First, thanks to everyone for tearing your eyes away from Captain James' delicious goat-stroke to read Painted Cherries' fantastic one shot, Sort your World Out, last were all excited by your reviews, comments and support.
Today we are posting the next chapter of Anthology!, our series of Our Girl, Fan Fiction, one-shots. Entitled What's the Matter? this chapter has been written by the intriguingly named Mortifying Mate! We hope you enjoy it and look forward to your comments.
WHAT'S THE MATTER?
by
Mortifying Mate
"What's the matter?"
"Why the fuck do you always say it like that?"
Leaning against the kitchen island, he waits, knowing this is going to be a long difficult conversation, one which afterwards, he'll probably still have no real understanding of the psychology behind it. All he does know is his wife is currently insisting on washing the dishes from dinner, even though there is a dishwasher two metres away from her in perfectly good working order, and that usually spells disaster… for him.
Taking a deep sigh, Charles, ensures Molly isn't watching, raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms defensively. Waiting. Hopeful that she will shrug her shoulders, the dishes will be abandoned and she'll tell him she's struggling with the long absence stretching out before them and come, give him a hug. But she doesn't, instead, from his position observing, she seems to be working herself up into even more of a mood. "Oh come on Dawes, we've been together 3 years now. You know you're not going to change me." He grins, letting it slide off his face when 2 angry green orbs pin him to the hard marble worktop behind him.
"And don't call me fucking Dawes."
Ducking, attempting to avoid a bubble of suds heading in his direction from an innocent spatula being waved dramatically around in the air, he can't hide the humour evident in his voice. "What do you want me to call you then?"
He regrets it. Immediately.
The spatula is dropped in the water, abandoned, the 5'3' frame of Molly James is squared off, her shoulders coming round to ensure her centre of gravity is ready for flight or fight. For a few seconds, he tries to keep eye contact, manages it until she's two foot in front of him, her finger coming up, hovering in the air. Then, knowing if he's got any chance of coming out of this with his balls still attached, respectfully, he lowers his gaze.
"I don't know, but seein' as all you could bleedin' talk about over dinner was Georgie sodden' Lane, I'm surprised there is any other words in your vocabulary."
Snapping his eyes back up to her, he can't help but give a snort of surprise. "You're jealous of your friend?"
"How the hell, have you just taken out of what I've just said, that I'm jealous of my friend. And she ain't my friend, she's an acquaintance, through you."
Turning away from her husband, Molly picks up a yellow dishcloth, wringing out the water and proceeding to mop ineffectively at the area now clear of its stacks of dirty dishes. She appears calm, but he knows from previous experience she is an epic aim when the mood takes her, and that has always been in jest, he'd hate to be on the receiving end of a wet cloth thrown in anger.
Charles chooses his next words carefully.
"An acquaintance, that you knew, before me."
With relief, he watches the cloth being thrown into the sink, the plug being pulled and his wife turning, copying his stance. Shrugging.
"We were facebook mates, met through some training, that were all. And see what I mean, you've turned the conversation back to her."
And she's back to her inner drama. A drama he's still not sure he can place his finger on. Yes, he did talk to Molly over dinner about his relief that the medic who'd accompanied him on a previous tour had agreed to help out. But he'd been genuinely appreciative of the meal his wife had prepared. Thanked her for the extra effort she'd gone to, okay, maybe he'd then gone back to the subject of how relieved he was that his team was assembled, albeit with new faces. 2 new recruits were always a handful, never mind the rest of 2 Section, Molly would normally be the first to understand. Not pick up on a few throw away, random thoughts about someone he tended only to think of when Elvis was round bumping his gums about the one who got away. Sod it. Charles decides he's going to be amused, show it. Let her see this is way off character, but yet it is still her, the cheekiness, it's all Molly Dawes, he wouldn't have it any other way. Though preferably not the night before deployment.
"You can be such a mardy little mare." Nope not impressed, he thinks to himself. The result, Molly going back to being defensive, and him rearranging his facial muscles, into a serious professional mask "All I'm saying is that she's a good medic. A safe pair of hands."
"With a perfect fuckin' manicure."
"I've never looked that closely, it was a figure of speech." He crosses no man's land, picks up her hand, letting the pad of his thumb roughly run over each individual short finger nail still damp from her attempt to wash and break every dish they own. Laughing, biting his lip at the obvious evidence her hand has never been near a manicure. He knows because Rebecca would have a mental breakdown if she so much as chipped her nail polish, would spend hours slathering expensive hand cream on, and refuse to put her hands in the dehydrating water of Fairy Liquid. Yet the fingers currently in his grasp mean the world to him, the hack on the side of the thumbnail bed, the rough skin, showing in his wife's eyes there are far more important issues in life than making sure her hands hide her lifestyle - he agrees. Especially, because these are the hands which have held him when he's been at his lowest, hugged him in moments of happiness. "I love your hands." Charles continues, tipping her angled defiant chin up until she's staring into his eyes. "Especially when they are around my…."
"Enough, you ain't changing the subject by starting to try and woo me." Pulling away, backing until there's the two foot of relative safety between them, she crosses her arms, muttering huffily. "Anyway, you never go on these days about me being a 'good medic."
"You are a great medic, a fabulous medic, but seeing as your commanding officer et al, tell you that, I didn't think you also needed to hear it from me constantly. Okay." Stating the obvious, hoping it might appease her. "I love you."
"It's just, you're going away tomorrow." His declaration of love is ignored, Molly off into her own little world, for which he is momentarily excluded. "For however shittin' long, with her, and on our last night together all you've done is talk about her…. I wanted to talk to you." Charles tips his head to the side, confused at the sadness in Molly's voice. Opening his mouth to tell her, if she's got anything to say he's more than happy to hear it, but it's too late, she takes two deep breaths, inhaling through her nose, apparent the doors closed on that specific conversation as she continues on her rant. "I fuckin' hear enough about it from the lads. Brains well fancies her." The blatant insecurity has him taking his life in his hands, bravely crossing the distance she's put between them until he can pull her against him, tuck his chin onto the top of her head and breath in the scent which means home to him.
"I know he does. But I don't think he's got a hells chance of her being unprofessional enough to look at someone in her Section." Shit. Too late, he realises he's put his large feet in it. And if his brain hadn't picked up on his own words too late, then the ball of almost nuclear tension currently within his arms would be telling him he's just said the stupidest thing ever. "I didn't mean it… "
She's away again, this time increasing the distance until she's at the door. He really has fucked up.
"How did you mean it then? Go on tell me, that I was unprofessional? Mmmhh? Or you wish… "
"No." The words are spat across the room harshly, they've been over this too many times, both of them wishing it could have been different, but neither able to change the past. "We were unprofessional, but not a day goes by that I regret meeting you, and as a CO of a section, then I am relieved my medic isn't interested in another member of my platoon. It's a headache I could do without."
Letting her hair hang as a barrier, her fingers stroke the handle of the door. "Do you fancy her?"
At first, he's not sure he's exactly heard correctly.
"What?"
"It's a simple question. Do you fancy her?"
"No of course I bloody don't."
"So, all that time in Kenya, helping her when she came back, you never once thought of her, of being with her or…."
"Molly. This is completely unlike you. I'm struggling to comprehend where all this insecurity has come from. Do you really have so little faith in our relationship? That I would..." If he wasn't going away tomorrow he'd be pouring himself a stiff drink, giving himself the courage to get through this strange conversation. The nervous habit, his parents tried to stop when he was a child, resurfaces, his hands tugging the hair at the back of his head, a sign of weakness - stress. Still, she wants an answer.
"Just answer the question. Charles. "
"Do you want me to discuss the inner workings of a male's sexual thoughts whilst on tour."
"Yes." She mumbles. His wife might be in a complete mood, but there is still the brief moment of attraction to her husband she can't hide. Her cheeks tellingly reddening.
Lowering his voice, Charles takes a few steps towards her, hoping after he's answered honestly, she'll give this nonsense up. "The only person in the world I imagine burying myself deep inside of is you. I miss you every single day. You are my world." It would be a lie, if confiding in his wife didn't feel good, made them even closer. Seeing, the small glimmer of happiness; the spark in her eyes and the slight upturn of her mouth could be described as an aphrodisiac in his book. "Yes, the closeness of an attractive female might increase those thoughts of you, but…. Oh christ, what have I said now?"
His wife has left the room, slamming the door with such force it ricochets back and allows him to hear her yelled words.
"You do think she's attractive then?"
Following, he doesn't notice the difference in temperature between the warm kitchen and the cold hall, the fabulous idea they'd had of renovating the old cottage now boring for both of them and they'd abandoned the idea and were now, currently saving up to get some builders in to do all the hard work for them. It was taking a long time.
"Well, she isn't ugly. Is she?" He shouts after her. "I wouldn't refer a friend for a psychological check-up for saying she was attractive."
"You can sleep in the spare room tonight."
"No, I will bloody not. I'm away tomorrow on a 3-month tour, so if you don't mind I'll sleep in our bed, and if you can't bear to sleep beside me, for whatever unfathomable reason is going on in your head, then you can sleep in the spare room." Overtaking her has always been easy, and this time is no exception, he's at the foot of the stairs, heading up to their bedroom, making her run to try and beat him. It reminds him of being a child. There's no insecurity for him, he knows that this will wash over, that at some point she'll break down and admit whatever is bugging her - his only hope is it's before he leaves. An emotion of not wanting to be anywhere else in the world but with her, her innocence and love for him - which he is in no doubt off, almost suffocates.
His hesitation is the chance she needs, angrily stomping past him, reminding him of a video of a cockatoo marching around a room. Stopping, he leans against the doorframe. Watching.
The duvet is thrown back, the spare pillows she insists on having because it makes her feel posh, used to create a barrier down the middle of the bed.
"Molly." Charles tries softly. "Stop this and just tell me what's wrong." Frowning, tipping his head to the side, trying to work out if the love of his life really has wiped a tear away. Christ it hurts when she's crying at an advert for Save The Children, or because of Smurf's anniversary, but, it's been years since he's seen her cry because of him. "Please, Molly. I'm begging you. Tell me."
Sitting down on the bed, Molly takes a huge juddery sigh. Trying to keep her tear stained face away from him. "I'm sorry."
"What for?"
"I wanted to talk to you at dinner, I needed to talk to you. Except, you wouldn't stop goin' on 'bout her. It was a bit shit." The words are dejected, mimicking the body language of someone who has the whole world on their shoulders.
"She means nothing to me." Splaying his hands, backing up his words Charles ignores the resuming defensive stance at his attempt to get closer. "In this moment I don't even like her. I can't make it clearer than that. Look, it's not too late."
A memory comes back, one from the very early days when she was being deployed. It had been hard for him. He'd never had to deal with the emotions of being the one to be left behind, adding in the wounded pride he couldn't leave his bed due to an agonising pain in his injured leg - he'd found himself petulantly telling her to stay away. She hadn't listened of course, instead climbing into bed beside him, sharing the first coffee she'd ever made, chatting nineteen to the dozen until he'd begged her to shut up and listen to how much he was going to miss her.
"I'll go and make us both tea. I"ll bring it up, and we can chat, put on some of the candles you love, we have 10 hours before I need to leave…"
"You don't like tea." Molly whispers.
"But you do." Charles whispers back, sinking to his knees in front of her, trying to get her to remember. "Before you went back to Afghanistan, you drank coffee?"
"It was rank."
"It was funny, your reaction. And I think, once you had added enough sugar you might of kinda' liked it."
"We can agree to differ, 'cause I don't remember that."
"What do you remember?"
"Not wanting to go."
"And I'm the same, I really wish I didn't have to go and leave you, if I could have any medic by my side it would be you and if there is anything in this world you need to say to me, then say it, because I absolutely, without a doubt, want to hear it."
For a brief moment, he thinks she's going to offload, there's even a sudden intake of breath , a look of steely determination crossing the features he loves so much, but at the last minute Molly dejectedly nods, the fight suddenly out of her.
"It, can wait until you're back, mate."
And he accepts it, because he respects his wife and, they are running out of time. He hates their absences. Pushes himself every night to continue with his long-distance degree in international disaster management & humanitarian response no matter how tired he is, all so at one point they can be out of this lifestyle. Can settle. Start a family. "Now can I hug my wife? Not let her go until I have to leave tomorrow?"
Molly's burrowed into him before he can even move.
"I love you. You'd better come back to me mate, promise?"
"I promise."
-og-
The autumn sun hasn't quite risen when Molly opens her eyes. A feeling of momentary calm, until she focuses on the indent on the pillow beside her, remembers why her eyes feel scratchy, why after he'd fallen asleep, their bodies tightly wrapped around each other, she'd cried.
"Hey you."
Following the sound of his voice, she finds him, showered and dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hand comes up to stroke strands of hair away from her face, if he picks up on the dampness he doesn't mention it, instead he's trying to look positive. "Now remember, I'll phone you when I get to Brize, skype you when we get to Kathmandu, and I'll write such stonking love letters in every available second that I might win the Guinness World Record for being in love."
"Yeah, well remember I don't have such a strong stomach these days."
Charles laughs, shaking his head with amusement, bending down and placing his lips softly against the tip of her nose. "Said the girl who once ate a 2-day old curry that hadn't even been put in the fridge."
She had, it was true, the stolen out of date food she'd grown up eating from her Nan, had given her a solid constitution. Those days were passed though. Except he didn't know it.
Guilty; she basks in his adoring gaze. He's like a god to her, can't really do no wrong. Unlike her. She's fucked up. Big style. Over her formative years, she'd become used to making mistakes. The confidence he has given her though, meant it was becoming less and less regular. She had almost been surprised when she'd realised, scrap that, she'd had a Julius Caesar when she'd realised! And the one person she wanted to share her mistake with, it wouldn't be fair to tell. Not like this.
"N' remember." Grinning up at him, she manages to hide all the inner turmoil going through her nut. Knows she's been successful because suddenly his eyes clear, he looks youthful, happy. "I'll be usin' the old rabbit every night until you're back, thinking 'bout you. You might gonna' need to send me some dough for batteries"
"Dawes you are a complete tease." His voice grumbles in her ear, teeth biting her earlobe.
"Yeah none of that poncey love letters from me mate."
"You had better fuckin' put pen to paper, at least once. I need something to tuck in my pocket and read when I don't have decent wifi."
It's nearly time, he's pulling back, expression wistful.
Sitting up, Molly wraps her arms around the duvet, trapping her knees to her chest. Ready to say her goodbyes.
Charles starts the final process first, bestowing his wife with a teasing wink. "Behave yourself."
"You too."
She wants to say so much more, but can't. Time running out, the imaginary grains of sand slipping through her fingers, almost in a trance she watches him stand, feels his lips on the top of her head.
And then he's gone.
Molly stares at the ceiling, battling against the accumulating tears. Knowing she'd made the choice in his best interests. But what if something happened. Could she ever live with herself? She didn't think she could.
The cold air lingering in the hall tells her the front door hasn't long been opened and closed. She can make it, even if the stones on the path are painful on her bare feet, the autumn coldness harsh against her bare legs as she runs up the garden path, trying to avoid the sharp brambles. "Charles."
He stops immediately, turning at the sound of her voice. Confusion on his features as he stands in full uniform, kit bag slung over his shoulder.
"Molly you'll catch a cold. What on earth are you doing?"
Dropping the heavy black bag, Charles abandons it, striding over with concern to his wife frozen literally and figuratively to the spot. Startled, she takes a few steps back, what she has to say is difficult enough without feeling his warmth, seeing his disappointment.
"I'm pregnant. I'm sorry. I know it's a shit time. I know you didn't want this, that you wanted everything sorted 'n' to be around for every minute of this little bleeder's life. But there ain't much I can do 'bout it now. I'm sorry. I couldn't have you go 'n' not…."
"What?"
"I've only just found out, only did a test yesterday 'cause I kept being sick, was gonna' tell you…" She's babbling, her voice shaking with cold and nerves. There had been so many scenarios of telling him, she'd had three years to day dream about the moment they finally became would be parents, but none had been like this. Standing on a path in her shirt and shorts, shivering, watching the comprehension finally kicking in on his face.
"Molly."
"I am so so sorry, I missed a pill, didn't think it would matter, I'm sorry..."
In less than 30 seconds she finds herself lifted, cradled, not the fireman's lift he's always used to remove her from a situation, but a protective hold, letting her see the annoyance on his face. "Stop saying fucking sorry, there is nothing for you to feel sorry for. Okay?"
"You didn't want it until…"
He doesn't put her down until they're back up the path, through the door she'd never even bothered closing and level with the stairs. The protective side of his personality not wanting his wife, and mother of his unborn baby, to be standing barefoot on cold wooden floorboards. "Sit down." He instructs, the words gruff, an attempt to hide emotions. She does what she thinks he asks, the two of them sitting on the third stop. It's not close enough for him. "No, not there. On my knee. I need to hold you."
"I'm.."
"Don't say it."
It would be difficult to say who exactly is holding who. Molly believing she was comforting him and him believing he was comforting her. Except the truth was they were comforting each other. "I'm delighted. It's brilliant news."
"Really?"
"100 percent."
Moving her head back, she looks at him, reads his expression. The furrow on his brow is there, of course it is, he's worried, there have been demons in his head for too long now. A feeling karma is one day going to get him for the instructions he's followed, the lives he's taken obeying those orders. Molly knows him too well, his conscious will be telling him he doesn't deserve this. Even though in this moment she could tell him to stop, to focus on the good he's been pivotal in creating in the world, she doesn't:
"You need to really look after yourself , alright?" Crap, she knows she's going to start crying, manages to keep it at bay until a tear from him settles on her face. Then she's gone. Her arms tighten around him. "'N' I'll look after this little one, alright?"
His voice breaks in her ear. "No eating any of your Nan's food. I don't trust her, especially if she tells you it's straight out of Waitrose - she'd never pay the prices in there, okay?"
"I Promise."
"I'll speak to my parents, take the money they offered us, we can get this place ship shape for this little one's arrival." She feels his hand brush gently against her stomach, his chin lowering into her neck. "If you don't mind dealing with the building quotes when I'm away, I think we've both looked at enough catalogues for you to be able to make all the decisions."
"I'll ask my parents for something too."
Her words have the desired effect, she can hear the amusement in his breathing, feel the shake of his shoulders under her fingers, knows he's taking his time to try and say his next words without laughing.
"And what would you do with their money?"
"Buy some nails or somethin'?"
"Oh Molly."
"Made you laugh, didn't I?"
"You did, of course you did."
Finally she looks at him, her hand coming up to wipe the tear collecting on his top lip, then tucking a wayward curl behind his ear. She needs to look after him, for once, except for him, old habits die hard. He needs to reassure her. That's how he works, the rules he lives by.
"At least it's only a humanitarian effort I'm going on. I'm not going to be in danger. Thank fuck." There's a hollow ring to his words, they both know danger is never far from the British Army. Anyway, she's googled where he's going, knows the conflict surrounding them.
"And remember to bleedin' delegate, no heroics from you."
"Promise."
"I love you." Countless times she's told him this morning, but with the large watch on his arm ticking away the minutes, she knows they don't have long.
"I love you too."
"You're gonna' have to go, ain't you."
There's a hesitation, she hates that somewhere in his brain he's probably thinking of staying, of going AWOL. Anything to keep her safe, him safe. She can't let him.
"Charles James. You are a soldier, you're the nuts at being a soldier, a leader of men 'n' all that crap. You are gonna' go out there and do your job. I'm gonna' miss you, of course I am but I promise you, the day the coach pulls up to Barracks I am gonna' be there, a little bit wider around the waist, 'n' when I run to you, you might gonna' need to expect me to be a little bit heavier, but I promise that'll be start of the rest of our lives, us three - okay."
She's lifted again, held close to his body until she's found her footing. Looking up she finds the expression in his eyes reaches her soul. Tells her everything is going to be okay. With a sigh of contentment in this strange moment of her life, she lets him guide her head until their foreheads are together; touching.
"I need you. Dawes. To go back up those stairs. As long as you are down here, I am never going to leave, got that?"
"Is that an order Boss?"
"No. Because we both know, the chances of you following orders are nil. Don't we?"
"There is that." Molly's starting to let him go. Putting a fraction of a distance between them, even though her fingers have their own mind, tracing the sleeves of his jacket. Knowing she's stalling, they're too seasoned at this, been here too many times, she knows she's not being fair on either of them.
One last time, well for the next 3 months, she tilts her face up, the rush of his breath into her mouth filling her mind, body, and soul, their kiss chaste but full of the love they have for each other.
Seconds, or minutes, she's not sure which, she pulls her body away, ignoring the magnetic link they seem to have. Halfway up the stairs, she stops, hands on the handrail and turns. "Come back to ….. us."
"I will."
The Miniaturists are a random group of Our Girl fans that like nothing more than to kick back our heels, uncork and write naughty Fan Fiction. More scribbly than scribes, more spirited than ghost writers, from old timers to new writers, we are united by a love for Our Girl, respect for its creator Tony Grounds and a liking for the Fan Fiction one-shot.
So starting today we are posting the first chapter of Anthology!, a series of Our Girl, Fan Fiction, one-shots. From time to time, when we feel like it, (ie have tippled a little, scribbled a bit and laughed a lot) we may post an additional chapter or two - each a delicious little one shot, an appetiser of something to enjoy from the Our Girl world. Some of us are new writers to the genre, others are old hands you will recognise and a few (for reasons best known to themselves) prefer to remain anonymous. All of us are in awe of Tony Grounds for providing such marvellous inspiration and are, we confess, somewhat partial to reviews, follows, and favourites if you feel our efforts deserve them. Indeed they may encourage an additional cheeky chapter or two!
