AN: I tried to stay away, but I think my Muse has been on the redbull, or something, because she just wont leave me alone! So here it is, another one shot with my favourite couple. Plotless fluff, really!
Please leave reviews! I do read them all, although it's hard to reply to each. I'm a single Mum, so it's hard to get in the time to write and reply, but please know that they are what keep me going, inspire me to write and post.
Much love,
GB
xox
Our First 'Christmas'
Molly taps her knuckles against the wooden door, shivers as the mid-January cold bites at her nose, stings her cheeks, gnaws at frozen fingers. She's practically bobbing with excitement as she waits for the door to open, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she waits on the step, a minute feeling like an eternity.
Her heart stops when she hears the lock click, face splits into a grin as the door handle turns, and she tries to peek around the gap, too impatient to wait for it to fully open before she can set eyes on him.
She stills, smile falls from her mouth, swallows hard.
"You must be Private Dawes," the older woman smiles down at Molly, silver hair pinned back with decorative slides, her royal blue cardigan and matching dress mostly concealed by the black apron fastened around her neck and waist.
"Yes, Ma'am," Molly nods, swallows against the nerves of being confronted with Charles' Mother for the first time, whilst she wears her ripped jeans and oversized parka coat. She shoves her cold hands deep into her pockets.
"Thank goodness, I could do with a hand in the kitchen," Mrs James says, turning back inside, leaving Molly on the doorstep, peering in. "Well come in dear, you're letting the heat out." Molly hurries inside, embarrassed at having been told off already, promptly closes the door behind her and follows after the home owner, trainers slopping on her feet, quickly peers into the empty living room and dining room as she goes, is surprised to see the dining table all laid out, with napkins and silver cutlery and candles. She mentally kicks herself for not making more of an effort.
She steps into the kitchen, is immediately assaulted by the most amazing smell of vegetables and meat, gravy and herbs, and something sweet, like rich chocolate or moist cake. Her mouth waters and stomach grumbles as she casts her eyes over platters of trimmed pork and carved lamb, roasted potatoes and honey glazed parsnips. She suddenly feels as if she's intruding.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know -" she begins, wonders when the guests are supposed to be arriving, makes a mental note to never try and surprise Charles with an unexpected visit, again.
"Take your coat off, dear." Mrs James orders as she wipes her hands down the front of her apron, tosses a pair of oven gloves across the island counter at her. Molly hesitates only for a second, and then she's pulling her arms from the sleeves, tosses it over one of the breakfast bar stools, followed by unravelling her scarf from her neck, because she's never one to say no to someone who's asking for her help. "The stuffing needs to come out of the oven, and the yorkshire's need to go in," Mrs James instructs as she moves the platters of already plated food into a large, heated cabinet – a food warmer. Molly nods, slides the gloves onto her hands and pulls open the large, glass oven door, the rush of heat warming her stinging cheeks and numb, red nose. She slides the dish of stuffing balls towards Mrs James, before shoving the muffin tray full of batter in, quickly closes the door to avoid too much heat loss, and is impressed with herself that she can officially say she's cooked something other than pizza or chicken nuggets.
"So, Private Dawes," Mrs James starts once they're both facing each other again, Molly sliding the oven gloves from her warming hands. "Or do you prefer Miss?"
"Molly is fine, Mrs James," she smiles, leaning against the island counter only to have a saucepan of yellow chunks passed to her, along with a masher. She looks down into the pan, the puzzlement clearly on her face as Mrs James, says,
"It's swede, Dear. It needs mashing."
"Right," Molly nods, a little embarrassed, but does as she's told, presses the masher down hard, is careful not to leave any lumps, as if her mashing skills are somehow linked to her personality, as if their disapproval of the job at hand leads to the disapproval of their married son's girlfriend. She inwardly cringes, tells herself to never class herself as that again. "So, is Charlie upstairs?" Because having him here with her would make this situation a helluva lot less awkward.
"No, he's gone to pick up his sister from the station," Mrs James shakes her head as she stirs something on the stove.
"He has a sister?" Molly's eyebrows shoot up, her hand stills, voice an octave higher.
"Yes, Emily. She's three years younger than him, didn't he say?"
"He's never mentioned her," Molly shakes her head, wonders what else he's kept from her, as she returns to mashing.
"What about you, Molly? Do you have any siblings?"
"Three of each," she answers, looking up. "The house is constantly a mess, you can't get a word in edgeways, and you can't hear yourself think most of the time, but I love the little bleeders." She smiles fondly. "I'm the oldest," because she rambles when she's nervous.
"Sounds lovely," Mrs James smiles, eases some of the tension in Molly's shoulders. She jumps as the back door opens, and a short, plump man with white hair steps over the threshold, his cheeks rosey and eyes watering. He walks with a small limp, Molly notes, the door closing behind him. "George, this is Miss Dawes."
"Molly," she corrects, when icy blue eyes find hers. George smiles, pulls a thick, gardening glove from his hand and extended to towards her, shuffling closer so she can reach. She takes his hand, large and rough against her small, moisturised one. "You must be Mr. James."
"Call me George," he insists. "Catherine's been looking forward to meeting you." Molly flicks her eyes to Mrs James, her cheeks pinking and eyes rolling, before grinning back at George.
"It's lovely to finally meet you both," she says, honestly, releasing his hand.
"I'm going to wash up, Cathy. It's bloody nippy out there, those roses might not make it another year."
"Oh, it would be a shame to lose them," Catherine says, face saddened a little at the news, before her eyes catch the time on the clock above the back door. "Oh, look at the time, we're running behind."
George rolls his eyes at his wife, earns a small chuckle from Molly as he shuffles through the kitchen, up the hallway towards the staircase she's only had the chance to climb once.
"Here, place these on the table, would you, Molly?" Catherine asks, taking a dish of broccoli and one of carrots from the warming cabinet and sliding them towards her. "They're hot, you'll need your gloves." Molly nods, slides each oven glove back onto her hand before picking up the ceramic dishes and heading for the dining room.
It's the first time she's stepped foot in here, really appreciated it's beauty. There's a charm about the place, colours rich and festive, large, heavy drapes frame the frosty windows. Red and golds compliment the long, glass table, the silver cutlery and candle holders, red napkins and cheesy Santa costume seat covers on the chairs. There's a subtle hint of cloves and clementines, sweet and spicy, and Molly's sure all they need is a crackling fire for it to look like a scene straight out of a traditional movie. She places the dishes down in the center of the table, returns to the kitchen, only to have more platters and dishes waiting for her. She does the trips a few times, the table slowly filling with delicious foods; meats and vegetables, potatoes and parsnips, roasted chestnuts and cranberry sauce, several jugs of gravy. Molly's stomach grumbles loudly as she returns back to the kitchen for a final time, earns a smile from Mrs. James.
"Are you hungry?"
"Hank Marvin," Molly admits, can't remember the last time she ate a proper meal. Sure, last night her Mum had ordered a dominoes, but she'd barely touched it, too knackered from the flight home, and too excited about her trip to Bath.
"Then it's a good thing there's a place for you at our table."
"Me?" Molly asks, frowning, because she hadn't expected to stay for food, feels guilty enough for intruding as it is. Catherine is about to reply when the front door swings open, bangs against the wall, and a small boy charges down the hallway, face smiling, arms splayed wide as if he's an aeroplane and he's flying. Molly jumps out of the way before he knocks her from her feet, watches as Catherine catches him and scoops him into her arms, grips him tight and leaves pink lipstick marks all over his cheeks as she kisses him.
"I missed you, Grandma," he says into her shoulder, squeezing tight, and it's not until she replies with "I missed you, too, Sam," that Molly clicks, glances back down towards the front door, heart hammering, as she waits for him to come through it.
And then he does.
Molly can't explain the way she feels the second his eyes lock onto hers, wide with surprise at first, before his mouth is splitting into a massive grin. Her heart stammers, struggles to keep up as adrenaline and desire pulse through her veins, her stomach squeezes tight, releasing millions of butterflies, and then she's heading for him, and he's heading for her, both taking to a jog until their bodies collide in the middle of the hallway. She holds into him as everything around them melts away, wraps her arms around his shoulders, fists his shirt in her hands, refuses to let go as he snakes his arms around her waist, lifts her from her feet and twirls, whispers, "Molly" into her neck, sending shivers through her body, warming her down to the bone.
"Ungh, get a room."
Molly comes crashing back to reality, releases her hold and steps back, cheeks warming as she looks at the woman – unmistakably the sister – standing behind Charles, her arms folded, distaste marring her face as her eyes slowly trail from Molly's head all the way to her toes and back again.
"Hi, I'm Molly," she introduces, forces herself to be polite for Charles' sake, offers a hand and a small smile. Counts to three before she drops it, awkwardly, brings it to rest on her hip, thumb hooked through the belt loop of her jeans.
"Oh, I know who you are," Emily almost snarls, hands stay tucked in her arms, nostrils flare slightly.
"Okay," Molly breathes, drags the word out, averts her eyes back up to the man at her side, his hand at the small of her back.
"Em," he says, one eye brow raised, a challenge or reminder, Molly isn't sure, but the warning is clear. Emily rolls her eyes, gives one more look of disapproval before sauntering passed them, disappears into the dining room.
"What's her problem," Molly huffs, turning so her body presses again his, just the way she likes it.
"Ignore her. She's been a bit touchy since I mentioned my divorce," Charles says, looking down at her, hands resting on her hips.
"Yeah, well, she's lucky I didn't nut her one," Molly mutters, moving her hands up over his chest, rests them at his neck, stroking at the nape. Charles smiles at that, or her touch, she can't decide, but it's still the best damn smile she's ever seen, the best damn thing she's seen all day.
"I appreciate your level of restraint, Dawes," he mumbles, for only her to hear, the way her fingers brush against his skin sending him wild with desire. "I wasn't expecting you."
"Well, surprise," she grins, reaches up on tippy toes to press her lips on to his, soft and sweet, their first kiss in just over three months, earns a groan of annoyance when she pulls away. Charles glances over her head, before grabbing hold of Molly's hand and pulling her into the living room, closes the door behind him before he closes the gap between them, cradles her face in his hands, thumb stroking jawline, eyes meeting hers before he leans in and kisses her, deep and slow, like they have all the time in the world to make up for the months she's been away. They break apart, both eager for air, foreheads resting against each other, drinking each other in.
"Miss me?" Molly breathes, and Charles smirks a little, moves back just enough to get a better look at her. And then his mouth is back on her, ravaging her the way he does when he has so much to say, but can't find the words, hopes this is enough to make her understand, to read between the lines. And she does, even after only being together, physically, for the shortest amount of time, knows him inside out and vice versa. She moans in approval as she opens her mouth to deepen the kiss, arches her body into his, hands moving up into his hair, pulls gently as his hands press into her back, bringing her impossibly closer. And then they're breaking apart, he's pulling away, eager to get lost in her but remembers where they are, smiles down at her as she whimpers in protest, tucks a few loose tendrils of brown hair behind her ear.
"Just a little," he shrugs casually, thumb stroking her cheek, staring into eyes dark with arousal.
"Ditto," Molly breathes, her heart still hammering at their kiss, tries to slow her breathing; an impossible mission when he's towering over her, all manly and protective, looking at her with those smouldering eyes.
The living room door swings open, and they jump apart, Molly fidgeting with her hair and Charles, straightening his shirt.
"Dinner's ready," Sam grins at them, too young and niave to even hazard a guess at what his dad and girlfriend were up to two short minutes ago.
"Great, I'm starving," Charles grins, before holding out his hand for Molly to take, leads her into the dining room where the family is tucking in to large platters of food, takes her place next to Charles, feels at home.
"Goodnight," Catherine James pops her head around the living room door frame, offers a smile and a small wave.
"Goodnight Mrs," Molly starts, corrects herself when she gets a scowl. "Cathy." The older lady smiles again, before disappearing, and Molly can hear her climbing the stairs, her slippers scuffing against the carpet runner. She focuses back on the DVD playing on the TV – The Holiday – for all of two seconds before Charles is coming into the living room to join her.
"Mum and Dad have gone to bed, and Em's in the study doing some emails for work," he says quietly, moving over to join Molly, who's stretched across the couch. He lifts her legs to drape over his lap. "And Sam is finally out for the count."
"He's a cute kid," Molly smiles, warmth swelling in her chest at the admiration and pride Charles has for his son.
"He is," Charles nods, playing with the fraying denim around a rip in her jeans at her thigh. "Hey, thanks for coming."
"Any time," Molly shrugs, because she couldn't imagine spending her time with anyone else. "I'm sorry I intruded on the family dinner."
"You didn't," Charles smiles, shakes his head lightly.
"I did," Molly scoffs, "Your Mum had it all set out lovely for Sam. It must have sucked, not seeing him for Christmas."
"I did," he says, his smiles still on his mouth, eyes twinkling as Molly frowns in confusion.
"So why the re-enactment?"
"It was for you," Charles shrugs one shoulder casually, and Molly shifts to sit up better, puzzlement creasing her forehead.
"Me?" Because she just doesn't get it.
"You missed Christmas this year, so I wanted to do this for you. Your mum called a few days again and told me you'd be home, that you were planning on surprising my with your visit, so I thought I'd surprise you back." His smile widens, proud of himself, and Molly's lost for words, isn't sure how to react, because the nicest thing anyone has ever done for her was perhaps buy her a kebab after getting her trollied on a night out. His smile falters for a second, eyebrows twitch, as if the confidence behind his grand gesture has suddenly deflated, left him doubting his way of welcome her home from her latest tour. "I'm sorry I threw all of my family on you, and Emily's hard work but she'll come round eventually, and Mum really does like yo -"
"Shut your cake hole," Molly orders, before shifting so she can straddle his lap, takes his face in her hands and crashes her mouth down on to his, this time it's her turn to tell him everything she can't say. He moves his hands around her back, up under her shirt, as she runs her hands through his hair. They break apart, breathing heavy. "Thanks, Captain." Likes the way his eyes darken when she calls him that, how he tugs her closer, even as she presses her body against his, jeans rubbing against jeans.
"How long are you back for?" Charles asks, closing the gap between their bodies, leaves a trails of wet kisses long her jawline, moves to her neck where teeth graze soft skin.
"Oh, at least until Valentines," Molly purrs, laughs when Charles head moves back to check her face, as if he thinks he's heard her wrong.
"That's a whole month away," he says, and Molly laughs again, rolls her eyes.
"You ain't half a plonker sometimes, you know that?" She leans forward, brushes her lips against his one, two, three times, earns a low growl in response. "A whole month," she nods, heart speeding with arousal as his hands trail up her back, over her ribs. She reaches for the hem of his shirt, drags it over his abs, chest, tortuously slow, before pulling it over his head, tossing it aside and kissing just below his collarbone.
"That's a lot of time to together," he says, his voice husky as she runs her nails up and down his body, lick, sucks and nips at the spot just below his right ear, makes a sound to show she's listening. "A month's worth."
"I know," Molly says, straightening up. "You'll be sick of the sight of me by the time I go back. You'll be begging me to leave."
"I never want to let you go," Charles says, and Molly stills at that, heart stutters, because he has such a way with words, the honesty raw and open, the only way he knows how to be.
"Not even if I -"
"Not ever," Charles cuts her off, because he simply can't imagine a life without Molly Dawes in it. She smiles, kisses him again, sweet and tender.
"Well, good job you're stuck with me, 'en," she whispers and his mouth twitches, before he's shifting their bodies in one swift movement, so she's lead on the couch and he's covering her with his bare chest. She laughs, head thrown back in amusement, the sound filling the large, quiet room. He stares down at her, and she catches the flash of dimples and teeth as she smiles back up at him, the last of his deep, thundering chuckle fading away as she runs her hands up his back.
"Thanks for coming back to me, Molly," he whispers, low enough only for her to hear, the sincerity and vulnerability in his tone enough to knock the air from her chest, as she stares up at him. She smiles, nods once, runs her hands through his dirty blonde hair as he dips down to press his mouth to hers, fingers sliding under the hem of her top to brush against the soft skin of her waist. She shivers, arches her body closer to him, clutches at his shoulders, doesn't want to let go.
"Hey," she murmurs between kisses, nips at his lower lip. "Merry Christmas." He laughs, deep and free, rumbles his chest, and then he's kissing her again, with everything he's got, and she knows they aren't going to make it to the bedroom.
AN: Replaced 'Rory' with 'Sam', because even if I do prefer the name Rory, I don't own him, the BBC does.