A/N: Okay, so I've got seriously obsessed with this series and obviously Captain James. So here is a fluffy ficlet I hope you enjoy. Reviews would be lovely.
Disclaimer: As much as I'd like to have a Captain James, this series does not belong to me.
Molly's out on a jog—the second one of the day—when her phone rings. It's a shock to the system, a bit pathetically, as literally zero of her friends pre-Afghan have tried to contact her both times she's been home, so she's not used to the ringtone. When she scrolled through her call log last night her stomach twisted when she realised that the most recent messages were all addressed Smurf.
Although, this time, her heart skips a beat in her chest when she reads the caller ID.
"'Ello you," Molly smirks, biting her lip. The laugh greeting her on the other side fills her with warmth from the inside out. Thank God she's still got him. She's lost so much, but she still has him.
"Hello, Dawesy." A pause. "Frankly, Molly, you've been home from Afghan a whole day, and you've not even picked up the phone to check how I am."
Molly scoffs a laugh of disbelief, but she's still grinning to the extent that her face hurts. She looks at the people passing her by in the park, staring at her and a stupid big Cheshire cat smile but—fuck them. They don't have what she has. "How you are? Who's the one who's been sat on his arse all day while—"
"I've endured several weeks of intense rehabilitation! I've had over twenty massages and a fucking limp! It's a travesty that you've not spared a thought for my wellbeing."
"Oh, sorry, I must've been too busy saving people's lives to fink about your bloody limp."
"Shut up, Dawes. I know for a fact you were training medics, not on the front. You can't lie to me. You just don't care about me at all."
She plonks herself down on a bench underneath a massive Oak tree, orange leaves spilling out in front of her. "Saving the lives of the future, then. And, you're right there. Couldn't give a shit about ya."
He chuckles again and she aches for him to be sat next to her on the bench, his arm pulled round her shoulders and a smile that never changes. "Oh right then. Well, if that's the case, I assume you won't want to spend the weekend in Paris with me, but…"
Molly's eyes almost pop out of her head, choking on nothing. "You what?"
"I've booked a hotel in Paris for the weekend for the two of us, but if you're not interested, that's absolutely fine. I'll take my mum. Bit less romantic, granted, but I'm sure she'd love to dine at the top of the Eiffel Tower while drinking champagne and eating exquisite French chocolate…"
"Are you serious? You're not messin' with me, are ya?" she breathes, almost whispering. It's not an offer she gets often—fuck that, at all. The most romantic weekend she's ever had is a sleazy Travel Lodge that she kind of just woke up in once. In Hackney.
"Of course I'm not, Molly. It would be my absolute pleasure." He pauses for a moment while she just takes it in. "So, are you interested, after all?"
Molly snorts. "Of course I bloody am! Always wanted to see the Eiffel Tower and that." She frowns. "Don't know much French though. 'nother thing that didn't really agree with me at school."
"I wouldn't worry about that. You're better at things than you give yourself credit for," Charles says and she rolls her eyes. She knows she's crap at that sort of thing. She's good at being a soldier. "So, pack a bag, Molly Dawes. I'll come and pick you up at six."
And with that, the call terminates, and Molly realises that she better jog home bloody fast. Two hours and she'll be on the way to Paris with the man who she's completely and utterly given her heart to.
"Didn't know you could get a train to France," Molly remarks, standing underneath the giant departures board, fluorescent writing flashing on and off the screen quicker than her eyes care to read. People are rushing around her everywhere, mostly in business wear, some tourists madly making their way across St Pancras, looking slightly lost. The only stillness is stood right beside her, tall and safe and hers, their hands interlocked. "It goes underwater and everything?"
The way she looks up at him with wonderment makes him feel so bright—it reminds him of the first day he remembers in hospital, when she was there, her hand in his hair and eyes that could make the sun rise. "Yeah. Right through the Channel."
"Wow," she exhales, because there's no end to the things that amaze her. "How long does it take to get there?"
Charles shrugs. "Probably about two and a half hours, give or take." He squeezes her hand tighter in his own. "Plenty of time for you to tell me how your latest tour went. You were brilliant, by all accounts."
She smiles to herself. "That's what you told me to be. Wasn't gonna let poor, crippled old you down, was I?"
"Hey!" He nudges her jokingly and she knocks him back in ricochet, of course. He kicks out his nearly healed leg in front of them both—it's still painful and the scars will never heal over completely, but he's almost done with his physiotherapy. "War wounds, Dawes. Some respect, please."
"Patched up on the battlefield by my own bare hands," she adds, and he nods sincerely. There's not a day that goes by since that he's not been grateful for his medic. "Shame the same couldn't be done for Smurf."
He pauses for a moment then presses a kiss at the peak of her forehead. Her eyelids flutter closed. "There was nothing that you could've done to save Smurf, Moll. You did your best for him. Remember that."
"Yeah, I know, I know." She looks up at him, his arm pulling her into his chest. "Just miss 'im, is all. I still see 'im collapsing in front of me and in the ambulance, and it just fucks me up. He was fine one minute and not the next."
Charles doesn't really know how to say anything that can make it better. It happened, and kills him just as much as it kills her. "I miss him too."
He looks up at the board and realises that their train has arrived at the station, so he tugs on her arm. Molly looks up at him, taken back.
He grins. "Paris beckons, Dawesy."