Moving In

Charles settles back against the sofa, legs stretched out as bare feet rest upon the glass coffee table – a cheeky habit he can only get away with whilst his parents aren't around to see it – starts to flick through the planner on the SKY box, trying to find at least one of the movie titles Molly had insisted they watch before she deploys to Kenya for three months.

He looks up from the TV when he hears her come down the stairs, smiles as she walks into the living room, wearing her dark blue jeans and his favourite black tank top – because it's the one she was wearing when he first realises she was the one – and carrying her large, green duffel bag on her shoulder. His brow slips into a frown as she slides it down her arm, allows it to fall to the floor with a loud thud, signifying it really is as full as it looks, and she tries to wrack his brains for any previously mentioned plans that involve her leaving him, then panics when he begins to wonder if he's supposed to be going somewhere, too.

"Going somewhere?" he eventually asks when he comes up blank, watches as she steps over his legs with her trainers in hand, plops down on the sofa next to him.

"London," she replies, as she begins to wrestle her feet into the Nike trainers that are almost worn out. "I promised I'd see Mum before I leave for deployment."

"Oh," Charles nods, can understand the need to see her family. He shifts to sit up straighter, moves both feet to the floor and puts the sky remote on the coffee table, eyes flicking to the bag and then to Molly. "I thought they were going to visit on their way to Cardiff on Wednesday?" He can remember that much, at least, because how can he forget their plans for him to meet her parent's for the first time?

"They plan to," Molly nods, reaching down to tie her laces, before she turns to face him. "But I'm running out of clothes, so I thought I could just pop down there for a couple of nights. I'll come back with them on Wednesday."

"Or we could just go and buy some?" Charles shrugs one shoulder, as if it should be that easy. Molly shakes her head, laughing.

"I have tonnes of clothes. I ain't wasting money for the hell of it."

"Then ask your parents to bring some with them, so you don't have to leave."

"That's cute," Molly smiles, leans over to press her lips against his, smiles against his mouth. "But they have no clue when it comes to outfits."

"Okay, so they can just pack everything up and move it here."

They both still at that, the words hanging heavily in the air as silence fills the space between them. Molly swallows, her brow furrowing as she looks down into wide eyes, Charles' face a picture of shock, surprising himself with the words he's uttered. He didn't mean them, she decides, shaking her head lightly to dispel the puzzled fog, clears her throat.

"Uh, my train leaves in twenty minutes and I'm already running late," she forces out in a hurry, desperate for the awkward moment to pass, seems to jerk Charles back to reality as she rushes to her feet. But then his hand is wrapping around hers, and he's pulling her down, onto his lap.

"I mean it," he says, snaking his arms around her waist to keep her in place, his face serious, eyes intense. "Move in with me?"

"Live here?" Molly asks for clarification. "With you?"

"Yeah," he nods, shrugging one shoulder as his eyes bore into hers.

"No," Molly says, immediately, shaking her head, laughing softly.

"Why not?"

"Because," she shrugs, eyes cast around the room before finding their way back to his, as she struggles to find the words. "You...I...because."

"Not good enough."

"It wouldn't work."

"You don't know that."

"Wait, are you actually being serious?" Molly asks, searching his eyes as they stare up at her face, crinkled in amusement. She cups his face, as if it will help her look deeper into his soul. "I don't think that's a good idea," when she can find nothing but sincerity.

"Why not?"

"Because," Molly huffs, hands flying up in a dramatic fashion. "You're caviare, and I'm -" she pauses for a breath, whilst she searches for the right metaphor. "I'm a massive, greasy cheeseburger."

"I like cheeseburgers," Charles counters, smiling and Molly laughs again, before leaning down to brush her lips against his.

"No," she reiterates, before glancing at the grandfather clock standing in the far corner of the room. "I have to go, or I'm going to miss my train."

"So miss it," he says, reaching up to wrap his hand around the back of her head, pulls her into him so he can press his mouth to hers, lips moving firm and slow, smiles when he feels her melt into him, opens her mouth to deepen the kiss, allow his tongue access. And then she's pulling away for air, head resting against his, an internal battle waging as she tries to fight the urge to stay.

"I should go," she whispers, her heart rate beginning to steady even if her tummy still flutters, the tooting horn of an impatient cab driver encouraging her to leave him.

"Fine," Charles pouts, because if it makes her happy, he'll give in. She drops a kiss on the corner of his mouth, before she's pulling away, removing herself from his grasp, standing up and fixing her hair. "I'll see you in a couple of days."

"You should at least let me take you to the station."

"I called a cab, it's fine," Molly shakes her head, picking up the large bag and tossing it over her shoulder, only stumbling slightly.

"You didn't need to, I can drive."

"I know," she nods, because she does, she just didn't want to put him out, isn't used to people wanting to help her, is too used to getting on with it herself. She makes a mental note to ask him for a lift next time. "I'll see ya."

And then she's heading out the door, leaving Charles alone in a too quiet house.

"So where is he, then? This fella of yours?" Belinda asks as she moves into the kitchen, slippers dragging across the floor, bathrobe pulled tight as she reaches for a mug and tea bag.

"Back home," Molly replies, pouring the last of the Cocopop's into a bowl and adding milk, before sliding the almost empty bottle to Belinda for her cup of tea.

"In Bath?"

"Yeah, Mum. In Bath," Molly clarifies, yanking open the cutlery draw and rolling her eyes when she finds all of the spoons missing, no doubt hidden amongst the mound of washing up in the sink. She opts for a fork, instead.

"Your Dad took me to Bath once, before I had you," Belinda says, voice trailing off as her teaspoon clatters against the side of her mug noisily. "Lovely place, that. Very posh. Is your fella posh? What's his name, again?"

Molly rolls her eyes, makes her way into the living room, Belinda close behind with her dragging slippers – scrape, scrape, scrape – manages to jump back and dodge being knocked on her arse as three ten year old boys charge out of the living room, barge past her and head for the stairs, making gun noises and yelling, stairs thundering as they race up them, chasing each other.

"His name is Charles. And no, he ain't posh, he just ain't like us," Molly replies, moving over to the sofa and collapses onto the end seat, rests her bowl on the arm.

"He ain't common, you mean."

"Who's common, Bel?" Dave pipes up, eyes tearing away from the news to look at his wife as she starts to fold the mound of washing on the table. Molly rolls her eyes again, shifts as something digs into her butt cheek, reaches under herself to remove a toy car. She tosses it on to the floor with the rest.

"We are," Molly answers for her, starts to mix her cereal with the milk, because she only likes her Cocopop's soggy and the milk chocolatey.

"Nah, we ain't. We're model citizen's, we are," Dave argues, winking at Belinda. "My wife's a teacher, and my eldest a war hero."

"Oh leave off Dad," Molly huffs, screwing her face up in distaste, eyes flicking from him, to the can of larger at his feet and back again. "She's a bloody teaching assistant, and I only signed up to get out of this shithole."

"So when do we get to meet this fella, then? Charlie, is it?" Belinda interrupts, before Dave can kick off at Molly, before things escalate into their very own war zone.

"Wednesday, Mum, on your way to Cardiff, remember?"

"What if I don't wanna meet him?" Dave huffs. "And why can't he come to us?"

"Because -" Molly starts, but she's cut off by the thundering stairs as the boys return, yelling and banging, throwing toys as they rush into the living room.

"Calm down, you lot!" Belinda yells, whilst Dave reaches for the TV remote to turn the volume up.

"Forget it," Molly snaps, a headache threatening to set in, as she gets up from the sofa. She takes her bowl of cereal, adds it to the mound of dishes in the kitchen before heading for the stairs. "I'm going to pack," she calls into the living room, a hint that she doesn't want to be disturbed, before taking the steps two at a time, dodging teddy bears and lego. She shuts herself in her old bedroom, collapses back on the cheap, springy mattress, and stares up at the bunk above her. She pulls her phone from her pocket, smiles at the picture of Charles she's saved as the wallpaper, unlocks the phone and googles for a national courier service.

Then, she spends the rest of the day packing.

He paces the length of the living room, phone in his hand, glancing at the clock on the wall several times. Two days has felt like two weeks, the time dragging tortuously slow, even as he busied himself with apartment hunting, and completing the paperwork for the Army reserves, watching cheesy movies and decorating the dining room. He rubs a hand over the back of his head, glances at the clock again, wonders if perhaps he should just call her, to make sure the train hasn't broken down, or she hasn't missed it, or gotten on the wrong one, or something.

"Charles, please sit down, Dear. You're wearing a hole in the floor," his mother, Catherine, smiles at him as she glances up from her book, peers over the rims of her glasses. He sighs, cheeks warming a little, before he gives in, collapses onto the sofa next to his Father who's watching The Antique's Road Show – borefest! He makes an attempt to concentrate on the mantle clock on the screen, the estimation highlighted at £80, but it's not enough of a distraction because his body is humming, almost as if he can sense her closing in.

His vibrating phone grabs at his attention, and his heart skips a thud as he looks at the screen, sees Molly's face smiling at him, and then he's thumbing the glass to answer it.

"Dawes," he tries to sound nonchalant, relaxed, even if he did answer after the first ring. She laughs, quietly, as if she's onto him but isn't going to pull him up on it.

"We're just about to get into the station."

"Okay, I'll be there," he promises, already heading for the front door, grabbing his keys and wallet – because he's promised to take the three of them for a meal – from the sideboard as he goes. She laughs again, is saying goodbye, and he waits for her to end the call so he doesn't have to.

He shifts in the hard, wooden chair as he watches Molly disappear out of sight, barging through the rest room door with her Mother, laughing and gossiping about something he can't quite hear enough to make out what they're saying. He offers a small smile to the guy sitting opposite him – Dave, he has to remind himself – who's eyes are a cold green and fixed on him, even as he takes a large drag from the bottle of Bud in his hand, face hard and emotion void.

"So," he begins, an attempt to break the awkward silence, because whether he likes it or not, these are Molly's parents, he's Molly's father, and that means they're important to her. Which in turn means they're important to him. Dave cuts off anything that Charles was about to say, give him the impression that he's been waiting for the opportunity, a chance to assert his dominance.

"You were Molly's boss." It's not said as a question, but a statement of fact – a fact he disapproves of, even if he doesn't have the balls to say it out right, sounds as if he's expecting Charles to deny it, to accuse him of being wrong. He doesn't though, just offers one nod in return as he wipes clammy hands against his jeans.

"I was," he simply confirms, forces himself not to cringe as Dave's eye twitches, as he slams the glass bottle down with more force than necessary before relaxing back against the same uncomfortable chair as Charles', arms folding across his chest.

"Ain't that against some sort of Army whatsit?"

"Regulations," Charles offers, immediately wishes he hadn't, because he's implying this guy is stupid, which he really shouldn't do if he's planning on marrying his daughter—one day. "It was."

"Not one for following the rules then, huh? Only girl in the team, was she?" Dave almost sneers, and Charles can hear what he's not saying, the insinuation loud as he waits for a reply, tongue dancing across his dry, chapped lips.

"Platoon," Charles corrects again, this time on purpose, then proceeds to nod. "She was our only female soldier, but I don't see how that -"

"So you wanted to get your leg over." The judgement has been made, and Charles feels heat spreading up his neck- not embarrassment, but anger.

"I didn't touch your daughter whilst we were serving together," he says, fights to keep his voice steady, calm. "I was the Captain of her platoon, and I took my role very seriously. I can assure you, we were nothing but professional -"

"Then what do you want with her?" Dave screws his nose up, uninterested in Charles' declaration, eyes revealing the disbelief he doesn't try to conceal. Charles is confused at the question, isn't sure what Dave wants him to say, what the correct answer is, because he's getting the impression that it's not what he was to Molly that he's got a problem with, but who he is to her.

"Well," he starts, hand reaching up to rub at his ear, isn't quite sure how this has turned into such a disaster – and this is coming from someone that's actually been in disastrous war zones – multiple times. He takes the opportunity to down the last of his pint, the distraction welcome as he attempts to find the right words in his head, if there's such a thing. "I want to love her." Simple, honest.

"Yeah, course you do," Dave scoffs. "'Cause that's all anyone wants with a bird like my Mols, ay?" He leans forward, grabs for his beer bottle again, and waves it in Charles' direction. "You seriously expect me to believe that someone like you would be interested in someone like her?"

Charles gets it, the problem suddenly rearing it's head and smacking him in the face, hard. This isn't about him, it's about her. Dave doesn't disapprove because Charles comes from money, has a nice car, lives in a nice city, went to university and is the son of two retired doctors. It's because Molly comes from a crappy council estate on the outskirts on London City Centre, used to work all day in a run down nail salon just to pay the majority of her wages to the man that had once thought nothing more of her than a 'run of the mill little slag.' And now, she has a chance to escape, to better herself, to lead the life she dreams of, whilst he gets left behind, over run by numerous kids, with a wife that actually wants to work.

"Yes," Charles nods, firmly, because of this, of her, he is sure. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, she ain't no Duchess of Cambridge, is she?"

"You might very well have an incredibly low opinion of your daughter, Sir, but I for one can promise you that I am more than happy with the person she is, just the way she is. The Molly I know is ballsy, challenging and kick arse. She's talented at what she does, puts her heart and soul into her job, has more passion than I have ever seen in my life, both civilian and military. She's insanely beautiful and has the biggest heart I have ever known," Charles smiles, eyes falling on the door to the ladies room, waiting for her to emerge from it, to return to him. He sighs, blissfully, before saying, "She's amazing," in a tone that's something near reverence.

Dave huffs a sigh at that, rolling his eyes, somewhat won over.

"Yeah, all right then," he mumbles, before he downs the last of his bottle, just as the door swings open and Molly emerges, still laughing with Belinda – the one parent Charles has found easy to like – her head tilted back as her laughters fills the quiet, country pub. And then she's looking at him, treating him to her toothy grin and those incredibly cute dimples, and he has to take a deep breath and remind himself of where he is and who he's with, that it would be incredibly inappropriate to grab Molly by the hand and pull her into the bathroom so he can have his wicked way with her.

"Ready to go?" she asks him as she returns to his side, pulls her jacket from the chair and slides her arms into it, the green fabric drowning her small frame. He nods, because he can't trust his voice just yet, not until he can shift the image of her bent over the sink unit out of his head. He forces himself to his feet, listens as Belinda refuses to accept a ride back to the station, insists on calling a cab so Dave can have a few more beers.

"I'll see ya later, Dad, yeah?" Molly says, doesn't seem phased by the grunt and jerk of his head as a reply, his attention focused on the football match being shown on the flat screen. "I'll see ya later, Mum," she turns to Belinda, who's grabbing hold of her shoulders and tugging her into an embrace, squeezing hard as eyes mist.

"I love you, Mol. I really do," she says, just loud enough for Charles to hear, and then Molly's pulling away, dropping a quick kiss on Belinda's cheek as she does.

"You too, Mum. I'll text you later, yeah?"

Charles quickly extends his hand to Dave, who ignores it for three long seconds before he makes an effort, gives one quick shake and a grunt that sounds something like "See ya," and then he's turning to Belinda, takes her hand in his and presses his lips softly to her middle knuckle.

"It's lovely to have met you, Mrs Dawes." Pretends her doesn't see the way her eyes widen, and looks at Molly approvingly.

"Come on, you. Before you do something stupid like run off with my Mother," Molly grins, grabbing hold of his arm and sliding her other hand into his, entwining their fingers and giving a gentle squeeze, just to let him know she's missed him. "Have a nice time in Cardiff," she says to her parents, before she leads Charles past the bar, and through the entrance doors, into the frigidly cold night air.

"That wasn't too bad, was it," she asks as they hurry, looks up at him for reassurance, eyes wide and she suddenly looks her age.

"No, they're lovely people," he says, lifting their interlocked hands and dropping a kiss on each of her cold fingers as he pulls his car keys out of his pocket with the other hand.

"Be honest, was my Dad an utter wanker when I was in the bogs with Mum?" An eyebrow arches, as if she can read his mind, as if she expected the laughing and joking whilst they ate to be an act, that he was just waiting for Molly to be out of sight before he could reveal his true colours.

"No," he opts to lie as they reach the BMW, both skirting around the bonnet, hands trying and failing to stay connected as their bodies part. They both slide into the vehicle, Molly rubbing her palms together to try and warm her hands, Charles ramming the key into the ignition so he can start the engine and get the heaters working.

"Really?" she probes, pulling her seatbelt around her, then cupping her hands and blowing into them.

"Really," Charles nods as he does his seatbelt too, turns to face her, traces every inch of her face as if it's the first time he's really seeing her. "I missed you."

She smiles at that, big and goofy, eyes twinkling, and it takes everything in him not to grab hold of her and kiss that silly look from her face. He puts the car into gear and pulls out of the car park, desperate to get her home.

"Move in with me."

His voice, husky and edgy with post-sex roughness, fills the quiet room, his chest rumbling beneath her head. Molly looks up at him, the moonlight streaming through the window because they hadn't bothered – or were just too busy – to close the curtains, untangles her legs from his so she can roll over, pretend he isn't trying to have this conversation at two in the morning.

"Go to sleep," she says, because she's tired and she's missed him, and she wants to make sure that he means it, that's it's not just something he's saying because she went away for a couple of days, is due to leave again soon. But he's there, pressing his lips against her shoulder, pulling onto her back so he can see her, look into those eyes he's missed waking up to, hand brushing over her abdomen and stopping at her waist to hold her in place.

"I mean it, Dawes," he says, and even in the low lighting, she's blown away by the intensity of his gaze, the softness to his features when he looks at her that way. She sighs, hand reaching up to run through his already dishevelled hair, before she's pulling him down so she can press her lips onto his. "Move in," he repeats, an order, as he pulls away, stares down at her. She takes a deep breath, her stomach doing somersaults, and she's pretty sure she can hear her heart beating, is sure he can hear it too.

"You really want to live with me, twenty four, seven?" she asks, an eyebrow arching up.

"Yes."

"All day, and all night?" she reiterates, and he nods, his hand moving from her waist to stroke at her jawline, leans down and drops a kiss on her mouth, soft and delicate, leaves her aching for more. "With all my stuff."

"It's a big house," he smirks, but she doesn't look sure, even as he runs his hand back do her body, over breast and ribs, stops at her hip to trace patterns, making her shiver.

"It's a big step -" she begins to argue, but he cuts her off, mouth moving to her neck, lips brushing against skin as he speaks.

"I'm ready."

"But what if you're not," she says, and he lifts his head to look at her. Molly Dawes, scared. He'd never have believed it if he wasn't lying here, next to her, looking down into wide, petrified eyes. "I mean, you were married to her for, how long?"

"Ten years," he answers straight away.

"That's a very long time," Molly points out, her hand running over his back, memorizing each muscle, the dips and curves.

"She never made me feel the way you do," he breathes, the moment of honesty so bare, she feels like the air's been taking from her lungs.

"I just," Molly frowns, tries to find the words, but isn't sure there are any. "Are you really sure?"

He answers her by crashing his mouth onto hers, kisses her so fiercely, she's worried she's going to pass out. When he finally pulls away, they're both panting, eyes dark with arousal, hearts beating so fast, Molly's sure she can hear them. "O-okay then," she whispers, her stomach squeezing tight.

"Really?" His eyes widen, a grin breaks across his face, and she reaches up to smooth a thumb over his swollen lips.

"Really," she nods. "On the one condition that we start looking for our own place."

"We'll go to the estate agents first thing tomorrow," Charles whispers, before his mouth is back on hers, softer this time, a celebration, his hands running down her thighs, causing her to shiver.

"Not tomorrow," she breathes in between kiss. "The courier should be delivering my stuff."

Charles pulls back, looks confused, and Molly laughs, light and carefree.

She had every intention of moving in, anyway.