AN: All rights belong to BBC.

Just a one-shot that popped into my head.

Please read and review.

Unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own.

Destiny Lies

Charles James wakes when he feels her side of the bed shift, when he reaches across to pull her into his arms to find she isn't there. It takes a moment - a few long seconds – for his eyes to adjust to the dark bedroom, the morning sun still too low in the sky for it's warming rays to penetrate through the thick, heavy drapes his Mother had insisted she hang three long years ago. A quick glance at the glowing clock tells him it's a little after 4am – only three hours after she'd crawled into bed next to him.

"Dawes?" He speaks quietly, a little above a hushed whisper, even if they're the only two in the room, in the large, old house – his parents had vacated the property a week ago to take a long needed break in Aspen, and James doesn't doubt for a second that they'd planned the last minute trip so he could have some alone time with his tortured girlfriend. He reaches out, pats against the mattress, seeking a hand, or arm, or anything.

"Shh, go back to sleep," she returns equally as quiet, her back to him as she perches on the edge of the bed, pulling one of his large t-shirts over her head, drowning her small frame in green cotton. He shakes his head, even if she can't see it, because he can't now, not when she's awake, leaving his side. He moves onto his side, props himself up on an elbow as she leans forward, almost out of sight, tying the trainers she's recently taken to keeping next to the night stand. He feels his brow slip into a frown, concern etched in each crease, is glad she isn't looking at him to see it.

"Are you okay?" he asks, knows the answer he's going to get, because it's the same answers she's been giving him for days now, since they'd arrived back in Bath.

"I'm fine," she says, exactly as he'd expected, as she stands up, snatches the iphone from the bedside table and plugging in a set of earphones. "I'm going for a run."

"Want me to come?" He's already pushing the bed sheets back, ready to swing his legs out from under them, when she turns to face him, shaking her head, expression blank.

"No, go back off. I didn't mean to wake you."

"The PT will be good for my leg."

"I wont be long," she says, inserting the earphones into her ears and jacking the music up as loud as it'll go, drowning the world out.

"I'll do some breakfast -" Charles begins, but she's already taken off, disappeared behind the closing bedroom door and heading down the grand staircase, and he's not even sure if she heard him.

She trudges through the front door two hours later, just as the sky begins to transition into a light, summer blue, cheeks flushed, panting heavy, water bottle empty. Charles glances up from the book he's tried his hardest to distract himself with, waits for her to announce herself, to call out for him, but she doesn't even acknowledge him as she passes the living room and heads straight for the large, white kitchen. He waits for all of three seconds before he puts his book down on the glass coffee table – spine up so he doesn't lose his page – and follows after her.

"I made pancakes," he leads with, when she spins on her heel to face him, doesn't offer so much as a smile as a greeting.

"I'm not hungry," Molly says before taking a large gulp from her newly refilled water bottle.

"You must be -" Charles takes a step closer to her, doesn't like the purple shadows under her eyes, the way her cheeks bones seem more prominent, her skin almost translucent.

"Well I'm not," Molly insists, pulling the hair tie from her pony tail, releasing brown locks that smell of the lavender shampoo he'd bought for her.

"You didn't eat yesterday," he reminds her, as if she's forgotten, as if she's been forgetting for the past four days.

"Because I wasn't hungry."

"I'm worried about you, Dawes."

"Don't be," she shrugs, as if it's that simple. "I'm going for a shower." Charles sighs, steps aside for her to pass him, longs to reach out and catch her by the hand, to promise it will all be okay as he holds onto her shrinking frame, misses the way she fits against his body, her curves in his edges, a perfect match. He watches as she disappears out of sight, before sighing, grabbing the plate of two, cold pancakes he'd left out for her, wraps them in cling film and slides them onto a shelf in the fridge, just in case she wants them later.

She stays in the shower longer than usual, and it's not until the ornate grandfather clock's minute hand ticks past the 2 for a second time, that Charles begins to worry. He turns the volume on the television down to the lowest, strains his ears to listen for any sign of movement; a creak of a floor board, wardrobe doors banging, bed frame squeaking. He gets up when all he can hear is the sound of water running, splashing against the tiles walls and shower base, running down an ancient drain. He stands at the bottom of the staircase, calls up to Molly once, waits for a reply. He starts to ascend the stairs, two steps at a time, when he doesn't get one, ignoring the barely there ache in his calf as he moves, images of her passed out and face down in the shower haunting him, He rushes through the bedroom, uses all of his restraint not to kick down the on suite door to the bathroom but to tap his knuckles against the wood three times.

"Molly?" He calls, forehead resting against the panelling, waits for five, quick breaths before trying again. "Mol?"

"Go away," she replies, voice quiet, almost drowned out by the running water, sounds congested.

"Mol, are you okay?"

"I said go away," she repeats, louder this time, but Charles doesn't miss the way her voice trembles, is an octave higher then normal. He waits, listens as she shuts the water off, closes his eyes as his hand rests on the handle, resisting the urge to barge in, to grab hold of her and never let her go.

"Dawes -" he begins, his heart breaking along with hers, even if she wont admit it. He startles, jumps back, as the bathroom door yanks open, quickly, revealing a puffy eyed, red nosed, very simple looking Molly Dawes, clutching at the giant bath towel she's wrapped around her small frame.

"Leave me alone," she says, looking up at him through wet lashes, eyes glassy. "Please," soft and desperate.

"Okay," Charles agrees, nods, and then he's retreating as the door closes again, is unsure how he's going to fix something that's going to be eternally broken.

She spends the day on the sofa, curled up under a thin blanket, eyes empty and face blank as she watches crappy day time TV, only getting up for bathroom trips or to get a drink of water. Her stomach growls, loud enough for Charles to peer over his book from the opposite side of the room, but not enough for her to give in, to get up and eat something. He offers to make her lunch a couple of times, and even though she shakes her head at each offer, he does anyway and places the plate of food on the table in front of her. She doesn't give in; it's still there at 6pm, when he's getting up to make dinner.

"Do you fancy anything?" he asks, and those green eyes look at him, before she's unwrapping herself from the thin cover and pushing herself into a sitting position, the movements sluggish.

"No, thank you."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna go for a swim," she says, standing up, stretches out tired limbs. "It's quiet at the gym at this time. I can get a few laps in before everyone else piles in." She attempts a smile, even though it doesn't reach her eyes. Charles appreciates the effort anyway, doesn't push any harder as she grabs her gym kit and a jacket from the hallway and heads out the front door. Charles eats alone, again, but plates up a meal for her anyway and slides it next to the untouched pancakes.

It's almost midnight when she creeps into the bedroom, barefooted and stripped down to her underwear, hair damp and smelling of the tropical shampoo she keeps only for the gym showers. He pretends to be asleep, doesn't stir when she slips under the sheets, shifts to be close enough he can almost feel her. He waits for a few minutes before he chances a peek, feels a little relieved to see her eyes closed, breathing shallow but rhythmic, even if her lashes flutter and her brow is creased. He closes his own eyes, allows himself to drift off, too.

He wakes an hour later when he reaches for her, but the bed is empty, sheets tossed aside as if she's battled with them. He jolts up, panic creeping into his brain as he listens hard, just in case she's just popped to the bathroom. There's nothing though, so he throws his covers back, gets out of bed and heads for the stairs, searching for a light to signify which room she's occupying. He spots a faint, blue glow through the crack of the living room door as he descends down the stairs, one step at a time, giving away Molly's location. He takes a deep breath, heads for the room, slips through the door without bothering to close it behind him. Molly startles, looks up from her sport on the sofa, where she's curled in on herself, wearing another of his t-shirts, one hand covering her mouth, the other grasping onto her phone tightly, screen bright. Charles covers the distance in three footsteps, slides onto the sofa next to her, glances at the phone to see the photo of Molly and Smurf huddled together in full kit, smiling brightly, holding their thumbs up. He remembers snapping the picture for her, just before they departed for their R&R.

"Couldn't sleep?"

"Did I wake you?"

"No," he only half lies. "Hungry? I can warm something -"

"God, I ain't hungry! What are you, a fat feeder or something?"

"I'm sorry," Charles quickly apologises, leaning back against the piles of scatter cushions, pretends he can't see the wet trails down her cheeks, that he isn't aching to reach across and wipe them away. "Molly -"

"I'm fine, okay?" she snaps before he can finish, and he takes a deep breath.

"No, you're not."

"What? You a trained shrink now, or what? 'Cause you ain't much else any more, are ya?" Charles recoils at the jibe, the assault of words stinging a little, even as he tries to remind himself she's grieving, that she's taking it out on him, because there's no one else to take it. Molly sighs, rubs a hand over her face, before looking back at him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean -"

"I know," Charles nods, understanding, even if he wonders, only a little, if she's regretting his decision to resign his commission so he could be with her, so she could be with him.

"It's just – I don't know."

"I do," Charles says as he leans forward. "You've lost someone you love, and you're grieving. It's okay." He triggers a new wave of tears and quiet sobs as he speaks, this time she doesn't try to hide them from him, cries openly and James is sure he can hear her heart shattering.

"It's just so unfair," she cries, opening up for the first time, dropping her phone so she can't see the picture that's etched into her brain, anyway. "He made it through the tour. It just doesn't make any sense. What was the point?"

"I know," Charles nods, his own eyes misting, hand reaching out for one of her balled fists, gently uncurls her fingers so he can entwine them with his, feels a little relief when she gives a gentle squeeze; their first skin to skin contact since the trip to Newport to bury their friend. He waits for her to continue, even if it takes a few minutes for her to find her voice, to say what she's been feeling, what she's been trying to hide from him.

"It's just so fucking unfair," she states, anger leaking into her tone as the sobs quieten. "He was so young, he wasn't done. I saved his arse twice on the battlefield, for what? For fate, or destiny or whatever, to just come and fucking get him, anyway?"

"I know," Charles says again, pulls her against him so he can trace soothing circles on her back, can smell her hair and feel the warmth of her body.

"I just – he was my best friend. And now he's just...gone," she says, barely audible, her voice trembling as she melts into his touch, the admission of grief easier in the darkness.

"I know, babe. I know," Charles soothes, pulls her onto his lap so he can hold her tight, his embrace enough to loosen her stiff shoulders as she rests her head just under his chin.

"I'm really gonna miss that Welsh wanker," she sighs, barely above a whisper, as she reaches up to dry her cheeks, the outburst of emotion leaving her feeling utterly spent.

"Me too," He nods, a single tear leaving his eye and rolling down his cheek. She moves away, just enough for her to look up at him through wet, clumpy lashes.

"I'm sorry for being such a bitch."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not," Molly shakes her head, chin wobbling. "I've been such a sad cow, and you've been all patient, and nice and -"

"Hey, it's okay," Charles insists, strokes a loose hair from her face, marvels at how simply perfect she is to him.

"No," she frowns, "You lost him too."

"We both did, Mols," he nods, before leaning forward to press his lips to the top of her head. She closes her eyes at the touch, can't believe she's left it so long, that she hasn't craved his body the same way he craves hers. "Promise me you wont bottle anything up again? You have to come to me with this stuff, it's what I'm here for."

"I know, I will," Molly agrees before looking away, focuses on a graze just above her knee. "It's just, I didn't know what to say, or how to deal, and I've never had you in my life before. I'm so used to being alone in this sort of shit."

Charles nods, runs a finger along her jawline, stops under her chin and tilts it up, locks his eyes on hers, before reaching down to brush his lips against hers, one, two, three times. She moans, wraps her arms around his neck, entangles her fingers in his hair as she tries to shift her body, press closer to him. He pulls away when her stomach growls, smiles softly.

"Hungry now?"

"A little," she admits. "But I'm more tired."

"Okay, come on," he says, scooping her up in his arms, and standing from the sofa. "Sleep, and then food."

"Thanks," Molly sighs, resting her head against his chest as he carries her up the stairs and into the bedroom. He isn't surprised to find her dozing by the time he manages to reach the bed, is almost asleep as he lays her down and covers her with the sheets.

"Night, Mol," he whispers, straightening up.

"Charlie?" She breathes, barely above a whisper, voice full of sleep, eyes stay closed. "Thanks for choosing me."

"Any time, Dawes. Now get some sleep," he smiles, before moving to his side of the bed, slipping under the sheets and wrapping his arm around her waist, pulling her into him.

"Yes, Boss," she sighs; a sound of contentment, he thinks.

He wakes before she does, the sun high in the mid morning sky, smiles when he has to untangle his body from hers. He leaves her as she begins to stir, takes the trainers from beside her night stand to the kitchen with him, tosses them in the bin before he begins to prepare breakfast for her. He makes an extra serving of pancakes, a fruit salad and adds two slices of toast, and doesn't say a word as he watches her scoff the lot.

AN: Edited to replace 'James' with 'Charles', now that I've come to terms with his first name. Ha!