she pauses, her brow furrowing once again and her eyes hesitant. "Is it still…" she trails off. She doesn't need to finish the sentence, the expression on her face says enough—is it still damaged because of that tosser Jimmy, she means.

His smile fades and he nods, sincere. "Yeah. I told Wilf I'd fix it."

"You didn't have to—"

"It's no problem," he says with a shrug of his shoulders, as if dismissing any trouble from the situation as not even being worth mentioning. His eyes bore into her own—willing her to see how sincere he is, how he's willing to do anything for her, or for her grandfather, or even for that damn B&B he's grown to love so much, willing her to smile again like she did a moment ago—but instead, her expression is hesitant. The small furrow in her brow is back and he resists the urge to trace it with the pads of his fingers and wipe it away—she should never have cause to worry. Not about him.

"Jimmy said he'd pay for it… I'll get him to write you a cheque for the parts."

"No," he says gruffly, shaking his head. "I'll take care of it."

"No way!" she says, insistent, drawing out each syllable as if to underscore her point. "You shouldn't have to pay for all that—"

"The parts are inexpensive, and I don't want his money." She stills for a moment, and although her brow remains furrowed, something in her eyes softens, as if she might not agree but can still accept his rationale. At least he hopes. God save him from having to ever interact with that wanker again—or take his money, of all things. Even the thought makes his jaw clench.

"Though perhaps he should have been watching where he was going," his words and abrupt tone come out unbidden, and although he doesn't believe they sound excessively harsh they still don't do justice to the far more bitter words roiling through his mind at the reminder of the incident.

She starts at this, shaking her head, her eyes still earnest. "He didn't mean to, John—he was just trying to help me—"

"Sure," he says, wanting to change the topic, and not sounding convincing even to himself. She pauses for a moment, still looking at him plaintively, and shakes her head.

"He's a good person! He's been my mate my whole life—" and there's something firm and uncharacteristically protective that comes over her expression, giving him pause. She's never sounded angry at him before—not even when she was asking him about Chamonix just a minute ago. But she sounds upset now… over Jimmy of all people? He stares mutely at her, unable to believe she's talking about Jimmy Stone in such terms. And while he of course—and gladly at that—will fully admit to not being that familiar with the boy, he's certainly seen enough to be able to know a bloody conniving arsehole when he sees one—and could Rose really be completely blind to this, despite even Jimmy's behavior in the bank the other day? If she knows him half as well as she claims she does, she has to know this—surely she must, on some level.

His heart races, though no longer from his previous nervousness, but rather from the frustration burning inside him. He averts his eyes to the floor, swallowing quickly. He's not angry at Rose—not exactly—but how could she not see what was so obviously staring her in the face? That boy is a tosser, a user—and is bloody ruining everything even when he's not here. How the hell did he even come up in conversation?! John swallows again, feeling her eyes on him, waiting for him. This won't do. This won't do. This is the first real conversation they've had since Chamonix, and it started off well enough, with a hug, but now how the hell does Jimmy

He's pulled out of his thoughts as he hears the click of the front door, then someone is knocking on the slightly ajar bedroom door, gently pushing it open as if to get a better look inside.

"Rose, you in here? Change of plans, Jimmy thought the pub would be—"

A young brunette, pretty and fashionably dressed, peeks her head through the door. Upon seeing John, she stops in her tracks, looking from John to Rose and back again.

"Oh. Hello…" she says finally.

"Hey Tricia," Rose says, giving the girl a tight smile. "Be there in a bit. Um… this is John."

Tricia's eyebrows raise slightly as she looks from John to Rose, and her gaze drops, quickly scanning over the rest of the room… the bed, the dresser, the floor. John wonders what she thinks she's looking for.

"Ah. Um… okay. Good to finally meet you," she says, but her tone is distracted and she doesn't meet his eyes.

"Same," John says. And as jarred as he is by the interruption, this is good isn't it? Gives him a chance to cool down, and for his heart to stop racing before he says something else he regrets.

"Yeah well… Jimmy's waiting for me at the pub, sooo…" she says, backing out of the bedroom and leaving the door open. She goes to the front closet and retrieves a pair of the strappy high heels, plopping herself down on the sofa and fastening the shoes onto her foot. There's an awkward silence as John and Rose watch her from the bedroom, and her gaze flicks back up to Rose's as soon as she has the second shoe secured. "I can wait for you," Tricia says, and to John's ears it sounds more like a statement of intent than an offer.

John glances over at Rose, his stomach flipping… their conversation had been tense—would she want him to leave? Would she want to go now—leave him to go to a pub with Jimmy, her life-long mate? He can't even bring himself to think the words without biting his lip. He pushes down the renewed annoyance bubbling up from inside him. Dammit perhaps she should go… it's not like he's going to be able to accomplish any of what he'd hoped for. This conversation was over before it began.

"Nah that's okay, Trish. Meet you down there though, yeah?"

Tricia looks from Rose to John one last time, her eyes lingering Rose for a long moment. Finally she shrugs and turns towards the front hallway.

"'Course," she says, with a tight smile and disappears out the front door, leaving them alone once again.