John has never driven a snowmobile by himself before today—let alone in the dark—but, as always, Rose is an excellent teacher. She leans in close to him several times, one arm bracing tighter against his waist as she motions with her other hand, pointing out gentle slopes for easier maneuvering, letting him know when to ease up on the throttle. He follows her directions gladly, smiling at the faint sensation of her warm breath playing against his freezing jawline as she instructs him. After all, she knows these paths so well—she can instinctivelynavigate them despite the fact that night has almost completely fallen, the shadows lying across the snow like the dark silk of a bedspread. As she demonstrates the proper pressure to put on the lever for a smooth ride, her gloved fingers tentatively ghost over his hands—not quite touching, just… lingering over his own.
It drives him absolutely mad.
He can't help himself from leaning back slightly against her, so that he can feel the brush of her body beneath his own shoulderblades as she holds tightly onto him. It feels right—god, being with her has always felt so right.
Under her expert direction, he circles the snowmobile around the gentle contour of a hill, the rails skimming across the snow with ease. The fresh powder tossed up by the snowmobile looks like crystals, launched into the inky blackness of the landscape in a way that mirrors the stars spattering the dark sky above their heads. It's a sight he almost never sees under the light polluted night sky of London, and if it weren't for the frigid temperatures he'd stop the snowmobile, take Rose's hand, and let himself just… be here. He feels suspended between heaven and earth in that moment—insignificant on his own, but witness to unimagineable beauty. He loves this, he realizes… he loves Rose of course, but he loves Weardale too—he loves everything about it. And Rose was right—this path is much easier to navigate than the more convoluted way he'd come.
He smiles to himself once again—despite it all, everything seems easier, lighter when Rose is with him. It always has.
He wonders if she might ever feel the same way about him.
The ride is over much too fast, the outdoor floodlights of the B&B peeking over the crest of the next hill as their snowmobile traces a path back to the inn. Wilf had clearly turned them on, for which John is grateful—even with Rose's instruction, navigation is difficult for him with the path illuminated only by the narrow, tinny beams of its headlights. He brings the snowmobile to a slow stop outside the garage—essentially blocking in the pile-of-junk snowmobile Jimmy had seen fit to lend Wilf. Stretching out his lean frame, he dismounts and takes off his helmet. Rose unlocks the side door into the kitchen, and he cavalierly runs a hand through his hair—and it all feels so beautifully domestic. The room is completely dark except for a small lamp in the corner of the kitchen, and through the doorway he sees that even the sitting room is dark—Wilf has clearly turned in for the evening. Which is good, the older man needed the rest.
In the shadows, he sees Rose remove her helmet as well, looping it under her arm as her hands thread through the silky strands of her hair. Her arm extended in the darkness, she takes a step towards the wall as if to flick on the lightswitch by the door—a spot which is several meters away from her, but very close to where John is standing. As if it were second nature to help her, he reaches over and flips on the lights.
She flicks her eyes towards John, a smile of thanks on her lips, and blinks in the newfound brightness. Her eyebrows raise and her lips part as if she were about to ask a question, but she stills herself—instead, her mouth quirks and a small chuckle escapes as she turns around to face him.
"What?"
"Your hair," she laughs, her teeth biting playfully on the plump red of her lower lip.
John raises his eyebrows in surprise. He's not sure whether to smile back—at the very least he's made her laugh, and he loves to see her smile—or to frown from the small surge of affront he feels at being the person she seems to be laughing at.
"Oi, what's wrong with my hair?"
"S'nothing, just..." She makes a vague motion with her hands towards the side of his temple.
He sniffs, eyes darting around for a mirror, and of course doesn't find one—it's the kitchen, after all. Attempting to not look as self-conscious as he feels, he sifts his hand through his hair and looks back over at her for approval.
"Better?"
She bites her lip as if to hold back another laugh.
"No, it's still sticking up like—"
"Why don't you fix it for me?" the words come out soft and silken, like a purr. They tumble out of his mouth, dropping to the floor like an offering at her feet—just waiting to see if she'd pick it up, if she wanted to.
Oh god. Maybe she didn't want to. This would be by far the most intimate contact they'd had since… well, since ever, and he hates Jimmy—god he hates him—but there still is a Jimmy, and maybe it's not fair to put Rose in a position where she—
"Yeah. Sure. OK," she says, and her eyes drop in a way that seems self-effacing. It could be his imagination, but he could swear her eyes linger on his mouth for a moment, stuck as it is in an optimistic smile.
She steps close to him, still biting her bottom lip, her eyes serious and now focused completely on his hair. She tentatively raises her hand towards his head, and he holds his breath, eyes fastened on her face to gauge her reaction as she reaches towards an errant lock. Her concentration is steadfast, but she takes a small breath and swallows the instant before her fingers come to rest on the strands of his hair. The tips of her fingers don't touch his scalp, rather playing across the surface, combing through the bristly hair on the side of his head. He can't tell exactly what she's doing to it but finds he doesn't care in the least—she can do whatever she wants to, as far as he's concerned. The heel of her palm hovers so close to his face—right next to his cheekbone—that he can't help but lean into it ever so slightly, just to create some kind of contact between them.
His skin is still prickling with the cold from the nighttime air, and god the warmth of her hand against his face feels like an inferno. It sizzles through his skin, blazing towards his lips and hotly out through his eyes as he gazes at her.
Rose blinks at the unexpected contact, pausing her ministrations. John stills as well, holding his breath for a moment, the fire from her touch at war with the block of ice that drops into his stomach at the thought that she might not want this, that she might pull away—
But she doesn't.
Instead, she keeps her hand right where it is against the side of his face. She doesn't move it any closer, doesn't press it into his skin and certainly doesn't meet his eyes—but neither does she move away, and that's all he can ask for. After a moment, her fingers begin their work again, the heel of her palm brushing across the apple of his cheek in a soft, incidental stroke as she runs them through his hair. He exhales, and she's standing so close to him by now that the strands of her own hair dance across her shoulders as his breathe caresses them.
It's beautiful, she is beautiful, and he's utterly transfixed. He can't take his eyes off her—willing her to meet his gaze—but she never does. Instead, she keeps her eyes fixed resolutely on his hair. He wonders if he should read anything into that, but pushes down the thought.
"There," she says, and he wonders if the word indeed came out breathily, or if it was his imagination. "All better, yeah?"
"Thank you," he says quietly, and her hand falls from his face as she smiles and shrugs. She takes a step back all too quickly, something like guilt flickering over her expression, and the empty space between them feels heavy in its distance, crowded with awkwardness.
Absentmindedly, he threads his fingers through his hair—trying to think of something, anything—to say. Rose's lips quirk up and he realizes he probably un-did all of her work. He smiles gamely back at her, remembering why they came back to the B&B in the first place, and nods at the refrigerator.
"Hmm let's see what we've got here," he says, stepping across the room to open the refrigerator door and leaning down to have a peek. He frowns—not much is here after all. Perhaps Wilf hasn't gone shopping for a bit? He leans down to the crisper and opens the drawer—there are a handful of tomatoes which don't look too bad, and only slightly overripe.
He takes one out, tossing it idly from hand to hand as he muses on his options. It's not quite what he was expecting to find—usually Wilf has a variety of fresh fruits, vegetables, breads and meats to choose from in advance of the weekend guests. Since there are no guests this week however, perhaps Wilf hadn't bothered. Though even so, it's certainly unlike Wilf to have this little in the refrigerator... No matter, John decides. He won't be able to make anything particularly impressive—certainly nothing that shows his usual culinary flair, but that can't be helped. He can still put together a meal easily enough with what he has on hand.
Probably.
God he hopes she won't be disappointed.
"Let's see…" he says, putting the tomatoes on the counter and opening the cabinet where Wilf typically keeps his dry goods. "Ah! Pasta—perfect. Spaghetti with marinara sauce ok by you?"
John glances up at Rose, who nods brightly at him. He smiles back, relieved that she's satisfied with this plan. Turning back around towards the cabinets, he crouches down to open the door of one. Wilf keeps most of his pots and pans on the bottom shelf, and since it's just him and Rose tonight, Wilf's trusted old cast iron saucepan should do the trick—
He pauses as he opens the double cabinet door and sees a large cardboard box sitting on top of Wilf's sturdy assortment of iron pots and pans.
"What's this?" he says, pulling the box out of the cabinet. Whatever it is, it's heavy, and he needs to brace the load against his knees and forearms as he lowers it to the floor lest he drop it.
"Go on, open it," she says, as one corner of the box thuds quietly on the floor of the kitchen. "He won't mind."
"But it's his—" John flicks his eyes up to Rose, who's smiling down at him.
"No," she says, drawing out the syllable into a smile, and he understands from the look on her face that she must know exactly what's inside. "It's for you."
He stares back up at her for a moment, wondering what on earth she could possibly mean, and then looks back down at the box, hesitant. The label on the side of the box is addressed to Wilf, after all, and the return address is a location he doesn't recognize. John can't imagine what this could possibly have to do with him.
"You're sure?"
"Of course," she says with a laugh. "Go on."
Still wary, John nonetheless grips a corner on the box and begins to peel the top off, the glue resisting him with each tug. Whatever is inside is packed tightly—factory packing, obviously, from both the tight fit of the foam wedges inside as well as the unmistakeable new-factory smell. He can't tell what's inside until he begins to pull out the foam wedges, which slide out slowly, dragging their heavy load with them and plopping it into his lap.
It's a cooking pan. A ceramic cooking pan.
He peers back into the box, still heavy against his legs. And actually, it's not just a ceramic pan—it's an entire set of them. Stainless steel on the outside, with a ceramic interior, and matching glass lids. There's a dutch oven, a saute pan, two different sized saucepans, two skillets and a griddle. He holds a saucepan up in front of his face, his fingers trailing across the stainless steel exterior, pristine and glistening in the soft light of the kitchen. His eye catches the words on the underside of the cookware—Spirit Thermolon—and good god he has ceramic cookware in flat back in London sure enough, but he's never owned anything that comes even close to the quality of the pan he holds in his hands.
He glances back up at Rose, his mouth open in amazement—this is for him? Well, of course it's for him, that's obvious enough—he and Wilf had had numerous conversations about the benefits (in John's view) vs the drawbacks (in Wilf's view) of ceramic cookware. But John never, ever could have expected this. Brushing foam residue off his jeans, he stands up, shaking his head.
"Wilf can't mean these to be for me. This is too much—far too expensive—"
"Oh, stop. He ordered those for you for Christmas, but they were on backorder. Since you like them so much more than the cast iron."
He nods dumbly. He can't not accept them, he knows that—but just saying thank you for something so exquisitely generous—something that Wilf doesn't even like and won't even use—seems hardly sufficient.
"I'll keep them here of course, they're far too good to just warm up takeaway in my flat."
She laughs. "You forget I've seen pictures of you cooking in your flat—you do a lot more than just warm up takeaway! You can leave them here if you like, but they're yours to take home if you want."
He smiles. He hasn't sent her pictures of his recipes-in-progress for over a month now—well before Chamonix. It feels a bit like old times, like the awkwardness between them is melting away with her reference to when things weren't so awkward and so, so unlike how he wants them to be.
"I'm only ever practicing recipes in my flat—things I make up here. It's not real cooking, it's just experimenting. I mean… if I keep them up here I can use them to cook for you—the both of you," he says, and she smiles and shrugs, her eyes flitting away and he knows he's rambling, possibly losing her attention at any moment if he keeps going. Even so, he needs to keep going.
There's something he's been meaning to tell her—because he's not sure she knows.
Knows that he's not with Jeanne, that is.
It's not like it would change anything—although god he still feels a flicker of hope in his chest at the thought that it might. There's no time like the present, casual and offhand though a comment about it now might seem. Perhaps it's better this way, even—a serious, sit-down conversation about it would be stilted and awkward and would likely involve reference to Jimmy eventually. And John wants no part in another argument about him of all people.
And it needs to be said. She needs to know he's not with anyone else, that his trip to Chamonix meant nothing on that front, that… that there's no-one but her.
She starts to turn away and his heart somersaults into his stomach, the pinwheeling thoughts in his brain churning in dread. This is his chance. His best chance. Even if he can barely get the words out, which is looking more and more like a distinct probability. He opens his mouth and takes a deep breath.
"Besides," he says, clearing his throat, his voice slightly high pitched from the worry hammering itself into his voice box. "In London, it would just be me. I don't have anyone to cook for there—or, well, anywhere, really. Cooking for one— just for myself—with these… bit of a waste, don't you think? I know you're in London now, but… I'd still like to keep them here. So I can help Wilf cook of course but also… for when you're here. So whenever you want, I could… be here too. I'd much rather be here. Cook here. With you, that is."
Something flickers across her otherwise unreadable face—uncertainty, perhaps? He thinks that's likely, from the way her eyebrows draw quickly together. He holds her gaze for a long time—it feels like minutes although he knows it's probably just seconds—willing her to know what he's trying to say with the intensity of his gaze despite the fact that any further words have dried up on his lips.
Bloody hell, he's not sure he made any sense at all.
She doesn't say a word but holds his gaze for a long minute. After another moment, she nods, making a little motion with her shoulders, and her eyes drop as she turns slowly back around towards the table, shrugging off her jacket.
And just like that, the conversation is over.
As he stares at her, turned away from him as she is, his thoughts tumble over themselves in his head. Has he bollocksed it all up again? Maybe she doesn't even understand. That he's sorry. That he wants this thing—whatever it ends up being—with her. That he wants her, damn it. He knew he was rambling—he always seems to. God he always does this—never says the right thing at the right moment when it's something worth saying—the elegant words that would matterswirling around in his brain until they come out of his mouth in an unrecognizeable heap. It serves him right—he should have told her everything so long ago, it's his own damn fault that nothing's coming out correctly now when he so desperately needs it to.
And she's still just standing there, biting her lip and staring at the floor near the box that holds all the cookware.
He almost shudders from the chill that accompanies the next thought to creep into him mind. Oh god… maybe she does understand.
Maybe this is her way of letting him down easy before he makes a bigger fool of himself. Maybe she understands perfectly and this is her way of saying she doesn't feel the same way about him. She'd turned away from him just now after all—and she is with another man back in London. What even gives him the right to say how he feels at this late date? He might hate the bastard, but if Jimmy makes her happy—
His thoughts still in a jumble, he can't take his eyes off her and he's half horrified and half reeling as she crouches down and rifles through the pile of cardboard, pans, lids and foam blocks he's left on the floor. After a moment, she picks up a saute pan and its matching lid, and stands up. With a smile, she holds it up in front of him as he stares back at her, breathless and mute.
"Well we can start tonight," she says, a tentative smile on her face. "Spaghetti and marinara. No time like the present, yeah?"
The tension that has been coiling inside of him unravels, unfolding onto his face in a dizzy, eager smile.
"Yeah."
