This is a (poorly written) response to two different prompts received on Tumblr. Sorry for the delay in getting them to you, I hope it meets your expectations even vaguely!

A knock at Connie's office door startles her and she knows that the knocker will be able to tell this through the window. She specifically asked to be left alone – "Noel, my phone is on Do Not Disturb. I expect my office door to be, too," is exactly what she tells the bemused receptionist – and she can feel herself building up to produce the incredibly powerful Beauchamp wrath as she stares coldly at the door.

"Enter," she calls coolly, icily almost. For all she says about despising the image of an Ice Queen that her colleagues have persistently conjured throughout her career, secretly, she's a fan of the "no cares given" attitude it allows her to have.

She raises an eyebrow as she notices an apologetic looking Charlie walk through the door. "Sorry, Connie, I know you asked not to be disturbed…"

"Indeed," she agrees, setting her pen down. It's hard to be cold with Charlie on the best of days. That doesn't mean that she's going to cave and ask him why he's in her office, interrupting her solid hour of peace and quiet, however.

"The old message of don't shoot the messenger seems relevant here," Charlie says slowly, holding his hands up in a form of surrender after he closes the door. "And I shouldn't technically be telling you this. I was sworn to secrecy. But I felt that you had a right to know. And I know how you feel about surprises."

It takes a great deal of effort for Connie not to grit her teeth. "Could you get to the point, Charlie? I'm really rather busy…"

"I had a phone call from Sam Strachan earlier," Charlie responses.

This time, Connie can't stop herself gritting her teeth before she bursts into cold, hard laughter. "Well, I'm pleased he knows someone's number," she replies bitterly. "I've been waiting for him to reply to my phone call for three and a half weeks." After Charlie doesn't reply for three seconds, she adds, "Well, Charlie? What did he say?"

"Again, don't shoot the messenger," Charlie repeats, taking a step closer to the desk – and therefore the danger zone. "But…he wanted to know if you were working today. And…when he rang…it was an English dial tone. He's in the country, Connie."

Every thought disappears out of Connie's mind as she processes Charlie's words. Sam's in England…which means, unless he's lost his mind completely, Grace is, too.

But why?

Somehow in her desperation to get Charlie out of her office, Connie mumbles, "Er, thank you, Charlie. I…er…I should…do…erm…yeah…"

"Look, Connie," Charlie says calmly, in the annoying way which always does actually calm Connie down perceptibly. "I don't want to pry or get involved in your life beyond what I should as your friend. But…he left, and that was despicable – and I read him the riot act, Connie, I really did. But he sounds sorry. More than sorry, he sounds like he wants a second chance."

Connie laughs again, equally cold and bitter. "He wants a second chance, Charlie?" She repeats, her tone mocking. "He's on at least the fortieth by now." Her tone softens, and she manages to just about lift the corners of her lips in an attempt of a smile at her closest colleague. "Thank you, Charlie. You didn't have to do that for me."

"I did," Charlie replies, indignant in the Charlie Fairhead way. "He treated you despicably, Connie. I'd punch him if I didn't think that it'd land us all in a lot of hot water and red tape upstairs."

This time, Connie's laugh is genuine. "I think if anyone is going to punch him, Charlie, it'll be me," she points out, her tone almost implying an inside joke. "But if I do, I'll make sure I get you a front row ticket."

.x.

Less than an hour after Charlie's unexpected interruption, Connie receives a phone call from Grace.

"Mum!" Grace almost shouts down the phone, her tone exuberant and excited in the way that only Connie Beauchamp's daughter can be. "Mum! Guess where I am?"

"I haven't a clue, sweetheart," Connie says, trying to sound confused in her tone. "The Rockefeller Centre, maybe?"

She can almost hear her daughter's eye roll. "You're a doctor, Mum. You're clever. You know that I'm in England!"

Sometimes, Connie wonders whether her daughter thinks that being a doctor means knowing the answer to everything. Even the song most likely to next be number one on the UK Big Top 40.

"Ah, yes, of course, sweetheart, sorry I didn't hear the dial tone as you called me," Connie replies patiently, leaning backwards in her chair. "Where are you then, Gracie? You're not alone, are you?" She knows her daughter isn't alone, of course, but there's a part of her that just needs confirmation that Sam Strachan is here. That he hasn't raised false hope in her again…

"No, Dad's here too!" It's as if every sentence Grace says has to end in an excited manner; though, if Connie hadn't had the head's up from Charlie, she would have been fairly similar. "We're on our way to Holby. Dad had to go pick up the ugly BMW thing from Grandma and then we stayed for tea, even though Dad had originally agreed to leave straight away so I'm not happy with him, but we're coming to you! Surprise!"

In the background, Connie can make out the low rumble of Sam's voice, but can't quite hear the words. She definitely hears her name, however.

Or does she? Maybe she's so desperate to hear him say it again that she's started imagining it. She's certainly dreamed it, after all.

"Mum?" Grace asks, her tone slightly confused. "Are you still there?"

"Oh, what? Oh yes, sorry, Gracie, I just…I'm very excited to see you," Connie replies, a smile slipping onto her lips. In the near-four weeks since Sam took her daughter away from her, back to America, all she's wanted is to see her daughter. She's just in shock that she's seeing her again so soon. "When will you get here?"

"No idea," Grace replies cheerfully. "Soon, I think."

"Can you ask your dad?" Connie asks.

"Speak to him yourself!"

"No, it's fine," Connie says immediately, before realising that, before they left, she and Sam were trying to appear more amicable towards one another in front of Grace. "I just…I'd rather hear your voice, sweetheart."

"Okay," Grace replies, apparently mollified. "Um, Dad says that we'll be there in about an hour. But it depends on traffic, I think."

"Excellent," Connie declares, standing up suddenly. "I'll see you very soon, sweetheart. I love you."

"Love you too, Mum."

.x.

They arrive, three suitcases in tow, a little less than an hour later. It's a good thing that Connie left within five minutes of Grace's phone call, as traffic in the centre of Holby is dire, and it takes her almost forty minutes to cross the city. It's one of those days that she regrets not running to work.

She just about has enough time to tidy the house – and sling the last two nights' worth of wine bottles in the recycling bins outside – before the doorbell rings, and her heart almost explodes and stops at the same time.

"Mum!" Grace squeals as Connie opens the door, dropping her bags on the floor as she barrels into her mother, knocking her backwards.

Connie's arms wrap around her daughter and she buries her face in her hair, realising after a few seconds that she's crying a little. She tries to memorise everything about her daughter, from her unique scent to the fact that she's grown a little more than an inch in the month since they last saw each other. Buried deep in the back of her mind is the niggling fear that, once again, Sam might rip her away from Holby without a moment's notice.

They stand there for more than a minute until, finally, Grace pulls to disentangle herself from her mother. She keeps one arm wrapped around her, but moves so that, for the first time, Connie notices Sam.

He looks exactly the same as he did before, she realises immediately, though that isn't to be unexpected. Well, not quite, she amends. He looks sheepish, almost, lacking the overconfident bravado which normally accompanies his every move – in front of her, at least.

"Hello, Connie," he says, and as he speaks, the confidence returns.

His eyes are unreadable as they meet and she does everything she can to make sure that she, too, is as closed a book as you could get. She doesn't need him to know that his departure destroyed her (though, she realises suddenly, Charlie's already shared that nugget of information) or that, secretly, part of her is glad to see him. Delighted, in fact.

"Sam," she says coolly, turning away after less than ten seconds' eye contact. "So, Gracie, tell me…why are you here?"

They turn towards the living room, leaving Sam to bring the bags in, a tacit invitation extended to let him enter the Beauchamp household.

.x.

"So, basically, we went back," Grace begins dramatically, causing Connie's heart to lurch once again. She doesn't need a reminder of the absence, just the reason for the return. "And it was okay, like really nice to see my old friends again. But things didn't feel right for me. Or Dad. I wanted to be here…and Dad said yes, we could move back. That it made more sense for me to have you and him."

Connie's lips purse slightly as she questions what ulterior motive Sam Strachan might have for such an apparently selfless act, but she decides to save that for when Grace is absent. And she's had at least a bottle of wine.

"That's brilliant news, sweetheart," she says genuinely, squeezing her arm tightly around her daughter. "Are you going to re-enrol at Holby Grammar?"

"Already done!" Grace says proudly. "I rang them with Dad yesterday, and they said that my space was still vacant so I could come back…I've got loads of homework to catch up as I didn't learn the same things in America, but it's worth it to be with you."

Connie's heart melts. "You've made me very happy, Gracie," she murmurs, leaning over and pressing kiss after kiss into her daughter's hair. As she moves, she realises suddenly that Sam hasn't come into the room; where could he have gone? "Now, shall we get you a drink? And start to think about dinner?"

"Oh yeah, it's dinner time here, isn't it?" Grace exclaims. "It's only, like, lunchtime in America," she explains to her mother, as if Connie hasn't heard of time differences. "It's so weird. But yeah, do you still have my favourite cordial?"

"Of course," Connie confirms, neglecting to mention the fact that she had to buy a replacement bottle, after lobbing the original through the glass doors at the back of her house when she heard of Grace's departure. "Come on, sweetheart, you know the way."

They talk about everything and nothing on the way into the kitchen, though Connie's attention is distracted slightly by the question of where Sam is. She can hear enough noises that she thinks she can confirm that he's still in the house – but where could he be?

Her questions are answered a moment later, as she hears the dulcet sound of his footsteps on her stairs. He's the most heavy footed man to have ever gone up them, she thinks – and that includes Jacob.

"All your stuff is in your room, Gracie," Sam calls through the open door into the kitchen. "And the rest of the stuff should be here by next Wednesday. I'll keep you updated on the shipping dates."

"Thanks, Dad!" Grace exclaims. "We're just getting drinks, do you want one?"

Instinctively, Connie immediately turns towards the door where, once again, she makes eye contact with Sam Strachan. She knows the answer she thinks he'll give – no, he has to go and find wherever the hell it is he's staying this evening – but she also knows the answer she wants him to give. That he'll stay, and he'll stay for dinner too, because she wants him to stay beyond Grace's bedtime so that she can tear into him.

(And so she can work out how to suppress any form of positive feeling she has towards him, at least for the moment.)

Their eyes meet and, this time, she can read him. Not fully, but he's let his guard down slightly, and she can tell that he wants to stay. That he wants to stay and be part of this new family, whatever it might be. That he wants to, but he doesn't expect her to let him because he destroyed whatever right he had to call the shots around here.

"It's up to your mum, Gracie," Sam says finally, causing a beat of irritation to pulse through Connie. Of course he'd put the decision on her. Of course. "She's had a long day at work. Might not want me hanging round."

Grace turns to face her expectantly, and Connie has to disguise the hard expression she had originally directed towards Sam.

With her eyes still locked into his, Connie replies. "Of course he can stay, Gracie. I wouldn't want to separate the two of you."

As Grace disappears into the living room, Connie begins relatively loudly, so her daughter can hear her, "would you like coffee, tea," before she lowers her voice, and sharpens her tone, "with maybe a dashing of being stabbed in the back?"

.x.

They eat dinner together, too, and Sam shows no sign of being prepared to make a move, which becomes even less likely to happen when Grace asks if he can stay in one of the spare rooms. Connie has a sneaking feeling that he's asked Grace to ask this when her daughter initially poses the question, but one sneaking glance at Sam's face indicates that it's as far out left field for him as it is for her.

Grace talks through most of the television show that Connie selects at random, which is good because she doesn't actually have the energy to focus on anything. All she can feel is the pulsating realisation that Sam Strachan – Sam Strachan – is sitting in her living room. It's even more normal for her to have Grace tucked into her side because, theoretically, the last month could have just been a dream.

In comparison, she can't remember the last time that she sat in a room relaxing with Sam Strachan, without any cross words or snide comments being shared. Certainly before the cupboard incident, perhaps even before he left for America the very first time. She can feel his presence – and, no matter how hard she tries to ignore it, she can feel the stubborn mixture of emotions his presence elicits within her.

At ten pm, however, Grace declares that she is 'tired' – which Connie knows is a lie, given the emphasis her daughter had placed upon the time difference earlier – and sends herself off to bed. Leaving, for the first time, Connie and Sam alone together.

Connie deliberately sits in silence, sipping her glass of wine slowly, waiting for Sam to make the first move. He's instigated this whole mess, she reasons with herself, he can fix it.

Or try, anyway.

"Connie," Sam says slowly, his voice barely louder than the television in the background. "Connie. Please, look at me."

With a great sigh, Connie turns her head towards Sam, as emotionless an expression as possible upon her face.

"Look…this is a whole mess, and I'm not really sure what to say," Sam begins.

This poor, poor effort at God knows what causes a reaction in Connie – a reaction she can't keep to herself.

"A mess of your creation," she snipes.

He laughs a little. "I deserve that," he admits, a little self-evidently. "And I'm going to do whatever it takes to make it up to you. I promise, Connie. I'm sorry for leaving."

"Sam," she says slowly, her tongue forming the word strangely. It feels strange to be on her lips in a sentence other than her comparing him to the devil, or some other Satanic being. It feels like before. "Be honest with me. What are you doing here?"

A beat of silence follows before Sam replies, "I would have thought that that was obvious." His tone is as self-confident as ever, a marked change from the man less than thirty seconds before.

Taking a large gulp of her wine this time, Connie takes a moment to compose herself before she considers her response.

"Clearly our wires have been crossed – or simply cut, given your inability to communicate at the start of the month – because I haven't the faintest idea why you're here, Sam. Grace, I can understand: you've never been very good at commitment long-term. But you? I haven't a clue."

Sam arches an eyebrow, but ignores Connie's incendiary tone – something which, deep down, irritates her. She's been waiting for a face-to-face confrontation for weeks now; she needs there to be a fight, verbally or otherwise, for her to feel like she's on top again. She has to have the power; she needs to take it back, somehow. She needs to. She can't let him win again.

"I'm back because I love you, and I know you feel the same way."

This time, Connie laughs. It's not quite as bitter as she laughed with Charlie earlier, but it's close. "I think you've got your tenses mixed up, Sam. Whatever I felt last month is long gone. And you're as incapable of love as anyone could be."

"Look, Connie," Sam begins again, leaning forwards in his seat, his expression earnest. She can tell that he means what he says, and that's what makes it even harder to hear. "It's on me, I get that, I hold my hands up completely to this shit. I'm sorry that I've done this to you – promising you a family, then taking it from you. I hate myself for that, truly I do. I just…I'm a commitment-phobe, you know that, you've said it yourself dozens of times. And I needed to just run, to get my head straight. To realise that I couldn't bear to stay away a minute longer."

Interrupting him, Connie stands up, drawing herself to her full height as she speaks slowly and clearly. "And that's the difference between us, once again, Sam. Where you need to run, I need to know exactly what I'm getting myself into. And…and I can't, in good faith, even think about the possibility of us…because I don't legitimately think that we stand a chance."

"We do," Sam protests, but she ignores him.

"We don't," she repeats, ignoring the growing part of her that's clamouring for the contrary. "Because I can't trust that you won't break my heart again. And I don't honestly think that I could deal with that for the third time."

.x.

He stays in the Beauchamp household for another week before he decides that it's probably best to get a separate flat just around the corner. Whilst he's never been more clear in his feelings for Connie Beauchamp, he knows he fucked up. Massively. And it'll take time for her to get over that – and she won't get that time if he's there every second of the day.

She knows that he's back in Holby City Hospital, too. Not in the Emergency Department – he's made far too many enemies to even consider setting a foot in there in the foreseeable future – but in Cardiothoracics. Under Jac Naylor, which she's loving, but a Consultant position. It's everything he ever wanted: this hospital, without Connie Beauchamp stifling his creativity (or, rather, ensuring that he doesn't fuck up). He just hopes that she can see it the same way.

They don't meet in the hospital and, on the one occasion in the first three weeks after his return, that he sees her in the canteen, they don't speak. Or even acknowledge each other – something initiated by Connie. He was all ready to greet her, to try and buy her a coffee, to try and get her to see him as something other than the enemy.

But he recognises that he should do things her way for once. If she decides she loves him back – and can ignore his many transgressions of late – all he needs to do is be there for her.

.x.

After six weeks, Connie decides to do something she's never done before.

She gets advice on her love life from a colleague.

"Doctor Gardner," Connie calls coolly – in her attempt at being neutral – from her office. "Have you got a minute?"

Elle turns, her expression confused. "I…I mean, there's always a patient to see?"

"Aren't you in resus?"

"Yes, but there aren't any eligible patients yet," Elle explains, and Connie can tell that she thinks that the Clinical Lead is probably trying to punish her. For once, Elle's completely wrong.

"Excellent," Connie replies, a small smile slipping onto her lips. "Can you pop into my office?"

She doesn't wait for a response, simply moves back and sits down behind her desk.

Elle enters and closes the door, taking a seat tentatively. "Is there something you'd like to say?" Elle asks, her tone flat. Once again, it's clear that she's expecting a telling off or something else Connie Beauchamp-esque.

"I don't normally do this, and if you'd rather not participate I'd be completely amiable to never acknowledging this conversation occurred," Connie begins, speaking faster than normal due to nerves. "And, either way, this conversation never happened."

"What is it?" Elle asks.

"I need your advice," Connie admits. "It's…about…well…something…something personal."

Elle's interest is piqued visibly, and she shuffles to be sat closer to the desk. "Go on…"

"I shouldn't even be, I mean…"

"Connie," Elle says, her tone firm. "Is this about Sam Strachan?"

Connie blushes. "I…How did you…?"

"You know, you're remarkably easy to read," Elle explains. "Well, you're not, of course. That's what makes you so powerful. But, when you know what to look for, the signs are all there. Sam's back because Grace is back, and that means that you're back in that awful, awful limbo. The limbo where you're between how you were before he left – and before you even deny anything happened, you were nice, and Connie, fun fact, you're not normally nice – and the soul-destroyed, angry version you were after he left. And now you're trying to reconcile the two parts of you, because you know that you want to forgive him and move on, but you also know that you can't trust him. Because he's left once – what if he does it again, but this time, you're even more committed than you were before?" Elle doesn't pause for breath until she finishes her extremely accurate psycho-analysis of Connie.

Sitting there stunned, Connie feels her mouth drop open. "I…how…I mean, how?"

Elle grins. "I've had a lot of practice with my friends," she explains. "And, I mean, Connie, you're easy to read. If you know what you're looking for," she adds hastily.

"So…what would you do?" Connie asks.

"No idea," Elle replies cheerfully. "My ex was a cheating bastard who thought that it was okay to take out his frustrations on my face. Sam's not that, as far as I'm aware. So I'd be tempted to say…if you think it'll make you happy, go for it. After all, what's the worst that could happen?"

"I could break my heart again," Connie points out, in the rarest of all moments of vulnerability.

"Nah you won't," Elle replies, matter-of-fact. "And even if you do, you'll bounce back stronger than ever, Connie. I swear, every time someone tries and knocks you down, you come back ten times stronger."

"It doesn't feel that way," Connie admits. "But…thank you, Elle. And, just to be clear…"

"This conversation didn't happen, yada, yada, yada," Elle finishes, waving her hand around as she grins. "Yeah, I got that, Connie. Let me know how it goes though, yeah?"

"Maybe," Connie concedes.

"And if anyone asks, I've been in here getting told off for my failure to restock the cubicle trolley yesterday," Elle suggests, standing up to move towards the door. "And because I've just been so helpful, you're not even going to mention that minor transgression."

Smiling despite herself, Connie shakes her head, and watches as Elle Gardner leaves her office, her attention focused on the suggestion her co-worker – or vague friend – gave her.

.x.

That evening, Grace heads to a sleepover, though Sam comes over to pick her up to take her.

Before Grace comes downstairs, Connie decides to take an action she might later come to regret. Wrapping her cardigan around her tightly, she steps outside into the windy night and approaches Sam's car. She can see the confused expression on his face as he lowers the passenger-side window.

"Evening," he says, carefully keeping his tone neutral. "Good day in the ED?"

"As good as can be expected with an NHS crisis," she admits, appreciating the small talk. "Look…Sam…do you have plans after you drop Grace off?"

"Plans beyond cooking a meal for one and watching whatever shite is on television?" Sam says, a small smile on his lips. "None at all, Connie."

"Then…would…would you like to come over? For dinner, I mean?" Connie asks, blushing profusely. She hopes that the onset of darkness might, hopefully, disguise her discomfort – though that's unlikely. "I've got wine," she adds.

"I'd like nothing more," Sam says, his tone genuine. "See you soon, Connie."

.x.

It's awkward for the first ten minutes, until they've both had a glass of wine and agreed that the lasagne she's got in the oven smells delicious and will likely taste amazing, too.

Then she tells him that she's willing to give him a chance – a chance, she stresses, to make sure that it gets through his near-impervious skull – and he loses his mind. He tells her why she won't regret it a dozen times. He tells her he loves her and then he tells her everything that he'll do for her now that they're on the way to being something – because, as he reiterates at least six times, they're not anything until she decides that they are, and even then she has to really be sure that she wants it and he won't push her into anything,

"Sam," Connie says, a smile on her lips as she realises that his name has come to be connotated with positive, rather than negative, things. "For once in your life, shut up."

He smirks, and in it Connie sees a little of the man she originally fell in love with. "Certainly," he agrees. "If only I can shut up with…"

Before he can finish his sentence, she's leaned forwards and pressed her lips to his gently, the complete opposite of their first kiss this year. It's filled with everything she wants to say, and yet probably won't for weeks and months to come, and she knows that he can feel it.

His hand entangles itself in her hair, pulling her closer, and she feels at home.

.x.

"Morning," Sam says, almost croons, as he walks into Connie's kitchen to find her pouring herself a cup of coffee. "Is that my shirt?" He asks, though he already knows the answer, as he plucks at the oversized garment covering Connie's upper body.

She looks up at him, a sarcastic comment coming to her lips before she smothers it. They're not quite ready for the return of their old, almost sadistic sense of battle. Just as it probably wasn't the best idea to sleep with him on the day that she told him that she'd give him a chance – but she's made that mistake, so now she better deal with the consequences.

"You know it is," she says as a response. "Coffee?"

"Please," he responds, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Sam," she says gently, almost chiding him. "Remember what I said last night."

"Which bit?" he asks, feigning ignorance. "The bit where you asked me to go faster, or when you begged me to never leave?"

An almost knowing smile slips onto her lips. "I don't quite think I said it like that."

"True," Sam concedes, pressing a kiss to her neck. "And I know what you mean. We're still on the chance of us being anything in the future. So I won't push you. I won't even ask if I can stay for breakfast."

"Good," Connie replies, resisting the urge to lean into his touch. "Because you weren't getting any, anyway."

"But I am going to ask if you'd like to go for dinner tomorrow night."

She doesn't have to hesitate before she replies, "I'd love to give you your first chance tomorrow, Sam."

He scoffs. "First chance? I think, after last night, it's at least chance number three."

"One point five," Connie counters, taking a sip of her coffee.

"I'm hurt," Sam declares, removing his hands from her waist to place one in horror over his heart.

"Good, sweetheart," Connie replies, turning around and placing one hand gently against his cheek. "Your ego certainly needs to take a battering."

"Then can it potentially take a battering after dinner?" Sam suggests. "Or breakfast. Preferably breakfast the day after dinner."

"Don't push it, Mr Strachan."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Con."

Thanks for reading! Let me know if there are any prompts or scenarios you'd like to see in an upcoming oneshot.