John stands still until he hears the front door creak to a close behind Tricia, the soft noise magnified by the silence of the flat. He glances at Rose—she stays planted a few metres away from him, arms crossed in front of her chest as she bites her lip, her eyes fixed on the floor. He wonders what she's thinking—why she asked him to stay, if she has more questions about Chamonix, or if she wants to defend Jimmy some more, of all bloody people. He can't bring himself to ask, though, shoving the words underneath his tongue and sealing his lips against them—with his luck today he'd just end up starting another argument.

God, this visit was supposed to resolve things, not worsen them.

He shifts his weight, not sure what to do with himself—they shouldn't talk any more about Chamonix, should they? Clearly they shouldn't talk about Jimmy anymore, however he'd managed to come up in conversation in the first place. It strikes John that perhaps he should apologize again, offer to leave, try to have this conversation another time—maybe that would be the best thing to do?—but an ache runs though him at the thought of walking away from her. No, it would be cowardly to walk away now—if she has questions, he'll answer them. If she wants to yell at him… well, he'd deserve that, too. It's been so long since they'd last talked, and even though this visit hasn't been going well, it's still a conversation, isn't it? It's still a step in the right direction. She'd wanted him to stay, didn't she? She'd sent Tricia away, she's even putting off Jimmy right now so they can talk more and—

"M'sorry…" she murmurs, her eyes flicking back up to his. She's still biting her lip, and her brow is furrowed, and he can't imagine why on earth she could possibly think she needs to apologize to him.

He shakes his head, taking a step towards her. "There's nothing to apologize for. If anything, I—"

"No," she says, punctuating the word with a slow shake of her head, her ponytail swaying from the motion. A chuckle, low and self-deprecating, escapes from her lips. "You've done enough apologizing, I just—"

Her words trail off as she looks up at him again. In that moment, her eyes are earnest—raw and open, and he swallows thickly. This is the first time she's looked at him—really looked at him—in weeks now, without averting her gaze, without a fog of hesitancy in her eyes, without a tense expression on her face as if she'd like to dart away from him at the first opportunity. It's the first time it's felt like he's really reaching her again—and it's just for a moment, and it's just a start—but his heartbeat quickens, his rapid pulse flooding his entire body with hope. His mind races, and he wonders if this means that she's really seeing him too—how much he cares for her, how much he wishes he could take back everything that happened.

He stays rooted to the spot, not wanting to push her, not wanting to chase this moment away—and it's not much, but at least it's something that she's looking at him that way, right? She stays still for a few seconds more, her brow furrowed as if something is warring within her, before finally opening her mouth to speak.

"Just…c'mere," she says, the words breathy and clumsy, as she closes the distance between them and wraps him in a hug.

He widens his eyes with a short intake of breath, both from the surprise at her action as well as at the sensation of her body once again pressed up tight against his own, her head on his shoulder. He sighs, breathing her in, enjoying the comfort of her nearness as his arms instinctively wrap across her waist, fastening around her. He knows he should keep quiet, savor this moment, let her take the lead if she wants—but the words stumble from his lips, tripping over themselves, pent up too long, and damn it he doesn't want to leave the flat without getting out at least this much of what he'd wanted to say. Nothing's gone right, not this whole visit, but she's in his arms again and however small it is, it's another chance—and he'll take it.

"Rose," he murmurs, drawing her in closer to him, his hands cradling her shoulders. His fingertips graze over the soft fabric of her jumper, and his thumbs trail circles against her shoulderblades—whether to soothe her or himself he's not sure, but he can hear her breath catch at the movement before she stills in his arms. He squeezes his eyes closed—it's easier that way, not knowing if his words will be welcome or not. He tilts his head against her own, once again inhaling the light scent of her shampoo and feeling a rogue strand of hair from her ponytail graze against his lips. It's sweet and it burns and it's all the invitation he needs. "You are so important to me. I never want you to doubt that again—not ever. I'm so sorry I made you doubt it in the first place—"

"No—" she chokes out with a shake of her head. "I'm fine, I'm just—I'm just tired of all this. I—I want things to be okay, too. We'll be ok, you and me. We both want that, yeah?"

"Yeah," he whispers, his arms tight around her, and he feels her shoulders stretch underneath his palms as she tightens her grip on him too, her head burrowed against his chest. His heart is hammering hard, beating in celebration against the inside of his chest—and she hasn't said outright she forgives him, but she as good as implied it, and that's enough—he'll take it, gladly.

"Good, then," she says, squeezing him tighter for a moment and then loosening her grip, starting to pull back and away from him. Startled, he loosens his arms around her as well, letting her get air or space or whatever she wants. Had he been holding her too tightly—had he done something wrong? He'd hold her all day if she'd let him—or do a lot more than that if he had the slightest confidence she would reciprocate at this point—but he won't push her. This is already so much more than he'd hoped for, he can be patient. He can wait for her, for whatever she needs.

She sniffs, and it takes a moment for him to register that her eyes are red-rimmed. He stares at her for a long moment, still holding her in a half-embrace, and one of his hands releases her waist, his thumb coming up to caress the apple of her cheek as tenderly and delicately as he can. She blinks rapidly, her lashes fluttering, her eyes moist. She looks like she's about to cry—has he made her cry? What on earth could he have said?

"Did… did I do something wrong?" he says, his mouth dry.

She shakes her head, and the motion is almost too quick. "No, I'm just—I'm just glad that we… that we want the same thing," she whispers. It's a small movement, but he feels her fingers gently move over his back in almost a small caress—but then her hand abruptly stills itself, halting the motion in its tracks before he has more than the barest chance to register that he wasn't imagining it to begin with. She swallows and smiles up at him, and it doesn't quite reach her eyes, still wet with what looks like unshed tears, and he doesn't quite believe her that she's fine—but he doesn't want to contradict her, or push her.

"Oh…" he says, swallowing. "Yeah."

She gives him a half-smile, then turns away.

"Suppose I ought to go meet up with them at the pub," she says, and his stomach plummets, any remaining joy of the past few moments sucked down in its wake as it falls. No… she can't leave yet, can she? It's too soon… he's hardly been here any time at all. She shrugs her shoulders and gives him a half-smile which makes him wonder how much she actually wants to go rather than simply feels like she should. He bites back the urge to ask her, though—best to avoid any mention of Jimmy.

"Do you have to?" he asks instead, his voice rougher than he expects it to be, more raw than he expects it to sound. His hands loosen around her waist, falling along the gentle contour of her arms. His thumb brushes the loose, soft cuff of her jumper, the fabric catching slightly on his rough cuticle, and he wraps his index finger around her own like a delicate tether, a plea to stay. There's still so much he wants to tell her—about how he feels for her, about how Jeanne means nothing to him now and has meant nothing for a very long time—but her gaze flickers to the floor and he hesitates.

"Yeah… I promised. Jimmy, I mean…" she says, glancing back up at him. A shadow falls over her face as she says the boy's name, as if she's not sure how John will react. "I'll be up in Weardale next weekend, I promised Gramps I'd help out. He's got some sort of an eye exam… won't be able to drive much for a day or so. I'll see you then though, yeah?"

His brow furrows—Wilf hadn't mentioned that to him, even though the older man knew John would be up there that same weekend. Surely Wilf wouldn't have wanted Rose to leave London so soon. "Is everything okay—can I help? He didn't say anything—"

She smiles and waves away his concern with a small motion of her hand. "Nah. Just a routine thing. You know how they put drops in your eyes to make them blurry for things like that."

She walks out of her bedroom and the only thing he can do really is to follow her through the small flat and to the front door, which creaks slightly as she opens it for him. Before he steps out, he turns around to face her.

"Next weekend then?" he says, an edge of hope creeping into his voice. It feels completely baseless—he's having to leave so she can spend time with Jimmy of all people, after all… but even so, she nods and there's something in the smile she gives him then, something sanguine and encouraging, that makes him smile too.

"Yeah. Next weekend," she says.

He gives her a quick wave and heads out the door, sauntering to the staircase at the far end of the hall. The corridor is so silent that he can practically hear his heart beating in his throat, and when he reaches the staircase it occurs to him that he never heard the door close or creak shut behind him. He turns around and looks back at the doorway, seeing Rose still standing there, watching him. She raises her hand and gives him a small smile and a wave. Once again, he waves back, and waits for the door to the flat to shut before he can pull himself away from her, down the stairs and out of the building.

An hour later, John stands in the faculty carpark, his car and the snowmobile trailer stretching across not only his own reserved spot but four others as well, and it occurs to him that he really should have thought this plan through more. Luckily for him, it's a Sunday, and the only other cars littering the carpark had likely been left over the weekend—there's nobody to threaten to have him towed, or to complain (again) to his department chair about his use of his parking privileges on his automotive projects. Even so, the last remnants of daylight are fading fast, and if he hopes to get this part of the repair completed today, he'd better work quickly. With a sigh, he removes a wrench from the toolbag in the boot of his car and gets to work stripping the damaged portions.

He grits his teeth as he looks at the damage on the snowmobile. It doesn't seem fair, really—here he is, cleaning up stupid Jimmy's stupid mess, while at this very moment Jimmy gets to be with Rose. He wonders what they're doing… something about a pub, Tricia had said? He swallows, remembering all too clearly the last time he'd seen them in a pub—his favorite one—intimately sharing a booth, sharing dinner… Jimmy's hands practically all over Rose—and the boy was being handsy and possessive, no matter what Jack has to say about it. At least this time Tricia is there—hopefully her presence will throw a bit of cold water on their 'date', he supposes, as he gives the running board a vigorous tug.

It doesn't budge. Bloody perfect. With a sigh, he pulls an old screwdriver from his toolbag and begins to pry it loose.

He's been working on extricating the running board for about ten minutes, David Bowie blasting at top volume from his own car to relieve the tedium—and he isn't expecting anyone to come walking up to him, really—certainly not Jeanne.

He hasn't seen her at all really since… well, since that night in Chamonix. She waves to him from across the carpark, her expression almost hesitant, and says she hadn't seen him around much… he shrugs—he hasn't been quite avoiding Jeanne, but with Rose on his mind it hadn't occurred to him to seek her out. As their exchange of pleasantries trails off into silence, her eyes drop to the pink sparkled inscription he'd put on the snowmobile. She stills, her eyebrows raised, and she seems almost surprised, almost sad—but then she smiles quickly and says that it was nice to see him again, and that she's running late to meet Dr. Louis… John wishes her well… and then… well, then she's gone.

As she walks away, he turns back to his work.

He finishes stripping the parts just as the last rays of daylight disappear behind the stark city skyline, the shadows from the university buildings falling lonely and stark across the campus. The carpark lighting flickers on as dusk settles, and knows he probably makes an awkward and solitary figure loping towards his building, with the running board under one arm and the ski rack under the other. He fumbles with the front door, almost dropping the ski rack and denting it further as he attempts to open it—the door is locked of course, and he can barely see his keys in the fading light. Finally arriving at his office, he lays the ski rack and running board precariously across the top of his desk, crushing books and papers and student lab reports he knows he really should grade sooner rather than later. Behind his filing cabinet, he retrieves a foldable cardboard box—he'd almost forgotten that he had a few stashed back there, remnants of his big office move just two days after he'd met Rose. He smiles to himself, thinking of that first trip to Weardale, and assembles the box, dropping most of the books and paperwork from his desk inside to give the running board and ski rack a better spot to rest. The books make a racket as he drops them inside, not that it matters—he's likely the only one in the building at this late hour. He sits down to log on to his computer and special-orders a new running board and matching paint from a local dealer—with any luck he should have them in a few days' time. All that's left to do is to talk his friend in the geology department into letting him use his lab once again to refurbish the ski rack, and he should have plenty of time to repair it before going back up to Weardale next weekend to see Wilf… and Rose.

As he swivels around in his chair, his eyes flick to the incessantly blinking little red light on his phone which signals his voicemail system. He pushes the button for speakerphone—two messages await him. He listens to first the message, smiling as he hears the voice of his old colleague and mentor, Dr. Lethbridge-Stewart, chair of the physics department at Durham University. The message winds through pleasantries—how long it's been since they'd last spoken and how he still hasn't forgotten John owes him a visit, before getting to the point: he'd received Luke's application for the physics program and was impressed, but had called to learn a little more about the boy. John makes a mental note to call him back this upcoming week. Who knows—with Durham only an hour's drive from Weardale, perhaps he could stop by one weekend.

He smiles even brighter at the second message—it's the patent attorney. Not only has the patent paperwork been filed, but an old friend at London Mining had taken an interest in the patent and had further taken the liberty of pitching it to the project management team. They'll have the final contract later this week, but as things stand now, they're planning on licensing the technology to pilot in one of their smaller international mines. The license fee would be paid in advance and although it wouldn't be much at this time—only £1000, give or take—if they keep using the technology, Rose could earn many, many times that amount in the long-term.

Smiling broadly, he laughs in celebration, clapping his hands together in victory as he spins around in his chair, the noise echoing in his empty office. This is everything he'd worked for and hoped for, and it's working out just brilliantly for Rose. Much better than he'd even dared to hope, in fact—the buyers for his own patents rarely pay out in advance, let alone that much!

Rose... he smiles broadly—God, she'll be over the moon to hear this! He grabs his phone and quickly types a message to her with the good news.

Thought you'd want to know asap. Looks like the patent might have a buyer! They'll pay 1000 in advance, could be more than that long-term

His phone dings a moment later with the reply.

oh my god that's brilliant thank you so much! i've never had that much money in my life!

He responds with a smiley face and she sends one back to him. He grins down at his phone—she might be with Jimmy right now, and he might hate the bastard—but at the very least he's certain at this moment that he is the one who is making her smile.