Title: You're Better Than Broadway
Summary: 5 times Dimmock tried to ask Molly out and 1 time he succeeded.
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own, don't sue.
A/N: I am very sorry for the title, I could literally think of nothing and so I just went on my iPod and named it after the first love song I came across...we can just pretend Broadway is relevant to London, morgues and the police, right?
5 times Dimmock tried to ask Molly out, and 1 time he succeeded.
1) The first time he saw her she was wearing high waisted jeans and an old rumpled t-shirt with some superhero slogan sprawled across it, her long hair tied up with a chiffon scarf. She was carrying a box in her arms with a cat box balanced precariously on top, talking calmly to whatever ball of fluff was hissing and clawing out of the bars at the front, but her expression didn't match her tone. She chewed on her lip nervously, eyeing the house in front of her with a frown creasing her brow. She turned a half circle to glance back at the car when a voice called after her.
"When you're done, can you get the suitcase?" And when she nodded her affirmative and accidentally shook the load she was carrying, "Molly, don't drop Pebble!"
Quickly, she tried to righten the cat but then lost grip on the cardboard box, scrabbling to regain hold but not quite managing.
"Here."
She looked up at him, some hair falling free of her scarf and settling round her face, as he took the box from her and smiled. She smiled back tentatively and thanked him.
"I'm just moving in."
"I figured," he gestured to the box and the car full of stuff behind them, nodding his head to her parents, who waved, "I live next door."
She let out a sigh of relief.
"Thank goodness I know someone now."
As she led the way, the only thing that struck him was how all he could think about was her beautiful long hair slipping out of her hair tie and framing her face, and the way he forgot where he was for a second when she forgot her apprehension at moving into a new neighbourhood and smiled at him.
xxx
The next Monday she started at his school. They'd spent the evenings after his school days together the previous week, and the weekend, her because she knew no one else, him because nobody else had ever been more intriguing to him than her. He'd told her about the area and which streets not to walk down and how one day he wanted to be in the police force so he could help people, keep them safe. She told him about her father losing his job so they'd had to move from upper class, leafy suburbia to downtown London and how much she missed the library back home and how she'd go there nearly every day and read. About people, stories, medicine. She wanted to go into medicine. She just wasn't sure what area. Go into pathology or something, he'd joked, it's easier to deal with dead people, they don't moan as much. She'd laughed too but got a thoughtful look in her eyes and he wondered if she'd taken him seriously.
Today, however, humour was far from her mind, her knuckles white from clasping the strap of bag so tightly.
"Oh gosh, what if I didn't feed Dash? No, I don't think I did, I'd better go back." (Dash was her other cat. He'd laughed when she told him to start with, not thinking she was serious. "This is Pebble and this is Dash." "Pebble and Dash? As in Pebbledash?")
"You did. You'll be fine. I'm here," he smiled at her reassuringly and felt his stomach clench when she flashed him a quick smile back.
"Thanks."
As it turned out, they didn't have many classes together but she settled in fine, sitting next to a blonde girl called Shanice in her first lesson and making friends pretty fast. She met Dimmock at break and introduced them, smiling happily.
"Oh, I know you," Shanice commented dryly. "You're one of Chris's mates." She frowned at his confused expression. "He's the prat I used to date."
He shrugged.
"He is a prat. He's proud of it. Don't worry," he said, seeing Molly's face fall at the possibility of them not getting on, "I'm not like him."
Shanice smiled and took his arm.
"Then we're all going to be the best of friends."
xxx
Although he liked Shanice and knew it was irrational, he still felt slightly jealous every time Molly said, "Oh, I'm going shopping Shanice," or, "Oh, Shanice and I had such a good time at that sleepover." As stupid as it was, he didn't want to let go of Molly and her lovely smiles. Sometimes she'd notice him being in a funny mood and one day she turned to him and said, quite pleasantly,
"If you're only friends with me because you feel obliged to, you really needn't be. I'm not that clingy."
He covered his shock that she thought this well.
"Oh no, I really like you." And before he lost his nerve and bottled out, "Will you go out with me?"
She laughed lightly, taking his hand.
"Okay, I believe you're not friends under sufferance with me now, but you really don't have to try and make me feel better. I have you and Shanice now."
Hiding his disappointment he laughed along, hoping one day she'd take him seriously.
2) A few years later they were still the best of friends. Barely a day had gone by without them seeing each other, through good and bad, through triumphs (Dimmock and Shanice always referred to Molly as the "brain box" because of all the A*'s she'd gained at her GCSEs and A Levels), break ups ("I thought he was the one, guys." "Shanice, don't cry!" "Do you want me to hit him?"), happy memories (the grounding they all got for sneaking away to a festival in his car had been worth it) and sad ones ("Poor Dash looks so lost without his Pebble.")
And now, on the last night that ever involved school, the prom, two out of the three stood waiting for Molly at the bottom of her stairs, plus Chester, Shanice's current boyfriend. Dimmock fidgeted nervously, playing with the cuff links on the most expensive piece of clothing he'd ever owned as they waited for Molly to put the finishing touches to her outfit and join them.
"Her dress is gorgeous," Shanice beamed, "and her make-up is fantastic, if I do say so myself."
"She did a pretty good job of yours too," Dimmock said, glancing at her.
"Thanks, I think so," she replied, then turned to Chester, "Don't you?"
"Yeah, babe."
Dimmock looked back up the stairs, waiting again. His stomach fluttered with nerves, had been ever since he'd asked her to the prom and she'd accepted. He'd suggested it, since neither of them had any partners to go with and she'd thought it was a great idea. Just when, encouraged by her response, he'd been about to ask, "Would you go as my date?" then she'd said, "You're such a good friend," and he'd stopped, giving up hope as he remembered how much his pride had hurt last time he'd asked.
But now, as she descended the stairs, smiling shyly at him, his ego was forgotten as he saw her, took her image in. Wearing a long, elegant gown in a midnight blue that brought her features into sharp focus, her hair twisted to one side, falling in sleek waves down over one shoulder, with the palest dusting of silvery blue eye shadow, eyes defined by black kohl, she literally took his breath away for a few seconds. Speechless, he took her hand as she inclined her head slightly.
"How do I look?" When he didn't answer, she looked worried. "Does it look okay?"
Shanice kicked him on the shin with her stiletto and while he winced, he gained back his words and twirled her around gently.
"You look amazing. Beautiful." No one could doubt the sincerity in his voice.
"You don't look bad yourself," she giggled, taking the arm he offered her. "Let's go."
As they walked away, Dimmock bumping accidentally into Shanice so she stumbled and gave a glare-grin, he thought that no scene could be more perfect than the school prom, which they were already going to together, and perhaps, perhaps, those smiles could really be for him. He just had to wait for the perfect opportunity.
xxx
Three hours later, after many drinks, dances and jokes, he thought he'd found the perfect opportunity. He'd left her on the patio overlooking the sports fields, and beyond that the twinkling mass of lights and life that was London. Shanice and Chester had disappeared off to the bathrooms half an hour before, and the only other couple out on the patio was his mate Chris and Chris's date, some girl from another school. He held two drinks in his hands, strictly non-alcoholic fruit juice because he knew she hated being intoxicated and out of control, and he was rehearsing what he was going to say in his head. We've been friends for such a long time, you're one of the most wonderful people I've ever met, and I couldn't think of a better time or place to ask this. Molly, I think you're amazing. You're beautiful, kind and smart. I know I'm not exactly the most perfect person but...for fear of sounding like a kid on the play ground, would you go out with me?
Cringing a bit but figuring it was the best he was going to come up with (words weren't his forte), he pushed through the glass doors and walked onto the patio. Where he saw Molly, silhouetted against the backdrop of the city, her arms entwined around his neck, kissing Chris.
He put the drinks down on the table next to his and turned around, the words emptying from his head. He didn't bother returning her call that night, or the next day. By the time he decided he'd text her, he knew she'd already left for university, to go on a course he'd never have been accepted on, and didn't see her again.
3) Not until over a decade later.
Detective Dimmock was not in a good mood. His divorce (which had been longer than the actual marriage) had just come through and on claims he was certain should not be legal, his ex-wife had taken everything from their joint account and had got the house, which meant that now, on the vast amounts of money he had lying around, he had to find a new flat, somehow store his stuff somewhere where it wouldn't get bloody wet, and pay off the hotel bill he'd built up since she'd decided she couldn't possibly live with him for a moment more. She can deal with the mortgage from now on, at least, he thought savagely, face bitter.
As if that wasn't enough, his work had never been more demanding and with a case that looked remarkably like a serial killer was roaming around, leaving very personal messages for the police in something that certainly wasn't red paint, he couldn't honestly remember a time when he didn't feel an exasperating mix of tiredness, despair and helplessness. And now, as if his day couldn't possibly hit a lower rock bottom, a report from the hospital morgue hadn't come through and damnit if he was going to let this one slide.
Leaving his untouched coffee on his desk, he stood quickly and grabbed his coat.
"I'll get the damn report myself," he muttered, striding out of the office purposefully. He'd never been to the morgue before, they usually got their reports to him on time, in fact, he didn't often read them, just had the contents relayed to him by a colleague. Right now though, none of that mattered to him. Seething anger that had been building up for months was coming bubbling to the surface and God help the poor person working on the morgue, because he was ready to release a torrent of it on the next person he talked to.
When he finally got there, slamming the door open, not really caring if he came across as rude, ungrateful or nasty, he stalked forwards, catching sight of a woman standing with her back to him on the other side of the room.
"Look, I'm sorry but you still haven't sent this report across. No, actually I'm not sorry, it's essential for an important police investigation and I'll be damned if I'm going to let some lazy morgue attendant waste our time-"
He broke off, eyes widening as he halted instantly, as if he'd run into a brick wall. Realisation at who it was filled him, after the initial shock instinct at seeing her face wore off, and his realisation was confirmed when he saw the recognition in her eyes.
"Oh gosh, it's you!" She burst out, a smile blossoming on her face and he cursed himself internally for it having the same effect it had all those years ago.
"Molly," he murmured once he'd got hold of his voice.
She ran forwards, enveloping him in a hug as she buried her head in the crook of his neck. He got the scent of her, disinfectant, soft soap and that peachy nectarine smell she'd always had, and found it very hard to let her go again. When he did she beamed at him.
"So you're in the police now? I always knew you'd make it," she said, before pulling him in for another hug. He inhaled sharply, closing his eyes.
"Yeah, I made it. You can call me Detective if you want," he paused, "though please don't, it's annoying when people refer to me by my title rather than my name."
"Certainly, Detective," she grinned happily, nudging him with her elbow. "You can still call me Molly Hooper, 'cause it's the only thing you should ever call me."
"Well then, Molly Hooper," he smiled back, the stunned feeling wearing off, "you did get into medicine."
"Yes," she grabbed his hand and lead him to the workbench she'd been working at, "someone wise once told me I should work with dead people, they're easier to deal with and don't moan as much."
He flushed a little at the memory, pleased she'd remembered when he'd spent so long being sure she'd forgotten about him.
"Wow, this looks..."
"Busy?"
"Yes, and confusing."
"Well, here's that report you so politely asked for," she raised her eyebrows, handing it to him. He blushed a deeper shade of red at the mention of the words he'd been yelling at her the minute before.
"Sorry about that."
"Bad day?"
"Like you wouldn't believe."
"Want to talk about it?"
He looked at her thoughtfully. Her eyes were the same as they'd always been, perhaps a little wearier than before, her face just as pretty. Her beautiful hair was still long, tied back like how it had been when he'd first seen her, though this time in an actual hair tie, and her smile...her smile still did the exact same things to his breathing and his heart rate. He contemplated this for a moment. Christ, I should not do this. His voice replied regardless.
"It's been a long time, Molly Hooper."
"It has," she agreed.
He took a breath.
"So, you want to get a coffee or something, sometime?"
She smiled wider, and for a second he felt so relieved.
"To catch up? I'd love to. Here," she bent down over the desk and, finding a spare post-it note, scrawled a number down on it, then straightened up, "have my number. Call me when you want that coffee. I'm just a bit busy right now."
She handed him the note, smiling apologetically, and motioning to the work all over the desk behind her. He took it, forcing a smile back.
"That's fine. And I, uh, will." He fluttered the note.
"Good," she said, "it was great to see you."
She gave him another quick hug, before turning back to her work, bending over some paperwork she'd been doing when he'd come in.
"Bye," he said, as he walked away, pocketing the note, hiding his disappointment. It's probably for the best anyway, what's the use in being involved with some girl when you've just got divorced? He ignored the other part of him that reminded him that this wasn't just some girl, but his very own Molly Hooper.
4) Over the next few months, Dimmock's life got slowly but steadily better. With his ex-wife completely cutting off contact, one stress was out of his life. Molly, who he'd had that catch up with after all, knew a person who was selling their flat and when they realised Molly's friend wanted to buy it, they even knocked a couple of thousand off the price, which he was eternally grateful for because it meant he could actually buy food. The case had been cleared up (that report turned out to have the vital clue he needed in) and Shanice, who he still talked to and lived up in Liverpool, came for her semi-annual visit, a little early since she head he'd found Molly. Good times had been had by them all as they reminisced, knocking back a few drinks as they sat around in Dimmock's new flat, still filled with unpacked boxes and cellophane , Molly still not a great drinker but Shanice more than making up.
And now it was just like the old days, except Shanice had left, gone back to her family. He spent half of his free time (of which there was precious little but still) at her flat, and when he wasn't at hers, she was round his. She helped him unpack and decorate, even helping him choose the colour paint for his rooms and getting into dirty overalls one Sunday off to paint all the walls with him. They'd both needed a shower after she'd waged a paint war on him by accidentally flicking a brush at him.
Just like the old days, whether in overalls or her lab coat or the smart dress she wore when he took her to the theatre to see her favourite musical, every time he saw her he felt a little ache inside, a pang at the reminder of what he wanted but couldn't have.
One day, sick of feeling like he was constantly walking some sort of emotional tightrope, he decided to do something about it once and for all. He'd tried moving on (look where that got him, a near psychotic ex and three years of his life wasted), he'd tried just asking, and abandoning all hope, thought had felt tempting many times over the years, was not his style. So, back to the just asking, then.
He thought it over as he twirled a pen through his fingers, the words on his work before him blurring in front of his distracted eyes. He'd dropped her off at work that morning and here he sat, like a lovesick teenager, musing over how best to ask her out properly since actually speaking the words hadn't worked so far.
As he chewed on the end of his pen an idea struck him. If I can't say it...can I write it? He bit down on the pen a bit harder. What shall I write? Should I tell her how I've always felt? He frowned. No, that'd scare her off. Should I act all casual? He sighed deeply, remembering how asking casually had definitely not worked last time. Be ambiguous. No, that's very stupid. Just be yourself? At this he almost laughed out loud. Where's that ever got me? I'll just write what I mean and won't put my name down. Then if she really knows me, she'll know it is me.
Removing the pen from his mouth he took a piece of paper out of the notepad on his desk and started to write.
xxx
"Chinese?"
"Only for the fortune cookies."
"Typical."
Dimmock smiled as he reclined back into the settee in Molly's apartment, hands resting on his stomach that was fluttering with nerves. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her, sashaying around in the kitchen as she made them tea, neck bent as she cradled the phone to her ear, making the order. He smiled slightly as she hummed a yes and a no before putting the phone down, stirring the tea and bringing it into the living room.
"Here you go." She handed it to him smiling.
"Thanks." He took it from her, and, watching the lightness in her step and the excitement in her eyes, he waved to indicate for her to join him sitting down, and laughed.
"So, what's made you so buzzing today?"
She looked at him, barely able to contain a grin and very nearly told him, before deciding to leave him in suspense for a moment longer and raised her mug to her lips to take a long draft of the hot liquid. He shook his head and rolled his eyes playfully at her childishness, but after ten seconds of not putting down her drink he leant forwards and gently took the mug from her hands.
"You'll choke yourself, idiot."
She smiled and swayed slightly where she sat, still humming with her hidden exhilaration.
"What is it?" He asked, though he had a fair idea. He closed his eyes briefly, remembering the rose he'd left, and the note he'd spent such care over, lying on her desk. She flicked him lightly with her finger tips, then couldn't keep it in any longer and proceeded to tell him.
"Someone sent me a note today. A really nice one. Really sweet."
He glanced at her face, shining with happiness.
"Really sweet, hmm?"
"I know," she rushed out, "me? That's what I thought! But then, it can't have been for anyone else, it had my name on, so yeah. It was so amazingly lovely, I mean...me."
"Do you know who it's from?" Here he hardly dared to look at her, but forced himself to not look away.
"I wish I had a fair idea."
He flinched in surprise.
"You don't know?"
"Well," she took a deep breath, looking like she was about to burst with joy, "I hope, hope, hope it's from this one guy."
"Who?" He wasn't ready to let his hopes plummet just yet.
"There's this one man...he comes in every now and then. He's a genius, and I like him so much, and I know he knows that. He's called Sherlock."
And with that, he had to accept defeat and he visibly deflated. Molly didn't seem to notice and she bounced on, laughing and vibrant. He didn't have the heart to correct her.
5) "You have got to be kidding," he muttered, gripping the sides of the sink hard until the veins on his hands stood out and his knuckles turned a light white shade of purple and blue. "This is the great Sherlock Holmes who she's in love with."
He jerked his head violently from side to side, grimacing slightly at the reverberating pain. Taking a deep breath he brought his gaze up to look in the dirty mirror of the police station bathroom, almost wincing at the disbelief and hurt he saw in himself. He closed his eyes for a second, shutting out the anger and trying not to concentrate on the irritation he felt at having to spend the last hour being told how oblivious he was and how dull it must be to be inside his head and please keep up, it's tedious waiting for you to understand. Dimmock inhaled, relaxing his grip marginally, and felt the annoyance ebb, just a bit. As he turned back away from the mirror he caught his elbow on the side of the basin accidentally, jolting, and felt something drop out of his pocket and roll away, under the nearest cubicle door.
"Damn, ticket money." He went to get it, pushing open the empty cubicle door open and leaning down to pick up the coins.
Just at that moment, he heard the main door to the bathrooms open and quickly, in fear of looking a bit odd bending over a toilet, scrabbling around on the floor, closed the cubicle door and slid the lock shut.
He heard murmuring on the other side of the door, and confused, he leant in a bit closer and strained to hear what was being said. He was certain only one person had entered the men's, but it honestly sounded a bit like a proposal was being breached. It was only after a few seconds that he realised that he'd been right initially and there was only one person who'd come in, and they were just practising a sort of speech. It only took him a few more to register that this was the man he'd only a minute earlier been privately hating on in his head.
"I know I said I was married to my work but the thing is…no, I feel that…despite you being you and, well, me being me…"
Seriously, he thought, seriously? This wanker?
"No, that's not right. Listen, I have to…no, too aggressive….please let me say…no, too weak. Damn, how do these ordinary people do this?"
Dimmock furrowed his brow as he tried to make sense of what he was hearing. Was Sherlock trying to teach himself how to ask someone out? For a brief second he felt a wave of jealousy but this was quickly extinguished at the next utterance he heard.
"It's like you're the better side of me, John…no, you are the better side of me…"
John? Then he let out a sigh of realisation and relief. The man helping him. Or putting up with him. Or both. Dimmock let himself smile, just a bit, for reasons he couldn't exactly rationalise as totally unselfish. If this Sherlock guy likes his friend, maybe Molly's realised that by now. She always was quite astute. And although he felt bad for finding solace in this when her feelings could be very much the opposite, he couldn't help hoping that if she knew Sherlock didn't return them that she might just accept him. Foolish hope sprung to his mind but he ignored it, brushed it away, because hope was hope.
Checking to flush the toilet so he wouldn't seem suspicious (or just plain dirty, though he wasn't entirely sure what was worse in the men's loos), he unlocked the door and came out, walking to the sinks so he was next to Sherlock, who gave him a flicker of a glance, his face impassive, and proceeded to wash his hands for the same reason he flushed the toilet. Sherlock was silent and though he must have known Dimmock had heard everything he didn't say a word. Before he turned to leave, he leant into Sherlock slightly and said;
"Practising doesn't help, believe me. Just open with a basis of what you feel and continue from there. Improv comes out adorably to people."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly and Dimmock laughed.
"Not that I'd know but hey."
With that he turned around and strolled out the bathroom, leaving with only a cursory glance back at Sherlock, frowning as he took in the advice.
xxx
"Molly."
"Oh hi, how was your day?"
"It was good, thanks, can I ask you something?"
"Sure, but aren't you going to ask me about mine? Well, I'll tell you, dear Shanice phoned earlier, my work, sure, I mean, how she got that number I don't know, but anyway, she said she'd like to visit again, and maybe she could bring her kids? I know her and Tom are going through a rough patch at the moment and he told her they needed a break, so I was thinking maybe I could let them loose in my flat, so they'd all be together and I could come stay at yours, because believe me, there'd be no space. Four children, you know, I could never contemplate four, and I don't think I'd be up to it. So anyway…"
He sighed but let her carry on, rambling happily as she finished up her work, shrugging off her work coat and putting on her ordinary jacket. Jangling her keys at him, she gave him a questioning look.
"Is that okay?"
"What?"
"I really wonder if you ever listen," she said, shaking her head and taking his arm to leave. "Is it alright if I can come stay at yours for a while?"
"Yes, of course, but-"
"You wanted to ask me a question?"
"Yes."
He turned decisively towards her, his mind made up. Just bite the bullet. No fancy words, no casual requests, no childish misunderstanding, just say it. Looking her straight in the eye, taking a breath and facing her, he took the advice he'd given Sherlock and did just that.
"Molly, I really like you. I always have. There's no simpler way to say it. I do. I really, really like you."
He closed his eyes, just to block the emotion that was about to come, whether it was happiness, awkwardness or disappointment, for a second. Opening them again instantly told him this was a big mistake. If only he'd kept his gaze fixed on her face, her reaction, he would have been able to foresee how to get away from it better; he could've closed off some of his own reaction. Instead, being launched right into her expression, he had no way of stopping his immediate feelings show, the humiliation and embarrassment.
All he saw when he looked into her eyes was pity. Pity.
And he couldn't bear it. The last time, he vowed, and forcing a smile, he took her arm again and turned to leave.
"Are you okay?" She asked, concern edging into her voice.
"Yes," he lied.
"This isn't going to be awkward?"
"Of course not."
He tried to believe it.
6) The plastic straps on the bag he was carrying were digging into his fingers, burrowing dents into his skin painfully, but he didn't really care. He was more concerned about the fact he'd neglected to wear a coat and the sky looked ominously dark, brewing something new. Fortunately the place he was heading was only around the corner and with a bit of luck, he'd get there before the heavens opened.
When he did, he set the bag down for a second, rubbing the biting grooves in his palm, and knocked on the door. When no answer came he tried the bell and when that got no response, he bent down to wedge the letterbox open with his hand and yell through it.
"I know you're in there. Let me in, it's going to rain."
Silence bounced back at him and he set his jaw, taking a breath in determinedly.
"Listen, you need to have some fun. And if not that at least talk to someone who isn't past their expiry date. I'm going to stay here all night if I have to. You know I will."
He heard a sigh on the other side of the door, and a shuffle.
"I swear, I'm not leaving."
Feeling rather than hearing her come to the door, he stood upright and picked up the bag, and gave her a smile when the latch clicked and she opened it. She gazed at him, blankly, all weary and unconvinced. She'd tied her hair back, much like she used to, but this was in a more I-can't-be-bothered-anymore way, and she was still dressed as she had been for work. It was like any energy she'd ever had had been taken, stolen, and every day was just a routine for her to do, there was nothing to live for. It half broke his heart to see her so, and he pushed all his hurt pride roughly behind him, because this was more important. She was.
"I've got Thai curry. Your favourite," he said, holding up the straining bag. She nodded and stepped back to let him in.
He strode in, whistling over the dreary music playing in the background which he promptly turned off when he reached the radio. Fiddling with the switches, he managed to tune into a different station playing one of their old favourites. He twisted back to face her, standing in the doorway watching him expressionlessly.
"Come on, remember this?"
She nodded again, almost imperceptibly and he took that as his cue to dump the bag on the table and rush forward, taking her hand and spinning her round quickly.
"I'm your friend, I have been for over half our lives, and so help me God, I am going to make you happy again."
She looked up at him, his face serious, and although she didn't smile, a sort of desperation filled the blankness in her eyes, a desperation for him to actually make it better. He pulled her closer and embraced her, holding her stiff shoulders until she relaxed and the tension eased ever so slightly.
"Talk to me," he ordered gently, "talk to me, Molly."
He felt her beneath his hands, shaking, and leant away slowly, cupping her face in his hands. Those eyes, those quietly despairing eyes, cried tears that snaked down her cheeks, letting the past few months of confusion, hurt and hate come tumbling out.
"Why do I always choose the wrong ones?" Her eyes closed, he brushed his thumbs against her cheekbones, comforting her, encouraging her to continue. "The ones who couldn't care less, the ones who use me, the…inhumane liars."
His body tautened instinctively as he felt an overwhelming feeling of protectiveness…and anger, not only at the people who'd hurt her but at himself for failing and not protecting her.
"Why can't I have someone wonderful, nice, caring? Like you."
"Hey," he smiled, "you'll find someone. And even if it's not right now, you know I'm always here."
"You always have been."
"And you need to be more sociable again. Here," he said, suddenly remembering their outings they used to go on, "come out with me tomorrow; I'll treat you to something really nice."
She looked at him, an unfathomable expression on her face and he dropped his hands, confused.
"It's you."
"I'm sorry?" He frowned.
"Being with you…"
It hit him what she meant and he shook his head hurriedly, not wanting a replay of last time something like this had happened.
"Wait, no, I wasn't asking you out. I know we're just friends."
But it didn't appear like she was listening, instead shaking her own head and mumbling something. He leant closer to catch her words.
"I've been so stupid and now it's too late. It's always you, it always has been you."
"I'm sorry?" He repeated, not comprehending, or rather not daring to.
Her voice had unexpectedly got a strong quality, her whole countenance bolder.
"I wished I hadn't pushed you away, now it's too late and the only decent man in my life has moved on."
He didn't miss that wistful tone, that underlying question and plea, have you moved on? He recognised it, and there, in her flat lined with memories, with the girl, the woman, he'd never gotten over, never moved on from, all he wanted to do was take her hand and take that plea away.
And he did, took her hand and asked,
"Molly?"
"Yes?"
"Would you like to go out with me tomorrow?"
She touched their hands entwined hands with the fingers of her other hand gently, leant forwards and whispered in his ear.
"So long as it's a date."