A/N: So far, they have had every other chapter, but the next two will also be from Charles' POV, just saying so you don't get confused about who "I" is. It just seemed to fit better with the plot. Big thanks for your reviews – without them it would feel like posting this into a black hole and even if I'm enjoying this myself it helps to know if someone else does too.

Chapter 9: Charles

During my therapy sessions to treat the PTSD I had gradually learned not to shut off my feelings, quit placing them in boxes in some hidden place at the back of my brain and instead be open with them. It was achieving this which finally had enabled me to get through on the other side, be a fully functional man again. However, now I saw it necessary to dust off that skill, and resolutely put my newly discovered feelings for Ms. Dawes in such a mental box, carefully taped it closed and placed it in a god-forsaken corner with the intention never to open it again. At least that was what I told myself and it worked quite fine over the week that followed after my pub evening with Elvis. I focused on the job, stayed alert on the surroundings, never let my eyes linger on her longer than was motivated, held my conversations with her as brief as possible. I was quite satisfied with myself for being so professional. Then came the Friday and the PM's birthday party.

I had turned down Trinny's kind offer to arrange a dinner jacket for me, as I owned one which had been tailor-made for me during my university years and still fit me in the same way it had then. I brought it with me to the Home Office that morning, as I hardly could walk around in dinner jacket all day but wanted to be prepared to go directly to the party without having to stop by my flat. When Ms. Dawes saw the bag, she commented;

"Excellent. I'll be going home to change and have stylist help me get prepared so I look a bit more exciting than the regular boring me. You can just bring your clothes and get changed over there too."

I agreed, not to that she usually looked boring in any way, but to that it would be efficient to get changed at her place.

When we got to the flat, she referred me to her studio, said I could change there, meanwhile she was off to her bedroom and the ensuite bathroom with the stylist in tow. I briefly reflected upon that these days she did not hesitate at all to let me in there, in contrast to the first evening when my presence in her studio had seemed to upset her.

Changing clothes was a quick affair, so I was ready long before her and sat down in the armchair in her studio, let my gaze wander over the photos and little trinkets and drawings, taking the opportunity to try and decipher more about who she really was. There was only one photo of her, together with what I assumed to be her family. She seemed to be in her late teens, and already somehow stood out from the rest of the group in the photo even if I could not put my finger on exactly what made her do that. She was just different from the rest. She seemed to be the eldest of her siblings and I could count to five brothers and sisters. The parents were young for having teenage kids but looking like life had not been easy on them, and in the case of the father maybe not the booze either. There was one elderly woman in the photo, maybe a grandmother. The photographer had not managed to coordinate a photo where all nine looked into the camera and smiled simultaneously. Several of the smaller kids seemed to be half-fighting with each other, the mother appeared to try to keep them in check, the younger teen sister looked embarrassed to be there and the father gazed somewhere to the left, possibly drunk. Only the elderly woman and Molly looked straight into the camera, the woman smiling, Molly serious and like she wanted to be somewhere else. I suddenly realised that when I looked at this picture I could only think of her as Molly, not Ms. Dawes or the Home Secretary. Maybe because that was who she had been then, unaware of who she would become in the distant future. I wondered how she had had the possibility to become who she was now, but I was not sure how she would take it if I asked her.

There were other photos of the family members growing older, and of the sister with a baby, then with a toddler and another baby – I assumed Ms. Dawes' nephews, her sister a young mother like their parents had been. The photos indicated that Ms. Dawes was the only one who had risen above her background and made a class-journey. I wondered how she felt about that, how they felt about that. Were they proud, or did they feel that they had lost her? Or maybe both?

I had returned to the first photo, that of the entire family when she spoke behind me and startled me.

"One of the few photos of the entire Dawes clan, and not even that one time we manged to pull ourselves together and make it a proper one. It says a bit about the ever-present chaos when there was no camera around."

It sounded to me like her voice was filled with both fondness and sadness. I turned around and took a deep breath at the sight of her.

Normally, she was wearing modest makeup and had her hair in a neat bun and always wore a blouse and a well-fitting jacket, paired either with slacks or pencil skirt. This evening, the stylist had transformed her, so she looked like a combination of Snow White and old-fashioned Hollywood glamour. Her fair complexion was radiant, her black eyelashes long and made her green eyes look even larger than they normally were, her lips painted in a luscious tempting red. Her dark hair was styled in big waves and swept so it fell over one shoulder, held in place by a sparkling clasp on the other side. And the dress… She did not have a huge cleavage or a slit that went half-way up the thigh, but she did not need it. The ankle length dress was made of cream white silk and the thin fabric fell along her body, clung to her every curve, leaving very little to the imagination. I could see her hipbones, the soft curve of her nearly flat stomach, her small but perfectly shaped breasts. I wondered if there was even space enough between the dress and her body to fit in any underwear. She was absolutely amazing, and I just stared like a fool. Maybe that was why she felt compelled to ask, almost nervously;

"Do I look okay?"

I had to clear my throat before speaking.

"I don't know what to say that quite covers it… You look stunning."

For a moment we looked at each other, both serious, then her face split in a wide grin. How I loved it when she looked happy all the way to her eyes.

"So, I should give the stylist a big tip then?"

"You definitely should", I smiled back, relieved that the tension was gone.

Before she left the room, she glanced over her shoulder and said;

"You don't look too shabby yourself."

I felt my cheeks turning hot and was glad she had left so she did not see, and I realised that the box with feelings which I so carefully had taped up and put away, had been brought out into the light and was wide open.

-OG-

The PM was throwing quite the party; everyone dressed to their teeth, champagne in abundance, waiters swarming, three-course dinner at the most exquisitely set tables, a band playing, everything played out in beautifully decorated surroundings. Security was high due to the prominent guest list, so I could allow myself to relax a bit as my eyes were not the only ones watching over the guests. My focus should be on the surroundings, the room, the people moving around, but again and again I was drawn to her, could not keep my eyes away from her. Even though there were many beauties in the room, she stood out, almost floating around in that amazing dress. She looked surprisingly comfortable in it, considering how far it was from her everyday attire, considering how far it was from the teenage girl in the photos. She mingled, she made conversation, she smiled and laughed. I could see that I was not the only one drawn to her – many men sought her attention, and I felt a pang of jealousy. I was not entitled to it but could not help it. Every once in a while, her eyes met mine from a distance and she gave me a smile, almost like we shared a secret, but I was not aware of what that may be. When the dancing started, she was asked to dance time and time again and I wished that I had been allowed to hold her only one dance.

Suddenly, she came towards me with surprising speed considering her high heels, but I had seen her practice that before.

"You have to rescue me", she hissed.

"From what?", I glanced around us, suddenly alarmed.

"From Rob McDonald. I have already put up with one dance with him but now he seems set on another. I can't stand it, his hands on me. Eeeek! Please, please, please, dance with me Sergeant James."

"It's not appropriate Ms. Dawes."

"It will be less of a scandal than if I have to slap Rob in the face for touching my arse", she smiled, and I could not argue with that.

So, I took her hand and led her to the dance floor, with one hand I held hers and placed the other one at the small of her back. I'm not sure which feeling I enjoyed most; holding her small hand wrapped in my larger one, or my other palm feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin silk as I held it to her back. Or maybe it was that her whole body was just inches from mine, in between touching as we moved and the narrow space of air separating us seemed electrically charged.

"You can dance for real!", she exclaimed, almost like an accusation. "I mean, I can't dance really but when you lead me it feels like I can."

"Two years in Miss Huffington's dance school", I smirked. "Very reluctant attendance on my part but my mum thought that was skills every young man ought to acquire."

She laughed and said, mockingly;

"You certainly are a most accomplished young man. It serves you well now, doesn't it?"

"I'll thank mum next time I see her and tell her I got a compliment from the Home Secretary thanks to those dance lessons."

"Don't remind me."

"Don't remind you of what?"

"That I'm the Home Secretary. Not right now. I just want to enjoy this dance, it's the best dance of this evening. The best moment of this evening."

"Seriously?" I laughed as I thought she was only jesting, but she looked me in the eyes and said, now without any smile.

"Seriously."

She was so close to me and a whiff of the same lovely perfume which had been lingering in the air of her studio the first time I was in there, reached my nostrils. I felt I did not want to stop breathing this air that was her, that had been in touch with her skin and acquired her scent. I wanted to stay like this, holding her, unless I could hold her even closer. Then the song ended, and I had to let go, but she did not step away.

"Can you please take me home?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, it's late, I'm knackered, and I don't think it will get any better than this"

"Okay… as you wish Ma'am", the last I said because I felt a need to create some distance between us, to be able to remain professional. An expression passed over her face. I could not interpret it for sure, but I got the feeling maybe she appreciated the formal 'ma'am' less than ever in this specific moment.

A/N: Will go for the advice I got from some of you and keep this as a OG story for now but will probably change to crossover once it is final as that seems more appropriate. If you want to keep track of it somehow, you may wish to flag it.