"Charlie, your phone," Molly mumbles into her pillow, eyes peeping open just enough to watch as Charles rolls over next to her, grabs his ringing phone from the night stand and thumbs at the screen, before dropping it somewhere on the bed and rolling back, eyes closing quickly, as if could go back to sleep just that easily. Molly tries to do the same, closes her eyes and attempts to grab back the dream she'd been enjoying, but the sun is streaming through the blind that was falsely advertised as 'blackout', and her muscles ache from yesterday's new workout. She huffs a sigh, opens her eyes to lock onto brown ones.

"Stop starin'," she orders, but it falls flat, her voice heavy with sleep, earns a smirk in return as he reaches over, attempts to flatten her wild bed hair.

"I'm not," he lies, makes no attempt to look away from her, his hand retreating, and she doesn't like the way her head suddenly feels cold, the gap between them feels too far. She shifts closer, lifts her head to rest in the dip below his collarbone as she tangles her bare legs with his and wraps an arm around his naked torso. She closes her eyes, his warm skin a comfort in the cold room, the central heating failing to remove the morning chill, listens to his heart thud-thudding below her head, the rhythmic movement of his chest as he breathes easing her into a feeling of contentment. She's on the edge of sleep when she's pulled back by a persistent buzzing against her leg, accompanying the theme tune from The Simpsons.

"Sorry," Charlie quickly apologises as Molly opens her eyes to glare, his hands skimming over the covers until he finds the offending item, taps against the screen again and presses it against his ear, clearing his throat before he speaks. "Em?"

Molly looks up at him at the mention of his sisters name, wonders why the Hell she is calling at some ungodly hour on a holiday, and he looks down when he feels the shift, rolls his eyes to earn a lopsided smile.

"Yeah, Em, I told you we'd be there," he sighs, waits for all of two seconds before confirming, "Yes, Em, I said we." He listens again, and Molly can make out the voice through the phone, can tell it's Emily, but can't make out what she's saying, but by the way Charles' eyes darken, she can make a guess, knows that she isn't too happy about Charles opting to bring Molly to the party instead of his ex, Rebecca. "Mmhmm," he murmurs as the hand at her waist begins to trace circles lazily through her tank top, rolls his head back so he can stare at the ceiling. "No, Em, Sam wont be coming. Yes, I know it's only once a year...No, Rebecca wouldn't let me...No, I'm not going to invite her." He sighs, and Molly can feel his body tense. She plants a kiss just above his nipple, soft and comforting. "Okay, you do that. Emily, please, don't make this any harder...okay." He glances back down at Molly, lips twitching towards a smile but it falls from his mouth quickly, and she catches anger flash through his eyes, even as he tears them away to stare at the ceiling, an attempt to hide it. "Don't go there, Em." It's deep, rumbles his chest, the warning sending goosebumps across Molly's skin, and she hates the way she's making the relationship between Charles and Emily so much harder. "Okay, we'll be there for nine," he sighs, looks at Molly. "Yes, I'll remind Molly that she needs to wear red. Okay, Em. Yeah, love you too." He ends the call, tosses the phone back onto the bed somewhere, before pulling Molly closer to him, both very much awake, any chance of sleeping in diminished. "I'm sorry about that," he whispers, his breath fanning the top of her head.

"It's fine," Molly insists, plants another kiss to his chest before looking back up at him. "She's lucky she's your sister; anyone else and I'd have knocked their teeth out by now." Charles laughs at that; quietly, but it still counts, Molly decides. "What did she want, anyway?"

"She wanted to make sure we're going to her party tonight," he answers her honestly, worry passing over his face so fleetingly, Molly isn't sure if she imagined it. "If you want to, that is."

"I don't see why I should," Molly snorts, moving back onto her side of the bed, onto her cold pillow, because it's easier to be assertive when she isn't tangled up with the man that holds so much power over her, even if she denies it. "She hates me. I ain't gonna go to some lame party just for her to look down her nose at me all night."

Charles shifts, sinks further down the bed to match Molly's eye level, rolls back onto his side and fixes his pillow, so their noses are mere centimetres apart.

"She doesn't hate you -"

"She does," Molly scoffs, because she'll never forget the look of disgust on Emily's face when she'd first met her.

"She doesn't, she just has a hard time adjusting to change. She'll warm up to you, I promise," Charles says, his hand disappearing under the duvet, pushes Molly's top up just enough for his hand to rest on the exposed skin of her hip, fingers brushing gently at soft skin. She shivers at his touch.

"No," she says, firmly, despite the way her tummy flutters when his fingers move to the rhythm of his heart beat.

"Please?" He tries, lifts his head to drop a kiss on the exposed skin of her shoulder, before flopping back, but Molly's too stubborn for her own good.

"She can jog on. I ain't going to her poxy party," she asserts, and Charles sighs, looks defeated for all of a second.

"I can't go without you."

"So don't go," as if it's that easy.

"I can't not go, I've already told her we'll be going, you heard me," he reminds her of the call, as if she's forgotten, and she huffs a sigh. "It's a once a year thing. Everyone is going to be there, you wont even cross paths with Em, I promise."

"It's her party," Molly points out, and Charles seems to consider that for a brief moment, as if he's forming an argument in his head.

"You're right," he finally agrees, leaning forward to drop another kiss, this time on the corner of her mouth, feels it curve below him as her hands emerge from under the covers to cradle his face, lifts it back up level with her.

"Really?" She narrows her eyes suspiciously, but he nods, eyes wide and innocent.

"Yeah, really. Let's stay here, instead," he smiles, before moving forwards, brushes his lips against her jawline, his hand inching further beneath her top, pushing it up as rough hands pass over smooth skin. She makes a sound of approval as she tilts her head up, gives him easier access to her neck, her arms wrapping around his half naked body as they shift into a better position.

"I like that idea," she breathes, eyes closing as his hand moves over her ribs, stops beneath the swell of her breast as he lavishes her throat, nips at the sensitive spot right below her ear.

"It's not like it's a family tradition," he mumbles against her, and her eyes open as she sighs, because he didn't need to put it quite like that, knows how much his parents have come to mean to her in the short amount of time that she's known them, especially his mother.

"You're playing dirty," she groans as he sucks at her ear lobe, parts her knees with his so he can rest between them. She tries to resist, even as she wraps her legs around him, and grips onto his shoulders.

"We both know I can do dirty," he chuckles, deep and throaty, as he runs his hand over breast, tugs at her shirt and whips it off over her head, moves to cover her naked chest with his own.

"That's not fair," she says, tries and fails to sound sincere, even as one hand works up into his hair whilst the other moves down his back, fingers tracing over each taut muscle. He moves his head to look at her, eyes dark with arousal, tracing every inch of her face as if he's taking it all in, storing it for when she leaves.

"It will just be for a couple of hours," he promises, leans down to brush his lips against hers, barely touching, earns a whimper when he moves away.

"No," she says, voice husky, as he leaves a hot trail of kisses down her neck.

"Two hours, Mol." His breath tickles against her skin as her works his way to her breasts, slowly taking his time as she shudders below him, heart beat speeding to a rate of knots.

"No," she tries again, sounds airy as he flicks a tongue across her nipple, smiles as she breathes a moan.

"Two hours, or I'll stop," he threatens, moving his mouth to her stomach as he shifts down the bed, can almost feel her resolve slipping away.

"An hour," she attempts at a negotiation as a hand works across her flat abdomen, stops at the elastic of her panties, his mouth just above her belly button, teeth grazing sensitive skin.

"An hour and a half," he counters, thumb hooking into the red lace, tugging as his mouth moves to her hip bone, makes her writhe below him, gasps as he rips the thin fabric from her body.

"Fine," she breathes, hands reaching down to tangle in his hair. "And you buy the dress."

He looks up at her flushed cheeks, smiles victoriously before crashing his mouth onto her.

It's a deal.

"Charles!" The long legged, red head smiles as Molly and Charles step through the front door to the grand house, a paid tux greeting them to collect their coats on entry. "I'm so glad you made it!" She grins, reaching for his shoulder and giving him a quick peck on the cheek. She glances at Molly briefly, lip twitching in obvious distaste, before smiling back at Charles. "It's lovely to see you."

"Thanks Em," Charles returns, holds out the bottle of very pricey champagne they'd picked up on their way. "Here, Molly picked it." Emily takes the bottle, eyes run over the label before she's shoving it at the hired help, telling them to put it somewhere, before she forces a smile onto her mouth that doesn't reach her eyes.

"Thank you, Mary."

"It's Molly, actually," she corrects, her fists balling at her sides, ready to break that perfectly aligned nose. "And you're welcome." Emily's eyes narrow slightly, before she's taking a breath and stepping around them, attention focused on the latest couple to enter the house.

"Thank you," Charles mumbles as his hand wraps around her fist, works out the tension and uncurls her fingers to entwine them with his.

"Ninety minutes," Molly whispers in his ear, making the most of being tall enough, the heels already making her feet ache as they slowly make their way down the hall.

"Mol -"

"Ninety minutes," She says again, firmer. "That was the deal." He nods at that, because, dammit, she has a point.

Neither say anything to each other during the taxi ride home, both too exhausted to try and uphold a conversation. They'd ended up spending more then ninety minutes at the function, not that Molly could blame Charles for wanting to stay, to see the New Year in with the whole family; all thirty of them. He'd introduced her to every single one of them, but after the first ten, faces become muddled and names lost in a sea of wine and little food, and even though every one of them smiled and shook her hand, managed to get her name right, she couldn't help but feel like they were judging her; for her age, for her army rank, for not being Rebecca.

She looks over at him, his shoulders stooped beneath the classic black blazer, head tilted to the side slightly as eyes stare out of the window, watching the streets of Bath whizz by in darkness. She reaches over, takes his hand in both of hers, brings it to her mouth to kiss the palm, before dropping to hold it in her lap. He glances down, his eyes rimmed with red because he's just as tired as she is, and smiles at her, squeezes her hand softly.

When they finally get to his parents house, she gets out of the car, forces her legs to carry her up to the front door, where she waits, watches as Charles pays the cab driver, slaps the bonnet as a thank you, and makes his way to the front door, where he unlocks it and lets her step in, first. She slips both of her feet out of the Louboutin heels he's insisted he bought her to match the dress she was wearing, leaves them by the door, takes his hand and leads him up the stairs to the bedroom, neither speaking, neither needing to.

They step into the darkness of their bedroom; Molly flicks on the bedroom lamp and Charles closes the door quietly, not wanting to wake his sleeping parents, on floor up and two rooms over.

"Hey, thanks for coming tonight," Charles whispers in Molly's ear as he snakes his arms around her waist, rests his head on her shoulder. "I know you didn't want to." She turns around at that, his arms staying looped around her body, and she's looking up at him – shorter without her heels on – his face tired, but eyes burning intensely in the warm glow of the small lamp. She nods, because words just aren't going to cut it here, when in all honesty, even without the mind blowing morning sex, the gorgeous sequinned dress and the fancy shoes, she probably would have given in and agreed to attend the party, anyway. She's not about to let him know that, though. She reaches up on tip toes, presses her mouth firmly onto his, kisses him slowly, full of comfort and respect, telling him that it's okay, that she's with him, no matter what. She pulls back, looks into those chocolate caramel eyes, and they tell her he gets it, he understands.

"Unzip me," she whispers, turning around and sweeping her brown curls to the side, and he does without question, presses his lips to her neck as he does, brushes the fabric from her shoulders so it falls, pools at her feet leaving her in the black underwear she'd bought specially. "Thanks," she replies, before bending to pick it up, moving over to the laundry basket and dumping it in there. Charles moves around to his side of the bed, slips out of his jacket and tosses it over the chair in the corner, begins to work on the cuff links in his shirt.

Molly pulls open the top drawer of the dresser, takes out one of Charles' large t-shirts, unclasps her bra, tosses that into the laundry and slides the shirt over her head. She catches Charles watching her, eyes twinkling in the light, and she smirks, before moving to grab a face wipe to begin removing the make-up she'd spent an hour applying.

"Tryna cop an eyeful, Captain?" She jokes at his reflection, scrubbing at one of her eyes whilst the other admires the sculpted body he reveals as he tugs his shirt off.

"I've already seen you naked, Dawes," Charles returns, wags an eye brows as he steps out of his trousers, throws them to rest with his jacket. Molly laughs, leaves the soiled wipe on the dresser top as she turns to make her away across the room, movements slow as body aches.

"Well, ain't you the lucky one, 'en," she laughs, flicking the lights off and sliding under the covers at the same time as Charles, automatically scoots over to his side of the bed to wrap her arms around his body, tangle her legs with his as he adjusts the covers, makes sure she's covered well enough to avoid getting cold. "I like your family." She sighs, stifles a yawn as they settle, him tracing patterns lazily on her back and her running her fingers up and down his ribs.

"They liked you, too," he assures and there's a long pause, long enough for him to think she's given in to the waves of exhaustion that crash into them now that they've made it home and into bed.

"Happy new year, Charlie," she eventually breathes, quiet and intimate, voice trailing off.

"Happy new year, Dawes," he answers, stretching his neck to press his lips to her head, before he settles back against the pillows, waits until her breathing is shallow and rhythmic, telling him she's dozed off, before he allows himself to fall asleep, too.