VIIII


"Good to have you back, sir."

Charles smiled a little as Kinders left, though deep down he still felt nothing but guilt for causing such distress in those closest to him.

"You won't be saying that once he's back at Brize, making yo'all run laps round the place," Molly replied softly, appearing at the door, leaning almost shyly against the wall opposite him.

As the door clicked shut signally they were finally alone, Charles watched quietly as his wife stood still as a statue, looking incredibly apprehensive and breathless as her chest rose and fell with the same increasing speed his did. It was only now that he got a good look at her, noticing for the first time that her clothes, his old university shirt and shorts, were soaked with water, along with strands of her hair.

"You're shaking," he said, trying to lift his arm to beckon her to him, but lifting his arms was agony. As he gasped aloud, she hurriedly filled the the gap between them, looking as though she had never seen an injured man before.

"You're hurt," she countered softly, feeling too on edge to even reach out and touch him. It felt like she was balanced on a razors edge, the quiet around them almost suffocating in its intensity, as though neither knew how to break it.

"Just a few broken ribs," he shrugged, knowing he sounded foolish in how he downplayed it. He gazed at her, seeing her nerves but not understanding why they were there.

"You're face is not as pretty as I remember it either, mate," she replied, attempting at a joke. His tongue subconsciously darted out to touch his split lip, knowing by the ache in his face that he had a shiner on his cheekbone or two, no doubt already swollen.

"Yours is," he said. Usually, he would give her a charming smile that would tell her he knew he was being cheesy, but today his expression was somber. He meant it completely. After all, absence made the heart grow fonder… and so did hear death. "You're so beautiful," he breathed, almost talking to himself.

"I think whatever them bastards did to ya's gone to y'brain, Charlie!" she retorted bashfully, busy wiping the continued silent tears that fell from her eyes unchecked.

"Maybe," he conceded, his voice rough with pent up emotion. "But not when it comes to you."

He was so impatient to hold her again, he almost pleaded with her to come closer, but finally she closed the last foot or so between them on her own, standing between his parted legs at the edge of the bed.

Slowly, she slid her fingers into his hair from the curls at his forehead. His eyes almost rolled with the bliss he felt as her fingernails began to slowly massage and scratch at his scalp just how he liked it. He pressed his forehead against her waist, just under her breast, for a moment, ignoring the damp, salty nature of her clothes and simply basked in her shape and warmth. He wasn't dead and, by some miracle, his wife was here to greet him on R&R. He felt utterly blessed. He wanted to thank God, but after the events of the last few days, he still had no idea how such a being could exist when such injustice and wrong carried on.

She was now bending down to him enough to grip him around his neck and shoulders, pressing her lips to his hair. He hadn't realised he was crying until she began shushing him softly, attempting to console him against the shell of his ear.

"I love you," he wheezed, the words feeling urgent. "I love you more than I can comprehend. You know that, don't you?"

"I think you're mad, but I know," she whispered, kissing him again while she stroked him hair, still thick with desert grime. "because I love you," she replied, knowing he needed to hear it back today. "You broke Army regulations for me, so I know you must like me, at least a little."

"Yeah, just a little, I guess," he joked, kissing her collarbone through her shirt.

'Just, Gordon Bennett! No more fucking heroics. I almost died of ten Julius seizures!"

His breath trembled against her neck as struggled not to laugh and weep simultaneously, his hands gripping the sheets at his sides as he couldn't lift his arms. The pain was too exhausting to withstand.

Pulling back, they looked at one another and simpered a little at the sight of each other, both a mess of tear stains, salt and dust. Charles then gasped, his body continually forgetting that it hurt to laugh.

"I can't," he protested weakly, though he was still grinning. "Please don't make me…laugh."

Standing to her full height, he was endeared all over again that she was still so small. Sat up on the bed, his eye level was easily in line with her breasts, currently peaking with the chill of the air conditioning beneath a wet shirt.

"I'll try not to, but you know me," she said, pretending she wasn't shaking with cold. "But I can't promise anything, what with my effortless charm and magnetism."

He chuckled just as he had the very first time she had said such a thing, but this time, he weakly reached to grab ahold of her and pull her to him, as he had so craved to do all that time ago.

However, as he moved to gently pull her in by the outer thigh, he was bewildered to find her flinch away from his touch, as though his touch was so hot or cold it had taken her by surprise.

"Woah—what—did I—are you hurt?" he began, not sure where his words were. He suddenly couldn't stop seeing how Lane had flinched that same way after having her clothing torn and her body groped just days ago.

Just like that, she was gone from his touch, out of his reach.

"I'll run you a bath," she said softly, pressing a long, reverent kiss in his forehead as he so often did to her. He might have thought she had not heard him, if it had not been for the way she would no longer meet his eye.

"Molly?"

Again she ignored him, disappearing behind the tiled panel hiding the adjoining bathroom. "The lads will lose it when they see you," she called through nonchalantly. "I'd be careful that Mansfield don't cry all over you."

"Molly," he repeated, knowing he sounded impatient and offended, but really he was terrified. Molly didn't keep things from him. They had always been open and honest with one another. She began nattering about free bath oils and how her mum would have already pinched everything complimentary she possibly could if she were here, but the more she spoke, evidently trying to bury whatever it was that bothered her under ten inches of needless chat, the more he was desperate to force the truth from her.

She walked back through and gave him a look of deep thought.

"Do you think you can you make it to the bath?" she said, holding out her arms to assist him. "I know you're a rather heavy bugger, but I can try and help."

Groaning, he allowed her to help him up, using his upper arms to take some of his weight. Slowly, they made it to the bathroom, where she went about the task of undressing him with a level of detached pragmatism he previously thought could only be reserved for experienced parents attempting to undress their errant four year old olds. However, at the sight of the colourful, angry looking bruising already rising on his skin the entire length of his chest, she faltered and he could make out the unmistakably ghost of terror in her eyes.

"Oh, Charlie!" she gasped in a whisper, reaching down to ghost her fingertips over the furious looking redness, some of which already becoming a deep burgundy in its transition to black and blue.

"I'm okay," he assured gently, sitting helplessly on the edge of the tub. He watched her face as a multitude of different emotions crossed her features, from sorrow and compassionate despair to something much darker.

"You sure? It looks bad," she said, as though she hadn't heard him. Ignoring the pain it caused, he reached out to grasp her hand and bring it to him lips, trying not to groan through his teeth.

"Don't worry about me, sweetheart."

Instantly, she looked at him with a familiar look of fire. He narrowly managed not to laugh. "Don't you sweetheart me, Charles bloody James! 'Don't worry'?!" With a sniff that told him she biting back her true response, she then knelt before him to help get rid of his trousers. "I swear! I have never wanted to both smother and throttle someone so much in me life!"

Her voice may have sounded angry, but what he heard was how it shook. He knew by the distracted look in her eyes that the fury was in fact of disguise for her fear for him. He felt guilty and self conscious as he allowed her to undress him this way, feeling completely and utterly useless. He hated feeling like such a burden and knowing he had caused her such distress. At the same time though, he felt his heart leap with joy with each touch; her fingertips on his bare skin sent jolting electricity through his veins.

With a stoic expression, she helped him stand so he could hold onto her shoulders while she pulled down his camo trousers and boxer briefs. She noticed they were clean and realised they must have been delivered to him fresh in hospital. She dreaded to think about the state of the clothing he had been wearing up until that point.

She barely looked at him once he was nude, as though she had never seen him naked before. As she helped him into the water, grimacing each time he groaned through gritted teeth as he moved to sit down. The warmth of the water left him breathing heavily, momentarily forgetting his worries entirely, as the water felt splendid against his battered muscles, so splendid it was almost painful.

–x–

Molly felt her whole body shaking with anxiety as she gazed at her husband's wounds, feeling ill as she looked at what had been done to him. She could feel a sudden wave of tears almost breaking banks as she stuffed her hands into her pockets. Her fingertips met the damp leaflet there, which felt as though it was burning a hole damp in her pocket. She so wanted to collapse with the exhaustion of keeping it all in. She so wanted to feel lighter, to feel delighted and blissful now her husband was safe, but instead, she felt as burdened than ever.

Looking up, he was gazing at her with half-closed eyes; the look of a contented man. He was beautiful, even after being beaten for days and starved, he was still beautiful. His usually defined torso seemed narrower, his whole frame a little thinner. His brown eyes were shadowed with dark rings of exhaustion, but the were looking at her in a way that would have once set her blood on fire. A nude Charles in a bath had once been her most favourite treat. Now though, it just left her feeling sick because he didn't know. He wouldn't look at her like that…not once he knew.

"Join me?" he whispered softly, unaware of how the prospect of undressing in front of him made panic grip her every muscle.

Molly was therefore left speechless, as she was struck dumb for how she should respond. If she denied him this, something she would usually happily accept, he would know something was wrong. But if she didn't… he would see her bruises.

"Molly?"

Suddenly feeling suffocated, she turned on her heel and wrenched open the veranda door. Instantly, she was hit with the heat and humidity of the Kenyan evening air, a stark contrast with the air conditioned room, as she stood and gasped for air over the balcony. Behind her, she could already feel Charles' eyes, tense with worry, following her every move.

"Molly, what's wrong?"

When she didn't answer, she heard him groan and growl loudly, evidently trying lift himself back out of the bath.

"No! Don't!" She attempted to hurry back to stop him while not looking him in the eye. "Y'mad?! You might gonna' hurt y'self more!"

When she tried to stop him, he gave her a glare reserved for Captain James only. "I might gonna' have to if it means finding out what you're not telling me."

She held his gaze, determined not to break it, but of course, she ended up looking away first.

She just couldn't make the words come. She knew she couldn't sustain this, this feeling of shame and betrayal and disgust for herself, but she couldn't find a way to let the words out. They made her so sick to even think them.

"I can't."

He was silent for a long moment, frustratingly slamming a palm down on the surface of the water. "What do you mean you 'can't'?!"

She flinched at his tone as the harsh words bounced off the tiles. She couldn't breathe, knowing how she was hurting him. But she also couldn't breathe at the thought of losing him to the truth, either.

"Don't shout at me!" she ordered hotly, her tone fragile compared to him. She had turned away from him, gazing out the window.

"You're right – I'm sorry. I'm sorry." His voice was back to its quiet, calm nature again. "I just… can't cope with watching you hurting when you won't let me help. Please let me—"

"—You weren't here!" she shot back impulsively, her throat tight with tears. "What could you know?!" Her rage and exhaustion, which had been focused inward for so long, now focused on the one person who she deep down knew was her greatest protector. She was ashamed as she heard the barb and sharpness with which she spoke to him, but she seemed unable to stop it. Her disgust for herself and the world was making her sour, turning her into a woman who could only withstand men at arms width, who blamed all men for what one animal did to her… and she felt powerless to stop it.

"Molly—"

At the doorway to the balcony, she gripped the doorframe, looking at him but only seeing a mist of red. "—Don't ask me if I'm fucking okay!" Hands shaking, she felt the words escaping as though not at all her own. "How can I ever be okay again?"

Frowning, Charles seemed to sense they were talking of two separate things: one of which she knew all and he knew nothing. "Molly, I'll be alright. It's just some broken ribs—"

"It's not—!" she shouted, having to break her words to heave a deep breath. Her lungs felted seized and malfunctioning. "It's not about—"

"—Then what is it?!"

"I told you – I can't say!" she shouted, unable to stop the volume of her voice from increasing as she felt herself retreating into self defense.

"Why?!"

"'Cuz I can't lose you a second time, alright?!" she cried. The silence that followed was almost deafening, as they both attempted to disguise her distress. Charles' own eyes were now shining with a deafening anguish, his fingers gripping the rim of the tub as he could barely even move, much less climb out to her. "If I say it out loud, it makes it real and I'm terrified of what that means."

"What?" Lost, Charles had managed to shuffle himself along the bench within the bath, as near to her as he could get as he leant over the edge, holding out his arms. "Makes what real? Molly? I don't understand."

With bated breath, Molly fingered the leaflet, pulling it from her pocket. Thumbing the word that lay on her mind with the weight of the world, her vision blurred with tears until she couldn't see. Slowly, she made her way to him and, feeling in a sort of trance, placed it in his hand.

She couldn't look at him, instead choosing to back away as though it would mean backing away from the truth she had set free.

–x–

So much was his exhaustion, it took him a long moment to process the words on the paper she handed him, already wrinkled with the moisture of her shorts pocket. All the same, a word he had most come to dread over the last few days was there, printed before him in black and white. His mind could barely compute it. Was did Molly have a leaflet on rape?

One look up at her and the answer suddenly seemed all too clear. Her entire frame was stiff, rigid, unlike the Molly he knew, as though expecting something might pounce at her at any moment. Her eyes were shadowed by dark, deep bags that were near a shade of purple. Her hands were gripping the doorframe as though she might collapse again.

All this and she had flinched at his touch.

"Oh, god…" he breathed, feeling his chest tighten impossibly. She was crying, though he couldn't hear a sound, a hand pressed to her sternum. He himself gripped the bath even harder, unable to think. He had to hear her say it, because every cell in his body currently wanted to deny it could be true.

"I tried to stop him," she whimpered, still not looking at him as she sounded utterly lost.

"No." Charles felt himself nearly gag, unable to keep from visualising it. His body began violently shaking. "Oh, please, no." His pleas were useless, but they escaped him anyway in a manner that narrowly resembled grief. He remembered the way Lane had been manhandled, how the masked men had pulled at her clothes and groped her flesh as though inspecting a prize cow at a county show.

His breathing became loud, fierce, like a newly caged wild animal. If he had not been so reckless, if he had only been there to care for her, maybe he could have stopped this. Instead, he'd got himself captured… in which time, his wife had been violated, treated like a piece of meat.

"God, I think I'm going to be sick," he gasped, heaving himself up to sit on the edge of the bath out of the water, ignoring the throngs of white-hot agony it caused. The water felt like it was suddenly suffocating him, far too hot around him. He leant over the edge, gasping for enough air and gagging, before raising his head to look for her. She was kneeling beside the bath now, her eyes wide with panic and concern, but also guarded with shame.

"Who?" he asked, his voice betraying him as it showed him just as he was: desolate, guilt-ridden and murderous with fury.

Slowly, she finally looked him in the eye, leaning into his touch as he stroked her face. Her voice was smaller than he had ever known it, but her answer was clear.

"My CO... Captain Lawerence."

Clenching his eyes shut, he howled in sorrow through gritted teeth, as it felt as though someone had driven a knife through him, except none of this kind of pain could be fixed by his pain medication.

"I'm so sorry," she wept, pressing her head against the edge of the jacuzzi bath, evidently misreading his despair for blame.

"Don't you dare!" he choked fiercely, moving rigidly to grasp the side of her face. She was biting her lip as she always did went she was trying to keep her emotion held in. He knew what he needed as he took her in with his eyes, but it only stoked his fury further that he could barely move to act on it.

"Come here," he pleaded, sniffing hard. When she didn't move and continued to cry just out of his reach, he raised his voice. "Please, Molly, come here. I need to fucking hold you. I can't do this. Please, I can't move and I need you. Please."

Before he could stop himself, he had crushed the leaflet in a white-knuckle fist, bowing his head to try and keep himself in check. Slowly, he watched her from his perch on the side of the bath as she took in a deep breath, then another, before beginning to remove her clothes. He hadn't expected it, having assumed she would just let her already damp clothing get wet again. He averted his gaze out of politeness and desire for her to feel safe around him. He never wanted her to feel objectified again. Men could be such animals that way.

Slowly, she sank into the water and he was horrified to see her gasp and wince as her crotch made contact with it. His breathing shuddered at the sight of the bruising on her thighs, leaving him feeling sick again. It was unmistakably in the shape of a hand.

"Molly," he said, helplessly doing nothing but gazing at her, his eyes filled with sympathy and torment.

"I'm okay, Charlie," she replied, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, though it sounded like an automatic reflex. She never liked to admit when she was hurt. Her job was to simply diagnose everyone else.

"But he raped you." The word felt like poison in his mouth.

"Yeah, alright," she replied scornfully, as though angry. Instantly, she sighed, sorry for it. "I know but I'm alright. Now you're here, anyway."

"Tell me," he pleaded. "Tell me what happened."

Looking at her through itchy tearful eyes, he lowered himself in beside her. Neither could say anything as she pressed her face to his chest, letting her hands roam over his arms. He could barely lift them to wrap them around her, but he did so anyway, even when she tutted at him for doing so. He basked in the feeling of her bare skin, so much of it and so warm, against his, feeling her vibrate as she spoke and flex as she breathed.

"He cornered me, when I was out by the shitter," she explained. "Told me no one would believe the girl who shagged and married her first CO." He could feel her shiver and it hurt him gutturally to feel her fear.

"That's bollocks!" he retorted without thinking.

"Is it?" she breathed, sitting back to look at him, eye to eye, with no obstacle or boundary left between them. "That's why I only reported it yesterday, because I started to feel like he could be right, because he could be! Nothing happened between us on tour, but they don't know that, all them Ruperts and the like who like to judge and think women's place is in the bleedin' kitchen making onion soup—"

He shushed her ramblings quiet then, resting his head against hers as she wiped her fresh tears away. "It's not your fault, Molly. We never consummated our relationship until I wasn't your CO, which is much fucking more than many other people I know have done. Falling for people in your Section is more common than you'd think. You've done nothing wrong, and even if you had, it does not excuse a man touching you against your will."

"I know that, but will a court marshal?!"

Her breathing was panicked as she gripped his hand, tracing the tendons up his wrist. He could sense he wasn't helping, stating the obvious, but it was all he felt he could do. He was a Captain in the British Army, he was her husband, but he couldn't do anything but give her words. Words of comfort and love.

"If only I'd been there—!" he began.

"—Oh yeah, 'nd how would would you have been?" she contested with a laugh, cupping both sides of his face and kissing him quiet. "There are some things even Bossman Charles James just can't fix."

Closing the gap between them again, they met in a firmer kiss this time, one that had them sharing air as they pulled away only a fraction to look into each other's eyes.

"I will fix this," he whispered against her cheek, pressing kisses wherever he could reach. "Together, we'll get through it."

Molly smoothed her hands over the days worth of beard beginning to take shape on his face, smiling as she evidently approved of it. Pulling his lower lip over his bottom teeth, he rubbed his chin over her hand, delighting in the giggle that rose from her.

"God, I missed you," he sighed, humming in both discomfort and satisfaction as he bowed his head against her bare shoulder.

"'Course you did, mate," she smiled. "Wife of the year, me."

With his lips against her neck, Charles grinned, only just resisting the urge to laugh. "You're wife of the year every year, Molly James."

She held him against her for a long while, almost sending him to sleep with the rhythmic stroking of his hair and tracing of his spine. He had never felt so simultaneously at peace and at war within himself, as he was so utterly relieved to be in her arms, to feel safe, yet he was also shaken with anguish. He was not sure he could ever sleep entirely peacefully knowing another man had forced himself on his wife while he was over four thousand miles away.

"I want to kill him," he whispered menacingly, tracing the angry hand mark with his fingers beneath the water. It felt like playing with fire, admiring such a thing. After all, he was a British Army officer. He was supposed to be above vengeance. But, to his surprise, Molly simply leant up to press a gentle kiss on his mouth.

"Join the queue, mate," she said, managing a smile he remembered from long ago, when they had been nothing but man and wife without the shadows of the worst of human kind hanging over them.

At her own confession, he felt a little better. It reminded him how strong she was, how he may want to fight her battles for her, he may feel rage that made him want to tear down whole cities for her, but she didn't need him to. She was brilliant long before she was his and she would remain so always.

What came next felt as easy as breathing, as he pressed his lips to hers and felt his entire body come alive in a way he had entirely forgotten it could be. He groaned in bliss against her, but also in frustration that he couldn't even lift his hands to hold her to him like he wanted to.

"Thank you for coming back to me," she whispered against his shoulder, kissing him there as she moved to reach for the shampoo to wash his hair for him.

"Well, I promised, didn't I?" he jested, smoothing a hand down her calf as she stretched them out either side of him. It felt as they had reversed role suddenly, as he made a inappropriately timed joke to something that had been intended to be intimate and heavy in meaning. It felt good though, to joke. It made things feeling a fraction more normal, even though they weren't. They both knew what a close call it had been, and yet they let this understatement slide. They had both been reminded of the fragilities of life and it would effect them for a long time to come, but it was the British Army way to dwell on such things.

His eyes were closed, but he felt wide awake with all the emotion still coursing through him. Somehow though, his rage her passed, at least for a while.

All she really needed was this, just as he did: someone to come home to when all was done.