I'm sorry for the delay with this-since the last chapter was posted, I graduated from pharmacy school, and had to both study for (and pass!) my board exams so that I could officially start work as a licensed pharmacist. There were 2 board exams and this was a lot of pressure... ergo the massive delay. Thanks so much for your patience! Special thanks to betababe fadewithfury and also to lauraxtennant for some verbiage help on this chapter and next chapter.
John carefully maneuvers his vehicle into the carpark at the B&B early that Friday evening, the snowmobile fully repaired and proudly attached to the boot. He'd stayed late at work every night this past week to work on fixing it, and he smiles as brings the car to a stop—he'd go so far as to say the snowmobile looks even better than before Jimmy hit it. Even in the dusk, the new running board he'd installed gleams with the bright blue that he'd painted it, the same hue as the ski rack he'd made for Rose. He looks up as soon as he shifts the gear into park, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror in the dimming light to check his reflection. He grimaces, running a hand through his hair before he heads inside to see Rose and Wilf. He wonders what she'll say about the repair—of course he knows she'll like it—he did a good job… but no sooner does he nod at his reflection, finally content, that a thought comes unbidden to his mind—what if talking about the snowmobile leads to another argument about Jimmy?
He draws his eyebrows close together, pressing his lips into a thin line and sighs—no matter what, he'll have to hold his tongue. He grips the steering wheel tight at the thought—he hates holding back, especially now, especially from Rose… but he dare not chance another argument. He hasn't seen Rose all week—they'd texted, of course—that part of their relationship was slowly going back to normal, although there were still stops and starts in their conversations, and entire hours when he wouldn't hear back from her at all. She hasn't mentioned Jimmy once all week—which makes sense after their argument, he supposes. She now knows full well how John feels about him—but all the same John knows she's seeing him, spending time with the tosser, and it twists his gut to know not only that Jimmy is still big a part of her life, but moreover a part of her life that he knows nothing about. She'd said she wanted things to go back to normal between them, and he's not sure if he's reading too much into it or not but it still feels so unlike before, when they used to talk fluidly, all the time, like two parts of a whole. During one of their conversations this week he'd offered to drive her—hoping perhaps they could spend some more time together, talk more—but she'd already made plans to come up a day early for Wilf's appointment with his general practitioner. John had understood, of course—and if it hadn't been for his lecture Friday morning he would have taken off early to join her—spending time with her was obviously preferable to being alone in his office thinking about her.
It would have also been preferable todriving this entire distanceon his own thinking about her, as well.
He steps out of the car, giving the snowmobile one final once-over to make sure everything is in order, then grabs his duffel bag from the boot and heads for the front door. His trainers crunch the gravel under his feet as he walks, and even in the dimming light he can tell it's covered with a thin layer of snow that's beginning to ice over. It's slicker than Wilf would normally allow it to be, and John finds he has to watch his step to make sure he doesn't slip. Strange, that—he makes a mental note to tell Wilf and get a bag of salt for the carpark before any other guests arrive.
The front door jangles when he enters, and he steps into the front hall of the B&B, the warm lights enveloping him like a welcoming hug back home. The bell almost seems to echo forlornly in the silence of the hall—the inn is so quiet tonight… much more so than usual. Normally Wilf is bustling around, running from the kitchen where he normally is preparing a meal—but a quick sniff and a glance towards the darkened kitchen tells John that no supper is cooking. Turning his head back towards the front door, he peers through the glass pane, and his brow furrows as it registers that his car and Wilf's car are the only two vehicles in the carpark—he hadn't noticed that when he'd pulled in. That's strange too… on a Friday night during ski season there are usually at least a couple of other guests checked in by this time. This is one of the last good ski weekends Weardale is likely to have—he can't possibly be the only visitor this weekend, can he? Except for his Christmas holiday here—when the inn was otherwise closed—John has never been the only guest.
Slightly perplexed, he shifts his duffel bag more firmly onto his shoulder and turns back towards the front hall.
The flicker of the telly in the otherwise dim sitting room catches John's attention and he takes a step further inside. He blinks, his eyes adjusting from the relative brightness of the front hall, and it takes him a moment to notice the shadowed figure sitting quietly in the room, in front of the telly. He smiles as the light from the telly catches on the snowy white of the older man's stubbly beard—it's Wilf, sitting in his easy chair, his feet propped up on a nearby stool. John takes a tentative step closer then hesitates—his friend's head is cocked gently to one side, his eyes closed and his breathing even. John begins to turn around to leave Wilf to his rest, but as he takes a cautious step backward, his trainer presses down on an unfortunately creaky board. John's eyes dart back to Wilf, and he winces as Wilf's head bobs up at the noise. The older man inhales sharply and blinks rapidly as his head jerks around towards John, trainer still poised apologetically over the floorboard in question.
"John? S'that you, son?" Wilf says, his voice rough with sleep.
"Yeah—it's just me," John answers, a smile spreading over his face at Wilf's words. He drops his duffel bag beside the sofa and shuffles forward, hands shoved into his pockets. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. How are you feeling?"
Wilf shrugs, settling back down in his seat with a roll of his eyes, sighing as he closes them. "Oh, I'm fine—you know how it is, they put those damn drops in, and your eyesight's all blurry for the rest of the day. Guess I must have nodded off. What time is it?"
"It's half five," John smiles, leaning a hip against the back of the sofa as he smiles at his friend. "Appointment went well, then?"
Wilf gives a disinterested hum in assent, then drags his gaze back to focus on John. He blinks slowly, heavily and John's struck at how tired he looks.
"If you… if you want to get some rest Wilf, there's no need to stay up on my account. I can take care of supper and check-in—there's no-one checked in yet, I take it?"
"No guests this weekend," Wilf answers. His voice is still heavy with fatigue, but there's something else in his tone that makes John frown—something almost distracted—and it makes John wonder if it's due to more than just the doctor's appointment. "I took the weekend off. I'll head to bed in a bit, I'm just waiting for Rose to get in—"
"She's not here?" John asks, his voice sounding small even to his own ears. He knows full well he's tried and failed to keep the disappointment out of it, and is rewarded with an amused grin from Wilf as he settles back into his chair.
"She's at Swinhope Moor, she skied over this afternoon."
"Oh—" John says. "She didn't take Jimmy's snowmobile?"
"No, she left it with me in case I needed it—not that I can drive the bloody thing, the clutch is loose."
John frowns in annoyance—of course it would be just like that arse to not only ruin one snowmobile, but to leave an essentially broken one in its place. He narrows his eyes and is momentarily tempted to head straight to the garage fix the damn thing himself, if only for the satisfaction of Jimmy learning that he'd been tinkering with it, and that it only works because of him. He pushes the thought down—he doesn't want to do that tosser any favors—and moreover it would take time away from both Wilf and Rose. Speaking of which…
"It's getting dark… is she skiing home? She should be home by now, shouldn't she—"
Wilf shakes his head, unconcerned. "Eh, she'll probably catch a ride from Mickey or Adam or one of them blokes up there—"
John glances down at his shoes and shrugs, the movement casual and almost self-effacing. "I could… well, the snowmobile's fixed now, I could give her a test spin, eh?"
He flicks his eyes back up to Wilf, who chuckles and shakes his head.
"Go get her, John," Wilf says, amusement lingering in his voice. "You go get her."
—
It would be more prudent to take his car, he knows, but he can't resist the thought of showing up to meet Rose with the newly-repaired snowmobile. Primarily, of course, to show off his repair job… although with the sun rapidly setting behind the lilting hills in the distance, he knows she's unlikely to be able to see it well enough to comment much on the work he did. This is the first time he's ever ridden a snowmobile on his own—every time before now he had always been with Rose, and had only been her passenger. As he sits astride the machine, he thinks of all the times he's ridden behind her on the contraption, his arms around her waist for balance, his thighs pressed up against the back of her own. A tendril of heat pools low in his belly at the thought of being that close to her again—this time, her body cupped firmly around the back of his own, her arms gripped tightly around him, embracing him. Not for the first time, he thinks of how much time he'd wasted, and swallows.
Right then. Only one thing for it. He straps on his helmet and goggles, slips his feet in the stirrups and turns the ignition to power on the snowmobile.
The evening chill sets in quickly as he maneuvers the snowmobile towards Swinhope Moor, and he soon needs to turn on the headlights in the twilight. The landscape around Weardale whizzes by as he rides along—wild crags and untamed brush grasping up through the snow with their unrelenting hold, even as they fade into the background in the inky dusk and the speed with which he passes them. It's beautiful, he thinks, and he pushes down the disappointment that he didn't arrive earlier in the day to spend more time with Rose. It strikes him that this might be the last trip he even takes to the ski lodge this season. This season… the implication in his thoughts is clear as day, that there will be a next season. Rose would want that… wouldn't she? They've come so far in the past few weeks—by next season, their relationship is sure to be much improved, isn't it? All the same, perhaps it's for the best that he missed out on her ski trip today, he thinks grudgingly—it's not like he'd have been able to ask her to ski with him again—that would have been far too awkward.
He and Rose have been patching things up slowly, sure enough—the fact that she's answering his texts, and that she wants him here at all attests to that—but whatever this thing is between them is still so new and green that it's best not to push things. Next ski season, perhaps? Maybe things would be better between them then. He allows the hope to bloom in his chest at the thought, remembering how much fun they'd had on the trails at Swinhope Moor when she'd been teaching him: her laughter as he'd pull a face over getting snow down his jacket, her cheering him on when he'd make it down the slope without falling. Even as he smiles at the memory, part of him wonders how on earth their relationship will ever be that carefree and happy again—especially when it comes to skiing. If there will ever be a time without that damned Jimmy in the mix. But still… baby steps, right?
The ski lodge itself is a short drive away, but it takes him extra time to get there. Longer than Rose would take if she were driving, at least—but managing the throttle with one hand and the brake lever with the other is trickier that it seemed at first. It takes him several tries to be able to slow the machine down without it jerking to a too-quick stop, and he practices this the whole way to the lodge. Slow—stop—speed up—slow—stop—speed up. He's well aware he probably looks ridiculous to anyone watching from the cabins at Swinhope Lodge, but the thought is an idle one and he couldn't care less.
It's much better to look foolish in front of a stranger than to make an idiot of himself in front of Rose.
Finally—after what is probably minutes later but feels more like hours based on the cramping in his throttle-hand—he steers the snowmobile up the last hill leading to Swinhope Lodge and comes to a gentle stop—he smiles to himself, practice makes perfect.
The sun has almost completely set behind the lodge, and the dark evening sky stretches overhead like black velvet pulled tight against the horizon. Even though the moon has begun to rise over the distant crags, the sun hasn't yet relinquished the last of its hold on the sky, its last fiery red rays burning fierce and insistent before being quenched by the cold, dark night. John stops for a moment to marvel at the sight—he knows the science behind it of course, the equations that explain the wavelength and refraction and the symphony of color, but all the same… it's magical. It's a paradox, it's night and day all rolled into one, and it should be impossible. He can't help but take it as a good sign—that maybe other things that seem impossible can be worked out as well.
"John…?"
Her voice startles him out of his reverie and he turns his head back towards the lodge, blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes away from the sun and back towards his dimly-lit surroundings. She's standing under the awning, half-obscured by the shadows, wearing only a thick white jumper and her ski-pants, the door to the lodge still ajar behind her. The glow from the indoor lamps reflects off her jumper, surrounding her like a halo of light, and he smiles—she is absolutely stunning. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her torso, her fingers curled tightly around the cable-knit of her jumper as if to keep herself warm, and her brow is furrowed until he turns to face her—her face instantly relaxes then, and she breaks into a wide grin.
"The one and only," he says with a little more bravado than he feels. He takes off his helmet and shakes it out, ruffling a hand through his matted-down hair and grinning broadly at her.
Rose laughs, her breath making tiny puffs of frost in the night chill that suspend in the air like seeds blown off from a dandelion. She takes a step towards him, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. He brings his arms up to embrace her, but has barely settled his palms against the small of her back, barely registered how the scent of her shampoo wafts up into his nose when she pulls back, staring at the snowmobile behind him, her mouth open in astonishment.
"You fixed it! Oh my god, let me look at it!"
The snowmobile is barely visible in the dark shadows of the awning, so she disentangles herself from his embrace and moves to a circuit panel on the outside of the ski lodge by the front door. John's arms drop awkwardly to his sides as she moves away: he's happy she's enthralled with his repair, of course he is—he'd hoped for this reaction and it's brilliant, truly—but his arms feel empty without her. To hell with the snowmobile—more than anything he wants to draw her back into his embrace and hold her tightly against him. The urge is so strong, burning in his muscles like a fire needing to be quenched, that he doesn't trust himself not to—so he shoves his hands in his pockets and watches her judiciously as she steps back towards the lodge.
She pulls a switch on the side of the building: the effect is instantaneous and the slopes are bathed in a floodlight. He blinks rapidly, his eyes adjusting to the bright lights, which don't seem to faze Rose at all—her smile is even brighter than the floodlights as she stares at the snowmobile.
"It looks amazing… I can't believe it!"
"Oi, have some faith!" he says with a wink, shuffling towards her and giving her a nudge in her side with his elbow. He's not sure what response he's expecting from that, but she smiles at him and bites her lip, her eyes dropping to the snow-caked ground.
"And… you drove it here too? All by yourself?"
"'Course I did," he says with a small shrug. Her eyes raise to meet his own and he holds her gaze, continuing more softly, "You're here."
Something almost hopeful flickers in her eyes, like the rays of sunset flickering against the darkening sky, and she swallows, her smile fading slightly with the motion. Her eyes drop to the ground under her feet, staying focused on her boots for a long moment as her toe digs into a patch of snow. She's standing less than a metre from him and he's just about to step forward and take her hand, about to gently tug her back into his embrace when he hears her speak, so softly that he's not quite sure he hears her at first.
"Thank you, for everything."
"You should know by now—you never need to thank me," he says, his voice raw and much, much huskier than he means it to be, and good lord it makes him feel nearly bare, splayed out before her. He takes a step towards her, meaning to draw her back into a hug, but her head bobs up and it stops him in his tracks. She's smiling, but it's not as big as before, and there's something in her eyes that seems almost sad.
"Even so…you've done so much. And you came all the way here to show me!" she laughs, but it seems slightly forced to his ears, though he's not sure if he's imagining it. "How about we head to Stout Point for dinner? My treat."
He pauses, thinks the better of it, remembering their last disastrous meal out, and he would never call it anything as ridiculous as a superstition, but he wrinkles his nose and shakes his head.
"Nahhh… how about I cook?"
She stares at him a long moment, then shakes her head. "No… that's hardly a thank you—having you cook me dinner."
"On the contrary, you'd be doing me a favor!" he says. She raises an eyebrow at him, and he shrugs. "I have a new recipe I've been meaning to try out."
She seems to consider that for a moment, her eyebrow still raised. Finally she nods, and glances back up at him. "Fine, but only if you let me help you."
"You want to help? Really?"
She crosses her arms, in a way that almost seems like a challenge but cocks her head to the side in genuine curiosity. "Why so surprised?"
He quirks an eyebrow. "Because you hate cooking."
"I do not! And I'll have you know I can boil water. And peel potatoes."
The smile she gives him is self-satisfied, and he's positively itching to tease her with a retort about her culinary mastery, but this renewal between them is so young, and as much as he'd like to believe they're on the route to being normal, there's something about this conversation that seems more awkward than normal—as if their camaraderie is still slightly forced—the hug she'd given him had been brief, after all. His mind races, wondering if he's said or done something wrong, something to push her away. Part of him wants to ask her—wants to start everything anew between them being open and honest—but she's still smiling at him, waiting for his response, and the last thing he wants to do is to cause more awkwardness. So instead, he just grins back her, taking a step back towards the snowmobile and tossing her a pink helmet. She moves back to the door of the lodge, shutting off the inside lights and grabbing her coat. He's even more glad in that moment that he'd come to pick her up—she's obviously the last person at the lodge, and she would have had to ski home in relative darkness if he hadn't come to get her.
As she busies herself zipping her coat and fastening her helmet, John sits astride the snowmobile, attempting at least to look comfortable, like he knows what he is doing. When she finally glances up, his heart races as he gives her a grin that he hopes comes across more confident than he feels—and she laughs, taking a step closer to the snowmobile. She reaches a hand out to his shoulder for balance as she swings her leg over the seat as well, settling in the seat behind him. He can't help smiling to himself—she's quite obviously going to let him do the driving. Even so, she's sitting further back than John normally would when they rode together before, and although her arms settle around his waist he misses the expected sensation of her chest pressed taut against his back. He swallows down the disappointment and tries to focus his mind on his driving as he revs the engine.
