Thank you to my wonderful beta fadewithfury. I hope you enjoy the chapter-feedback is much appreciated! =)


John puts Rose to work using both her self-described culinary talents—setting water to boil one in of the brand new saucepans, and prepping tomatoes and garlic for the sauce. He's admittedly a little more exuberant than the situation would seem to warrant, even humming as he rummages through the cabinets for the supplies she'll need, setting out his favorite serrated knife and Wilf's best cutting board for Rose to do her work.

Cooking is hardly her favorite activity—and he'd assume that's especially true now when she's just gotten off a teaching shift at the ski lodge. He knows firsthand how tired she can be after an afternoon of teaching. Even so, she doesn't look put out by this at all—if anything, she looks a little nervous—he's well aware that the kitchen isn't a place she feels particularly skilled or at ease.

Even so, her simple presence in the kitchen at his side makes him smile, as does the fact that the only reason she's here in the kitchen at all—which was her idea, mind—is to assist him. And to spend time with him too, he'd like to think, although he tries not to read too much into that.

Which makes it mean even more that she's willing to be here. With him.

For his part, he unloads the rest of the Spirit Thermolon cookware into the sink and begins gently washing the various pots and pans, his fingers trailing over the delicate ceramic in wonder and appreciation at the gift he's been given. Not just the cookware, of course—although he's grateful for that too—but rather the chance to be back in Weardale yet again, with Rose and Wilf. He glances over at Rose as he works, and he can't help smiling to himself.

Here they are, side by side, and it feels so domestic and… so right. In that moment it's easy to him to push all their lingering problems out of his mind and just focus on being here with her.

John had grabbed several of the least-overripe tomatoes out of the crisper, rinsing them in the sink. He's not exactly trying to impress her, but he nonetheless doesn't object when she marvels at being showed the easiest way to peel them—blanching them in hot water to loosen their skins then plunging them in a small bowl of ice water to loosen them further before peeling. He then sets them on the cutting board for Rose, and she peels them with ease, tossing a smile in his direction. The dicing, however, seems to have her a little more uneasy. Worrying her lip, she takes one of the newly-peeled tomatoes into her hand, hesitating a moment before gripping it tightly and cutting it crosswise with a jagged, uneven line. A thin stream of juice leaks onto the cutting board from the knife, and she's just about to cut it in half again when John gently interrupts her.

"It's easier if you core it first."

"Core it? You mean… like scoop out all the insides?"

He nods. It's easier if he shows her rather than trying to explain it in words. The fact that his arm brushes against the soft curve of her waist as he takes the knife from her hand is purely incidental—truly, it is—and she stills. Something unpleasant and thick flips over in his stomach, and he thinks back to a few moments before, at the expression of guilt that had flickered over her face when she'd smoothed his hair. Forcing an apologetic smile onto his face, he takes a step to the side, away from her, and clears his throat, forcing himself to focus on the tomato in his hand.

"Sort of—like this. Just squeeze out the seeds, see? Then take the rest of the tomato and cut the strips as wide as you want the diced pieces to be."

"How wide should I make them?"

He shrugs and gives her what he hopes is a reassuring grin. "As wide as you'd like."

She nods, lips pressed together and eyes focused in concentration, and resumes cutting them into strips.

They work quietly side by side, John glancing over at her every few moments. She's followed his instructions to the letter and has a small pile of diced tomatoes to show for it at the conclusion of her efforts. He smiles to see the smile playing around on her lips.

"Thank you," he says. "Very well done—these will make a great marinara. I can show you how—if you want."

She nods, and he thinks the better of having her dice the garlic, instead putting a handful of cloves into the food processor. He shows her how to sautee the garlic, coating a skillet in olive oil and cooking the cloves gently until they are soft and fragrant, their scent permeating the air. He throws a pinch of salt to the water she's boiled and adds the pasta, showing her how replacing the pot's lid immediately thereafter helps to return the pasta to a boil quickly to end up with the best texture. Together they add the tomatoes to the skillet when the garlic is ready—she holds the cooking board and he gently scrapes the tomatoes into the pan, trying and failing to keep his hand from brushing against hers in the process. Among many other missing food staples, Wilf seems to be almost entirely out of fresh herbs, which John learned from Wilf's cookbook to add to his marinara sauces to give the best flavor. Even so, he prattles on as he stirs the pot, telling her how basil and parsley would go wonderfully in their sauce, and how he'd even been experimenting with adding pancetta and guanciale for extra flavor. He looks up and she's smiling at him, her expression unguarded and her eyes warm.

He stills, not sure at first exactly how that makes him feel, other than utterly relieved. It's the closest to looking happy that he's seen her in a month. It strikes him in that moment that this is the closest he's felt to being happy since then, too.

God he's missed this—all of this.

"Thank you," she says after a moment, her voice soft.

"What for?"

"Teaching me all this. Or trying to, rather. I know I'm rubbish at it."

He cocks his head to the side and scrunches his nose, pretending to consider this for a moment. She does seem to be a bit uncomfortable with cooking for having grown up with Wilf, and for helping run a B&B of all things—not that he'd ever tell her that, of course. "Wellll… you've taught me a lot I'd have been rubbish at otherwise, it's the least I can do."

He's expecting a smile, or an affronted poke in the ribs—something—but instead she grows quiet, pausing for a moment and biting her lip. His stomach flops around and his mind races back over his words, wondering if he's said something to offend her.

"If you…" she says, her voice hesitant, and her eyes drop to the floor. "I mean, you probably don't—that's OK, but if you ever—"

"What?" he says softly, hoping the word comes out like a gentle coaxing.

She pauses again. "I mean, I still owe you…"

"You don't owe me anything, Rose."

"Yes, I do. I owe you a lesson—from… ya know, from when you were taking lessons—"

His heart flips, and her words make him so hopeful that he can't help but just stare at her dumbly for a moment, for want of ever having expected this. He'd wanted this—god of course he'd wanted this—but would never, ever have asked. Not with how much of a mess he'd left things with her with the whole Chamonix situation. He didn't deserve it—he'd be the first to admit that—he'd hoped, of course, a surreal kind of idle hope that he hadn't seriously thought til this very moment might actually come to fruition. Not anytime soon, at least, with the awkwardness between them still so tangible.

"I'd love to." His words rush out thick, earnest, the intensity of his tone nearly palpable even to him.

She moves her eyes over towards the still-simmering pot, as if unconvinced of both his response as well as the value of her own offer. "I mean… I know you don't need them anymore—"

And he wants to cut her off, because he does need them—not because he knows full well he remains a mediocre skier at best—but because he needs her. Achingly, viscerally, whole-bodily needs her. The thought strikes him with all the force of a slap across the face—if anything, more than skiing, that has been what he's been taught by both her lessons and her friendship.

"—I just mean—you don't have to—I'm just saying, 'cause you already paid and—"

"But I want them, Rose—" He can't stop himself from interrupting her there—he can't bear it any longer, the fact that she could so clearly be unsure about how he feels on the topic. "I love skiing with you. I love it. And—if you want to—if you're willing to, I mean… I'd love to. If you want."

"You're sure?" she asks, still looking at the pot. Her words are small—almost meek—and uncertain.

He hates himself in that moment for ever having caused her any doubt about it at all.

"I want to," he says, emphasizing each syllable.

She pauses and nods her head, her eyes still on the pot. After a moment, she takes a deep breath. "How about next weekend, if you'll be back up here? Or—after work this week? My lesson spots aren't full at the arena yet…"

He smiles down at her, and finally—finally—she looks up at him, her lips quirking up in a small smile of their own. He'd love to see her during the week of course, but the thought of spending this coming weekend with her here in Weardale, just like they used to before Chamonix, is utterly irresistible to him.

"Next weekend is perfect," he says.

"Your marinara sauce is brilliant," he says as they sit across from each other at the dining room table.

He means it—the sauce turned out quite well, actually, even minus the usual ingredients and spices which would normally have given it depth and texture. He finds he doesn't mind this at all—there's something beautiful in the simplicity of its flavour. Instead of seeming like the sauce is absent something, he finds by that making it with fewer ingredients like this his tongue can better appreciate the understated, sweet tang of the tomatoes and the underlying aroma of the garlic.

"You mean your sauce is brilliant—you did all the actual cooking," Rose smirks, shaking of her head, stabbing at her pasta with her fork.

John puts down his fork, shaking his head in adamant disagreement. "Well, in that case we may as well say it's Wilf's brilliant sauce since he bought the actual ingredients—and, might I remind you, the pots!"

Rose raises her eyebrows. "Well that still means it's yours since he gave those pots to you, mister—plus you have free reign of the kitchen here."

John grins at her and slaps the table in victory—feeling utterly vindicated. "And that means that it's really your sauce, since I wouldn't have even met Wilf if it weren't for you."

Rose laughs, tossing her head back, and he grins at her.

"Okay, okay—I give up," she says. "How about… how about we say it's ours?"

Ours. Somehow, their agreement on that word—especially here, in this place that he loves so much, with the woman that he loves so much, fills John with more warmth than anything else all evening.

He smiles. "I quite like the sound of that."

They're halfway through their dinner—and John is halfway through a story about his old physics mentor Dr. Lethbridge-Stuart at Durham University, whom he still owes a phone call—when he hears the bell jangle over the front door. Cocking his head over his shoulder, he sees the doorknob jerk several times as if someone's having trouble turning it all the way. He furrows his eyebrows, wondering who it could be—there are no guests expected this weekend, after all. Suddenly, the door lurches open, and a gust of icy wind blows awry the blue curtains over the front windows, folding them over each other in a disordered tangle of vintage fabric. He stares at the newcomer… it's Bev, loaded down with a big box of what appears to be groceries, her parka zipped up tight around her.

Rose's smile is instantaneous. "Hi Bev!," she says, out of her seat immediately to help her with the box.

For his part, John doesn't grin, nor does he greet Bev, instead staying seated right where he is. Given his most recent frigid conversation with her, he's not sure his help would even be wanted. And given his annoyance over being treated that way, he isn't particularly inclined even to try.

"Hi," Bev says. Her voice is cool, though not biting in its coldness like the last time John had seen her, and she looks from John to Rose and back again with something akin to suspicion lurking in her eyes. Clearly Jimmy's mother, indeed. Keeping her eyes trained on Rose, Bev nods down at the box. "I've brought some groceries over for Wilf."

Rose smiles, big and bright. "That's so thoughtful—thank you!"

Wordless, Bev shrugs as she hands the box over to Rose, more dropping it into Rose's hands than placing it in them. As soon as she's extricated herself from her load, Bev shakes out her gloved hands as if to regain circulation in them, and nods back towards the front door. "It's icy out front… you should take care of that, wouldn't do to have any of your guests falling down."

"Not before they get on the slopes, at least," John quips with a quick glance at Rose, who shakes her head and giggles as she moves into the kitchen. He smiles reflexively at the sound of her laugh, his lips curving upwards as he winds a forkful of pasta with their marinara sauce and takes a bite.

"Yeah. Well." Bev says. Her expression remains as unsmiling as it's been from the moment she entered the inn. Her eyes are completely focused on him now, unreadable except for their complete absence of anything resembling the friendliness he'd previously come to expect from the woman.

"No guests this weekend anyway," Rose calls over her shoulder as she puts the box on the kitchen counter.

Bev doesn't bat an eye—she doesn't look surprised in the least. Instead, she nods slowly.

"So it's just you two here?" Bev says after a moment, and John's positive he's not imagining the way her eyes narrow slightly, flitting between Rose and him and back to Rose again.

"Well… and Wilf," he says, glancing at Rose, who's unloading the box, which seems to be full of bread, milk, vegetables—nearly everything they'd been missing, in fact. "Wilf is here of course."

"Of course," Bev says, although there's something in the way she unnecessarily draws out the statement—a question? an accusation?—that belies the words themselves.

He doesn't much know and doesn't much care, and can't bring himself to think too much about it other than his annoyance that whatever is in her tone is there to begin with. John stares at her for a moment, willing his face into as expressionless a mask as possible. He's not stupid, and she's not as coy as she obviously thinks she's being—between her tone now and his previous conversation with her at the general store, she is clearly insinuating there's some… some… something going on between him and Rose that's wrong. A spark of something deeper than annoyance—almost akin to anger, in fact—flares in his chest and he ducks his head down lest he glare back at her. The last thing he wants to do is cause a fight with stupid Jimmy's stupid mother, and create any trouble for Rose.

No matter how he feels about Bev, or Jimmy—or Bev and Jimmy—he can push it down, for Rose's sake.

"How was his appointment?" Bev asks as Rose reenters the room.

"He said it went fine, it was just a checkup with his eye doctor."

Bev nods again. "Good to hear."

Rose smiles anew, nodding her head at Bev. "And… how have you been? Jimmy said something about you getting new shelves for the store?"

Jimmy…. John sighs, feeling as though all of the pleasantness of the past hour has been sucked from the room as quickly as all the warm air had been when Bev opened the door.

"Yeah, installed them this past week," Bev answers.

Still smiling, Rose nods at Bev's words.

The silence that drops between them then is palpable—awkward and heavy. John looks down at his pasta for lack of anything to actually say.

"Thanks again for looking after gramps, I'm sure he appreciates it," Rose says, biting her lip.

Bev raises her eyebrows and looks down, fiddling with the fabric knot on the end of her jacket's zipper. "Yeah well… he needs it, you know."

Rose stills, confusion fluttering across her face, furrowing her eyebrows and staring at Bev. "Wait… what do you mean?"

"I mean that he needs some help. It's been hard on him having you gone. He said he's been feeling a bit tired so I've been helping him out—best as I can, at least. I bring groceries over a couple of times a week for him, and he's had trouble digging out the carpark on his own too, so Rodrigo's been coming over after work when he can."

Rose's brow furrows. "Really? He didn't say anything about that to us."

Bev's eyes snap from her zipper back up to Rose—practically glaring at her—as soon as the word us leaves Rose's lips. Rose doesn't seem to notice, looking to John with an almost lost expression, as if beseeching him for backup to make sure she couldn't possibly be wrong about something so important, and so basic.

John nods at Rose, and schools his expression as he glances coolly back at Bev. "No he didn't, not a word—I would have come back to help sooner…" He briefly considers saying we would have come back to help sooner, but stops himself—there's no point in antagonizing this woman further than she's clearly already accomplishing quite well all by herself. So what if Rose is dating her bloody son and she's clearly a bit jealous on his behalf—she doesn't need to act as if Rose is doing something wrong.

"Well you've your hands a bit full back in London," says Bev, and the words seem plain enough to his ears at first—but there's something in her eyes as she flicks her eyes from John to Rose that causes his own eyes to narrow. He bites back a comment about it perhaps would have been easier for Wilf to get out there—both to run his own errands and to plow his own carpark—if he'd had his vehicle of choice. He clenches his jaw against any comment that might come spilling out, but he can't and won't hold back a glare at the woman. The implication that it's been Rose's absence causing Wilf some fatigue—as opposed to the fact that her bloody tosser of a son carelessly ruined the man's primary vehicle—incenses him so much that his lungs ache from the strain of holding back his words. He takes a deep, slow breath to calm himself.

Bev catches his eye, staring back at him, her face expressionless, and then turns back to Rose.

"I'd better be going. Tell your grandfather I'll stop back by Tuesday if he needs me to. I'll ask Rodrigo to come by tomorrow to salt the carpark—"

"I'll salt it," John says, his words quick, quiet and low. They rumble out of his throat almost like a growl, not that Bev seems to notice—she's not even looking at him anymore.

"All right then," Bev says, and with a nod to Rose she opens the door and steps outside, letting in another blast of cold air in her wake.

Staring at the floor, Rose makes her way slowly back down to the table. She doesn't look at John as she sits down, instead fixing her eyes on her half-finished pasta—her eyes vacant and her brow furrowed. She doesn't move to pick up her fork again, leaving her hands clasped tightly in front of her on the table.

John reaches over, brushing Rose's thumb gently with his own and squeezing her hands. She doesn't say a word, but he feels her thumb stroke against his palm in response. Her fingers are cold and he can't resist the urge to envelop her small hands in his warmer ones as he ducks his head down to get her attention.

"Rose… we'll talk to him in the morning. I'm sure we can sort this out. It's probably nothing, hmm?"

"Yeah," Rose says, but her tone is hesitant.

For better or worse, their dinner is clearly over, and they sit silently at the table, John holding Rose's hands firmly in his own, willing her some semblance of comfort through his touch. After a few minutes, she gives him a wan smile, and moves to take her plate and stand up—she has an early ski lesson tomorrow and needs to head to bed soon, after all. He smiles at her, tells her not to worry—that he'll take care of the dishes and that the best thing she can do is to get some sleep. She nods, gives his hands one last squeeze, and moves away from the table and towards the stairs. She pauses and glances towards the darkened living room as she passes by—Wilf is usually still up by now, sitting in his easy chair, regaling them with tales about mining and old Weardale and how things used to be. Slowly, she makes her way past the family photos—Rose as a little girl, Rose and Wilf outside the B&B, Rose and Wilf and her parents at some sort of miners picnic—and ascends the creaky stairs.

As soon as Rose is out of sight, John sighs, dropping his head into his hands for a moment and rubbing his eyes. Between his long day at work, the drive here, and the exhausting appearance of Bev, the day has finally taken a toll on him. Wilf will be fine, he knows—is fine, rather—it was only an eye doctor appointment after all. Damn Bev, making Rose worry needlessly like that. Practically guilt-tripping her for moving to London—which, by the way, is something that Wilf had specifically encouraged her to do on multiple occasions, even just in the relatively short few months since John had met him. Annoyed, he stands up and makes his way towards the door Bev had just departed from. With a flourish, he locks it for the evening, turning off the outdoor lights for good measure.

He turns towards the front windows, the blue vintage curtains still in disarray from the breeze that had accompanied Bev's entrance. Gently, he lifts his fingers towards them, neatly folding them back into place. He vaguely remembers being a little critical of them when he first came to the inn and smiles to himself—they suit the place quite nicely, actually. He gives the thick, rich fabric one last appreciative stroke before heading to the kitchen.

"I'm fine," Wilf says the next morning as he cooks breakfast—without any assistance from John this time, as the older man had literally shooed him from the kitchen, insisting on proving he could cook it on his own without help. Wilf bangs one of the cast-iron pans against the stove for emphasis, and John winces at the heavy sound of metal clanging against metal.

"But gramps, that's not like you, having someone else run errands for you like that," Rose says, coming up behind Wilf and laying a gently hand on the older man's back.

From the tilt of her head and the gently tone in her voice, she's obviously trying to be caring and conciliatory, John thinks—but this only seems to annoy Wilf further, assuming that's at all possible. The older man throws a glance over his shoulder at her, his eyes burning.

"It's normal for an old man to be a little tired every so often. I have my snowmobile back now thanks to John, and I can run my own errands from now on. And I fully intend to give Bev Stone a talking-to for putting those daft thoughts in your head in the first place."

Rose frowns and bites her lip, tossing a glance over at John. He swallows and takes a deep breath.

"But if you need help, Wilf—"

Wilf wheels around, his glare falling on John this time. Good lord but he's never seen the man as annoyed as this.

"I keep telling you, I'm fine. I'm not a bloody child. I've been running this inn for more than fifty years, on my own for most of that time. I'm perfectly capable!" Wilf's says, his voice nearly breaking from frustration.

"I could help you out more maybe, though?" Rose asks. "I can stay a bit longer—we have guests booked for this weekend, yeah? "

Wilf stares at her, his expression stony. "You're going back to London first thing Monday. I will take care of my guests at my inn myself. If you even think about missing school because of some daft idea that woman has put in your mind, I will be very upset, young lady. And the same goes for you," he continues, his hot gaze now landing on John.

John swallows. "We only want—"

Wilf sighs, clearly exasperated, closing his eyes and raking a hand over his face. "I know what you're trying to do. And if I needed anything, I would tell you. But I don't."

Wilf turns back around towards the stove, muttering a curse under his breath as the pancakes start to give off a slightly burned odor, likely from the heat of the flame he'd inadvertently left on during their argument. John gazes over at Rose and shakes his head. She bites her lip, still frowning, but she nods back at him all the same.

"Here," Wilf says gruffly. "Eat your breakfast—then you go teach your lessons, Rose—and John, you have a long trip back to London ahead of you."

Sighing, John takes his plate and the three of them eat their slightly-singed pancakes in silence.

He makes the long, lonely drive back to London later that morning—it's the first time he can recall feeling like his presence wasn't welcome in Weardale. Not by Wilf, at least. Even after Chamonix, when he was most worried he'd be persona non grata, Wilf had welcomed him with open arms. This time… he can't shake the feeling that he and Rose had struck a nerve, that Wilf somehow was insulted by their concern.

He sighs deeply, willing himself to put it out of his mind—it will blow over, he tells himself. These are the closest people in the entire world to him. Wilf is obviously fine—everything else will be fine, too.

The rest of his weekend goes by in a bit of a blur—mainly filled with dreary paperwork and exams and reports against the noisy backdrop of his London street where street crews seem to be perpetually doing construction of late. The one bright spot is Rose, who calls him that evening to let him know that Wilf seems to be feeling more spry. Wilf had even gone into town that day on the snowmobile to run errands, just to prove the point, she says. John smiles, happy that Rose's fears are allayed and happy to hear from her at all, frankly… it doesn't escape his notice that it's the first time she's picked up the phone to call him since before Chamonix.

He and Rose text briefly over the next few days—well, he does, at least—she grows oddly quiet after Monday, the day she's due to return to London. On Tuesday, none of his text messages are returned at all. Then again, she'd had a big assignment due that day, so he supposes she's just busy.

On Wednesday, he checks the post as soon as he comes home from work, and finds an envelope from London Mining. Technically it's addressed to Rose, but even more technically he's still her agent—so he opens it, smiling broadly as he sees a cheque made out to her for £1,000 for the patent license.

He grabs his mobile to message her immediately.

Your patent cheque is here! £1,000 as promised. Want me to drop it by?

The screen dims, fading to black, and there's no response. Five minutes go by without a response, then ten, then twenty—and he's still holding both the mobile and the bloody cheque in his hand, just as excited as if it had been addressed to him personally.

He sends her another message.

I'll be over to drop it by in a few minutes.

He pulls on his coat, checks to make sure he has his keys—and the cheque of course—and is out the door and on his way to her flat within minutes. The twilight is soft and hazy around him, and the night seems to be brimming with possibilities, the mood underscored by the sparkling lights of the London streets. He checks his mobile again as he pulls in front of Rose's building—no response. Hopefully she's not with Jimmy, he thinks—although she's usually been pretty good about texting him back regardless of the boy's presence recently.

Loping up to the building, he punches in the number of her flat—#48—into the security panel by the front door, and waits impatiently as the dialtone connects him to Rose's flat.

"Yeah?" answers a tinny female voice over the speaker—a voice which is most certainly not Rose's. He smiles—it's likely Tricia then, he imagines.

"Hello—is this Tricia?"

"Yeah. Who is this?"

"It's John Smith—Rose's friend. Is she home? I have something to drop off for her."

There's a pause, and then Tricia laughs. Even through the cheap wiring of the speaker the utter bitterness of her laugh is almost palpable.

"You're looking for Rose. What a surprise. Well, that cow doesn't live here anymore."

And with that, Tricia hangs up.