About the broken happy ever afters

Disclaimer: Property of the BBC and Tony Grounds.

Author's Note: *Scowls* Like Molly would send that in an email. Unfortunately, I think there's definitely going to be a kiss between CJ and everyone's 2nd favourite medic, but she'll decide that it feels wrong to be kissing someone who isn't Elvis. Anyhoo, here we go! This is completely non-canon from Episode 3.


It was 2am and she was trying to be quiet; she hadn't even turned the hallway light on but the rustling of fabric as she took her uniform off and out of habit, folded it, made his ears prick up and he opened his eyes.

He followed her dark shape with his eyes, feeling a thrill of excitement that she had finally returned. He felt his lips pull into a smile of their own accord.

"Shun!" he shouted suddenly.

Molly, clad only in her underwear and tank top, gave a squeak of fright at the noise and automatically stood halfway to attention before her brain seemed to catch up with her.

"You SHIT," she shrieked at him, clutching her chest. "You nearly gave me a heart attack you lanky fuckmuppet!" She gave him the hardest smack she could muster, looking furious and snapped on the bedside lamp.

Charles sat up in bed, chuckling and rubbing his upper arm. "You didn't quite manage to stand to attention, there. I'm a Captain," he said, self-importantly. "Do you want to give that another try?"

"Nah, fuck off," she retorted, indignantly.

"It's lovely to see you too, Molly," he said, smirking at her and pulling her towards him by her wrists.

Molly grinned at him reluctantly. "I'm no longer pleased to see you, as it goes," she said, airily. " And that thing I texted you that I'd do as soon as I got back? You can do it yourself."

Charles tilted his head to one side, thoughtfully. "Not entirely sure that's possible, Dawsey."

"Shame that, then innit?" she said, poking her tongue between her teeth and squealing as he stood up on the bed, picked her up and spun her around.

"I missed you," he breathed, still spinning her around. "So. Fucking. Much," he said, punctuating each word with a kiss to her forehead, her nose and her lips.

"I've only been away for-OOF!"

He had finally lost his balance on the wobbly surface of the bed and toppled over, pulling Molly on top of him. They lay, laughing and groaning in a tangle of limbs and pillows.

Molly raised her head from his chest, slowly as they got their breath back. "I missed you, too," she wheezed. "Oh Christ, I think I've cracked a rib… Did you know they have square sausages in Scotland? They're well dodgy."

Charles wrinkled his nose at her in amusement and chuckled.

"A week doing Ebola training and the only thing you're bothered about is square sausages?"

"They ain't right!" she protested, attempting to roll off him, but Charles held on to her, one hand smoothing back the loose tendrils of hair that had escaped from her customary French plait.

"Did you just stroke my hair? Like I'm some sort of mutt?" she asked.

"Well, we don't have a dog so you'll have to do," he replied, running his fingers over her head, trying to feel for her bobby pins.

Molly snuggled back down into his chest, wrapping an arm around his waist and closed her eyes happily, as he undid her hair and combed it out with his fingers.

When she raised herself up on her elbow to gaze down at him, fondly, her hair was a tumbling mass of waves and she was his Molly once again. The one from a sweltering tent in Afghanistan that always somehow managed to smell like his old school sports hall. The one who encouraged him to 'Chug Chug Chug,' a half-pint of whiskey, complete with tabletop drumming the last time they went out for dinner.

"There she is," he whispered, grinning manically. "That's much better."

Molly stretched up to kiss him, the ends of her hair tickling his chest and then his neck as she firmly took hold of his face and clambered up his body, the brand new engagement ring around her neck dangling between them.

OG OG OG

There was something up his nose. It was itchy. His throat felt scratchy and sore, like he had been asleep with it open for too long, and there was a funny, iron-like taste in his mouth that vaguely reminded him of the dentist. He wiggled his toes, hopefully but there was a toasty warm blanket weighing his legs down.

There was something in his hand. Something heavy and damp. His fingers closed around it and he felt the mattress move underneath him.

"Charlie?" said a desperate voice to his left.

Whatever was clutching his hand tightened its grip and he opened his eyes, blearily. There was a dark-haired woman in army combat uniform sitting at his bedside. Judging by her proximity, she had been asleep holding his hand, with her head on his mattress. Her face refused to come swimming into focus, so he shut his eyes, again.

Georgie's was not the face he wanted to see.

She may have saved his miserable life; she may well have been the bravest soldier he had known but all he wanted to see…was Molly. Even though there was a good chance that she might despise him, but he understood that. He despised himself, too.

"Hey," said the voice softly. He felt a clammy hand stroke his cheek, tenderly. "You sleep, it's ok."

There was a rustle of clothes and he felt a damp kiss on his forehead. His brow furrowed at the loss of contact.

He felt her sweaty hand link her fingers through his and a light pressure rest on his shoulder as she, whoever she was laid her head there and he felt sleep take him, again.

When he woke up, again, it was because there was something being put in his ear. He opened his eyes, a groan of irritation rumbling in his throat, to see a young nurse in a plastic apron bending over him.

"Sorry, Captain James," she said, chirpily, "I'm just taking your temperature, ok?"

He felt his eyelids flutter closed, because he didn't have the energy to keep them open, but did not go back to sleep. He knew he was in hospital. He knew that from the smell of starched sheets and the irritation of a nasal cannula delivering oxygen up his nose. And the fact that it felt like his body was made of shattered Lego. But he was definitely not in the UK. It was dank and murky; the air felt too hot to breathe; like he was breathing in air from an oven. He could not feel his injured leg but he couldn't be bothered to sit up and check it.

"Molly," he muttered, dozily.

The nurse chuckled softly. "Every time we do your obs," she said, shaking her head. "She's here. She's just outside."

"She's here?"

He felt something in his chest lift, but he could not tell whether it was joy or disbelief.

Images of Molly skittered through his mind; Molly pushing him against a wall to kiss him just before their wedding breakfast; Molly waiting for him in an aircraft hangar, the only face he could see in the crowd; Molly forcing him to dance in their kitchen, her face lit up with glee; Molly with tears gliding down her pale face as she screamed at him…

"She's here," she assured him, her eyes darting between the machine he was connected to and her clipboard as she wrote something down.

There was a creak and a squeak, which he assumed was the door opening.

There was a charged silence, like there was someone watching him, as the nurse asked him to lift his arms above his head, wriggle his toes and shone a torch in both of his eyes. Feeling like he was doing some sort of hospital-style I am the Music Man, he scrunched his eyes up impatiently.

The nurse gave him a small smile and left his line of vision. He heard the sound of a tap running and the clang of a metal bin closing and footsteps on a linoleum floor.

"He's been asking for you, Ma'am," he heard her say, quietly. Then he heard the squeak and creak of the door closing.

The room was silent, again. He heard the whirring of whatever drip was attached to his right hand, filling the quiet.

"Well, I ain't standing to attention," croaked a small voice.

Charles' eyes snapped open and he jerked his neck, painfully towards the voice.

There, standing beside the door, forlornly playing with a wedding ring that was hanging from a chain around her neck was Corporal James-Dawes.