A/N: Sorry for the wait, y'all. I've been writing this in segments and going back and changing the things because it's a very much 'inside their heads' details chapter rather than an events chapter. I personally not only feel these kind of chapters are really necessary in order to fully cover and explore the horrors of both terror and rape, but I also adore writing them. I love trying to get in these characters heads, though I'm still not convinced I'm as good as some of the other active OG Captain Dawesy writers still on here. (Author of "To Let Myself Go", I'm looking at you shit! How do you do it?!).

Also, I had a conversation with a great friend of mine about her sexual assault experience and it not only really inspired me to write but also really inspired me to make sure I get this right. As Jen put it, "Please don't make it one of those stories where the guy 'saves her'". As per her request, I'm really trying to base this on the experiences of real people , and the numbness and detachment that apparently occurs afterward when you simply can't deal with what's happened.

Anyway, I hope you all think this is worth the wait! I'm off to Hollywood next week believe it or mot so I'm not sure when's my next chapter will be but I might sure I'll be inspired out there.

Happy reading love bugs! Please come say hi to me on my tumblr (goodgirlwhoshopeful) if you hang in those parts!

X

"We are all stinking messes, every last one of us, or we once were messes and found our way out, or we are trying to find our way out of a mess, scratching, reaching." –Roxanne Gay, Bad Feminist

Charles had always liked to think he valued the simple things in life, even before the terror of war had taught him of the fine line of mortality on which they all walked. People were often surprised to find that he studied English Literature at university, for example; that there was once more to him than simply being Two Section's 'Bossman'.

The reality was he had always enjoyed the serenity of a well-thumbed novel, the scent and texture of the paper and the weight of it in his hands. He had grown up going on annual holidays to Cornwall, where he would take long walks along the most cinematic of English scenery alone and simply sit and read; lost in the calm serenity that was unique only to sitting by the ocean. He had lost count of the number of occasions his mother would eventually venture out looking for him, each and every year, because he would always be gone so long.

One year however, his most dearest of relatives, his cousin Adriana, had found him first. Instead of making him come inside for lunch, she had stayed, sat beside him and pulled out her own novel to read. She was a few years older than him, and on this particular occasion he must have been no older than nine, so she twelve or thirteen. She was inquisitive, even more so than he was, asking him question after question about what he was reading, after which he begun to do the same with her. And so, as they both grew older from childhood to adolescence, this became their ritual, sneaking off from their somewhat chaotic family holidays to hide amongst the long grass and mighty sand dunes for as long as they could get away with.

She had taught him so much in that time. It was because of her that he learned about the world, the real world, that was kept from him by his sheltering, conservative parents: about the horrors of Apartied, the 'evil of the Thatcherism' and all such other politics that he had been too young to understand, and he hung on every word of it. She had explained to him about feminism, the contraceptive pill and all that so casually seemed built to hold men in the power to which they had become accustomed. Every question he had, she would have answer for.

Ada's 'real world', as he called it, reflected heavily on his mind as he began to transition from a boy into a man, when his life began to put such nuggets of previously dormant facts into context.

The first summer he didn't go to Cornwall, too busy with Basic training for such long holidays, he was surprised to find he missed those moments. He had rung the family holiday home's landline that evening, hoping she would pick up. By then though, Ada was too busy to attend family holidays, too; something about a boyfriend in the Midlands, his mother had said.

She had been his first love, in many ways, other than romantically of course, as his testosterone fuelled body tried to separate the adoration of a relative with the affection his body craved from any female around. He had admired and looked to her in a way he imagined one did if they had an older sister, once the confusion passed, but being an only child he of course could never be sure if this were how it felt. She was his first taste of the the fascinating opposing view the opposite sex could offer. She was the first person he could ever remember admiring for the passion and drive in her eyes… but also the shine to her red hair and the kindness in her heart.

Looking back as an older man, he cringed when he thought of how her physical beauty had, despite this, begun to distract him as an adolescent, especially when he knew within a year of learning about his changing body and mind that he in fact didn't ever want her that way. But, he supposed, that was simply how it was to be a teenage boy.

At one point, anything with sharp eyes and soft curves would do; there were many girls at university, and even more during Sandhurst, but by then, he cared little for the distractions of physicality, already tired of shallow insincerity, and found himself wondering if he would ever find a woman whom he could love as purely and simply as he remembered loving Adriana as a boy.

He thought he had found it with Rebecca. She had been sharp-tongued, with quick wit and a mean, impressive ability to drink. He had met her in his final year of university, when she had been an incredibly brilliant medical student with a incredibly work ethic, drive to succeed and long, impossibly straight, soft hair. Their first meeting had involved a lot of alcohol and therefore lead to rather frenzied, clumsy sex. Inevitably, in a time when mobile phones and the internet were just taking hold, this therefore lead to an inconceivable string of casual encounters, in which they would barely manage to make it through a meal before returning to their student digs to have further obnoxiously loud and ferocious sex, almost as though whoever could torture the other more with pleasure would somehow win some sort of game.

It had always been about competition, he realised a long time later, when she began to treat their divorce and their child almost the same way. They had once excited each other because they had riled each other up, not truly because they had shared any kind of connection on a kindred level. If one was being loud, the other had to be louder. If one was being rough, the other had to be rougher. If one succeeded, the other had to also. It had always been about nonchalance, indifference, coolness, as though showing emotion and affection daily or in public was some kind of weakness. It had fitted who he had thought he was then, as a young up-and-coming Officer: the ability to be suffocatingly passionate only in explosive bursts but otherwise remain calm and collected. It was almost a game of who could care less.

In all, it was a game that Rebecca ultimately lost, as once she left university and became a GP, she seemed to lose all passion for anything, Charles in particular. With their excessive drinking days behind them, they eventually found that they did not have nearly as much fun in each other's company as they had thought, but by then it was too late, because she was pregnant and they were married.

Adriana had never approved of Rebecca and that should have been the shrieking alarm he needed. Instead, he had done as he always had and stood firm, stubborn and arrogant that he couldn't possibly have got it so wrong. His true reality only hit him when Rebecca went off with one of her colleagues during his second tour, declaring she couldn't do it all anymore – over satellite phone, no less.

He hadn't even been sad – that's what had really shocked him. He had been furious that he had wasted so many years on a relationship that ended up so counterproductive and unsatisfying for the both of them.

The only redeeming feature had been Sam, the light of his life during those years. He had missed his birth, thanks to the tail end of his first tour – something he would never forgive himself for.

In that, he was at fault. Rebecca may have been cold and seemingly unfeeling so often, but she never deserved to be left to cope with such stress and agony without him. After all, they had vowed to remain, in sickness and in health, not in war.. and yet to war, the Army, his uniform, was the vow he ultimately kept. He had been so frightened by the lacking of his relationship, the floundering feeling it left in him, that he had buried his head Afghan sands instead and let it all fall down around him.

It took the undeniable force of Molly Dawes for him to finally see that final truth; her blunt honesty and relentless, caring spirit reminded him what it was like to truly want to really live again. Suddenly, he could see the beauty in the simple things again. Molly had lifted him from his sorrow and wiped the grit and grime of Afghan sands from his eyes. In her certainty, her effervescence, she had given him his sight back; sight he hadn't even been aware he had lost.

As the sun began to rise in the sky, Charles recalled all this out of boredom, having barely slept. The painkillers made him feel lucid, floating, allowing for him to get a few hours without disruption, but had begun to wear off. Therefore, he inevitably focused his exhausted gaze on his wife beside him, sleeping peacefully with a protective hand on over his sternum, which warmed his heart.

He'd realised that his recollections of her in his desperation had been thoroughly inaccurate, not doing justice to how beautiful she in fact was, littered with countless faint adorable freckles and long lashes that fluttered energetically as she dreamed. As the light of the sunrise spilled through the glass balcony doors and thin, floating drapes, he took her in, nude on her front, allowing himself to stare at her. She had gained more freckles on her face and arms than he remembered her having weeks ago, littered like kisses from the sun. She did look thinner, he thought grimly. Now he was safe, she would eat. He would make sure of it. He had already forced her to eat a banana in front of him after their bath the previous evening, laughing – then wincing – at the way she forced it into her mouth like a stubborn child.

The sheets were just covering her bottom, which he knew was bare beneath them as they had both crawled straight into bed after the intensity of their evening, in which she had confessed agonising secret and then, like the selfless caring spirit she was, washed his helpless body for him.

Though things had ended feeling somewhat intimate and positive, he knew he could not touch her. Not that way, not now.

He recalled how she had whispered confessions into the dark as she fell asleep, sounding mournful and almost embarrassed as she divulged that she wished that he could touch her, that the man who had hurt her hadn't left her so anxious… or so sore.

"I just feel… faulty," she hurried to explain in a whisper. "It's like I'm one of my nan's records, leaping backward to where it's been scratched all the time. Even when it's you touching me, my mind for a tiny moment thinks it's him."

She was ashamed, which was ludicrous but understandable, since women were so often made to feel as though they somehow asked for men to treat them badly simply because they had loud mouths or small clothes. It was a relic of an archaic time, when women were objects first and even then components of a household second, but such sexism was still just as alive. If anything, it was worse now because the world now told women it no longer even existed.

Charles had seen such misogyny in its micro forms many times, he was ashamed equally to say he had often in his earlier days been a part of it, what with being surrounded by squaddies for so much of his life. He had often felt powerless to stop it, aside from cutting the comments off and changing the subject. Now though, he was determined to nip it in the bud, to make Molly see that it could never be her fault. He wanted to tell her it didn't matter, that they had all the time in the world, but he couldn't find the words that felt adequate enough.

"I thought my time was up," he said, only just making out her silhouette in the dark. "But I'm here, alive, and I have you with me." He was only half aware of the emotional mush he was sprouting, but he couldn't bring himself to care, either way. "Lady Luck really has blessed me this time, more than I deserve. I had a second chance handed to me on that bridge… and somehow I've now been handed a third." She had smoothed some arnica cream over his bruises, helping to make his pain subside a little by the time they had laid down to sleep. She had been holding him to her with such strength, as though afraid he might be dragged away at any moment, her fingers toying with the curls at the nape of his neck. Their noses had been touching, their breathing mingling as one as he had finally gotten comfortable on his side, padded out by excess hotel pillows. He had felt so content, he had forgotten his pain almost entirely. "I intend to hold onto this chance with everything I have," he had whispered, puckering enough to press a delicate kiss on her lips. "Point is: we could not make love for years and I wouldn't care, Molly, as long as you're here."

Smoothing her cool hands over his burning ribs, sensitive with all the blood that injury and bruising was bringing to the surface, she laughed at him, her breath tickling his face.

"'Make love', eh?" she giggled, teasing him like she always did when he said that. He had rolled his eyes in the dark, grinning wide with delight and relief to hear such a beautiful sound. It was a reassurance in itself, to hear her dig up longstanding jokes between them. "You've got bullshit on your chin, Boss," she said, though her usually certain tone was missing.

He felt as though he had been struck, hearing that she doubted him. "I mean it," he assured assertively, though his voice remained a whisper. "You don't believe me?"

"It's not that," she began weakly, though she didn't carry on.

"I fell in love with you surrounded by war and death and a million yards of red tape; we are much more than just sex, Dawesy," he reminded softly, drawing aimless shapes on her back with a lazy finger. "Or had you forgotten?"

"'Course I ain't," she denied quickly, remembering well the regulations that painfully restricted them from being physically intimate for far too long. "I just mean, that was a whole different ball bag, back then. We hadn't shagged, we'd barely even touched… so we didn't know what we were missin'."

He had only just managed to bite back a chuckle as he realised this was probably Molly's surprisingly modest way of trying to communicate she was sexually frustrated as well as evidentially anxious and frightened. Chuckling, then gasping at the burning discomfort it caused, he glossed over it.

"I love you so very much." Feeling her forehead still against his own, he had pressed a kiss to her face.

"Yeah, mate, I know. You d'go on a bit."

He tried to pinch her but couldn't reach. The sound of her giggle was so heavenly he had to close his eyes.

"We have the luxury of time, Dawesy – our whole fucking lives – and how wonderful is that?"

Now, hours later, as she slept beside him, his reverie was suddenly interrupted by a sudden awareness of his bladder. Gently, he rolled away from her, groaning as quietly as he could manage at the pain it caused for him to stand. Turning, Molly hadn't moved an inch and he had to grin. How could he have forgotten she slept like the dead?

Gripping his crutch, he hobbled into the adjoining bathroom as fast as he possibly could, not bothering to turn on the light as the floor to ceiling windows lit the room with the light of sunrise. Reluctantly, he sat down to relieve himself, unable to find the energy or willpower to withstand the pain of standing as he usually would. He was silently relieved Molly wasn't awake to see it, simply because she would giggle about it for weeks just to rub him up the wrong way.

"Charles?" He heard her sleepy call for him as he was rising to wash his hands. What he didn't expect however was for her to call his name again, this time sounding high pitches and panicked. "Charles?!"

"I'm here," he called as he hurriedly moved back into the the comforting shadows of the bedroom. Anxiety spiked in his blood as he saw her head round, eyes wide, her breathing now loud and wheezy. "I'm here. I just went for a piss—"

"—Shitting hell!" Instantly, she attempted to get her breathing stable, a hand over her chest as she held the sheets to her body in uncharacteristic modesty. "Fuck – I thought it was all a dream! You were gone! I thought—Oh my god—" As he reached the bed, she had burrowed her face into the sheets in her hands and heaving, evidently trying to hold in sobs of panic. "I thought you weren't here," she gasped shakily, her eyes feeling swollen and puffy with sleep as her pulse hammered in her throat. "I thought I'd dreamed it up."

"Oh Dawesy," he cooed gently, slowly lowering himself onto the bed with a rigid torso and gritted teeth. Gazing at her sooty, grainy silhouette in the darkness, even in the haze of his painkillers, he felt his heart tug violently with a desperate need to protect her from her own fear. "Hey! Hey, hey, shh! Shh, sweetheart, I'm here—" He groaned as he tried to crawl to her, unable to put weight on his arms. "Ah, fuck, fuck," he groaned as he rolled back into his nest of pillows. "C'mere," he murmured into the dark. "Please – I can't—" Before he could manage to his words out, she had complied of her own, moving across the bed to help him back into his assortment of pillows. Molly busied herself helping him as she evidently tried to calm herself down. The moment he was comfortable, she burrowed herself against his shoulder, sighing as though she had been given the fright of her life, her shaking breath against his throat.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you, but I just went for a piss," he chuckled nervously, hoping to rouse a giggle from her and take away her fear. "You're not getting rid of me, Dawes." Her lips pressed against his shoulder over and over, which calmed his heart. He tilted his head, searching out the top of her head in the dark to press haphazard kisses there.

"No more wondering," she begged sleepily, her arm lightly draped across his chest in a protective manner that made him feel blessed. "I ain't good at sleeping without you."

He hummed against her fragrant mass of hair on top of her head. "I wouldn't dare!" At his attempt to be funny, she prodded him in the arm. He smiled, relinquishing his attempt at getting a laugh from her. "Alright, wife of mine. I'll try not to ever need a wee in the night again."

When he came round again, the sun was blazing through the thin gauze curtains. As the room came into focus, he almost leapt up in panic, unsure of where he was. He half expected, just for a split second, for a masked fighter to approached and strike him for sleeping, the clang of rusting iron bars echoing in his ears.

"Hey you."

Molly's surprisingly soft voice greeted him, causing his temporary disorientation and panic to dissipate, a sour taste in his mouth. Slowly he rolled to face her as she gazed warmly at him, still with a hint of uncharacteristic hesitancy and shyness. She was not nude and soft beside him as he hoped, much to his temporary disappointment, but was sat, dressed in another pair of – his – shorts and a bikini top, applying sun cream. He squinted, groggy with the effects of the heavy painkillers, somewhat confused to find her sat so close to him, rather than on the massive expanse of bed on her side.

"Good morning." His voice was weak with disuse, though he couldn't keep the massive blossoming expression of joy he wanted to show in his expression, the pain running through him was too much.

He watched as her hands slowed in their massaging movements into her thigh, attempting to rub excess oil into her arms before reaching over to touch him, not that he cared at all if she had covered him in grease. As she shuffled close, he preened and nuzzled into her touch like a needy house cat as she smoothed her warm, soft hands over his cheeks, then up and into his curls.

"How y'feeling?"

Sighing, he bit his lip to keep from grimacing. "Bloody sore. Definitely need more pills. They're on the desk—" He broke off as she was suddenly dangling them in his face, their soft rattle like a siren to his ears. Instantly, he felt himself relax a little more. "I knew there was a reason I kept you around," he sighed with a lazy smile.

Above him, Molly wore a smug expression, admiring the sight of his mussed curls and slightly swollen tired eyes. "Oh – you keep me around, do you?" she countered cheekily, reaching to help him take the pills with water.

"Perhaps it is a little give and take," he conceded with a smirk, groaning through his ground teeth as she helped him sit up straight. The pain was so much worse than he remembered it being the day before, as he choked on a gasp as he tried to swallow.

"Woah there, Captain Heroics," she halted him, gently pressing a palm to his sternum. "Lemme' get the Volteral, yeah?"

"God, I have missed my medic," he breathed, unable to think of any of his usual eloquent words to describe the massive relief he felt to be waking up beside her. That and suddenly speaking took an incredible amount of effort with the pain in his chest.

"You'll be sick of me again 'fore long, mate."

As she squeezed the anaesthetic cream into her hand, she looked down to find him grinning, evidently wanting to laugh. "I'll try to let you down easy when I get there."

They both exchanged glinting looks, evidently both on the cusp of laughter. However, as the cool cream made contact with his incredibly sensitive bruising, the glinted died, momentarily replaced with a look of blind agony.

"Sorry," she apologised profusely, her accent suddenly more pronounced, "Remember to breathe for me, lovely'," she instructed professionally, though using the pet name she reserved only for him in the most select of situations, hoping to convey her intense sympathy. She smoothed her other hand over his face as she worked.

The pet name washed over him with a wave of relief, filling him with a kind of pleasure and giddy joy he had all but forgotten.

"It'll kick in in a sec. Just breathe, yeah? In and out."

Suddenly, she was giggling to herself. Despite the faint dark circles under her eyes, the expression was beautiful and delightfully familiar.

"What's so funny, medic?" he asked, feigning offence as though he was her Captain still to make her smile more. He was proud to see that it did.

"Just reminded me of one of those birthin' videos, init!"

He rolled his eyes at her, choking on the laugh that bubbled unhindered and unchecked up from his chest. Groaning and cursing, the only consolation was Molly's tender touches across his jawline and down the column of his throat as he tried his best to breathe through it… while she carried on cackling.

"Oi!" he protested, trying not to laugh. "I'm your injured husband! Where's the sympathy?!" He knew he was pouting as Molly's hysteria only worsened. He grumbled half heartedly, lolling his head back against the pillows.

"You and your bleedin' sulks!" she giggled, finally withdrawing her hands from his bruised and tender flesh with a final apology.

"I should pull you up on a charge."

"Oh, yeah?" she challenged, pressing her lips together in the typical way that told him she was laughing on the inside. "For what?"

"Rather neglectful bedside manner," he replied nonchalantly, "I haven't even had a kiss good morning!"

As he looked up at her, she felt a bubble of nervous energy in her chest, the rekindling of a very familiar urge to blush and squirm in her, despite the shining bruise on his cheekbone and the dark, tired nature of his eyes.

She raised her eyebrows at him, leaning down and aligning her nose with his, she let loose tendrils of her hair tickle his face, enjoying the way his brown eyes caught the light and became a showcase of more hues of chocolate whiskey browns than she could count. With a touch that was so tender it was almost maternal, she combed her fingers through the curls at his forehead, massaging her fingers into his scalp before gliding through until the curl uncoiled and sprung back into place. After basking in the thrill of their silent communication, she allowed their noses to finally touch, only for their lips to follow. Her lips were soft and hot against his and he instantly had no thoughts in his mind beyond adoration and need for every inch of her. After the horror and tension of the last four days, the pleasure of the moment was so heady he could barely breathe, nothing to do with the pain in his body. In this moment, it was all too easy for him to forget all about the all new shadows of terror that hung over their heads.

Molly drew back to heave for breath, but only enough to look back into his eyes, their breath mingling together as she laid her arms either side of his head.

"I love you," he whispered into the quiet between them, smiling up at her like a man hypnotised.

"I love you more, mate," she murmured, uncharacteristically serious in her response. She usually liked to tease him for his 'mushy' tendencies, though they both knew by now that this was simply a disguise she upheld to hide the way it made her feel. Hazy, bashful, breathless, even after all this time.

"Not possible," he denied with usual gentle, lopsided smile. "I'm just back from the dead, so I should know."

Instantly, Molly went as though as though she was going to strike him, but of course she didn't. "Don't take the piss about that, Charlie! It ain't funny!"

He tried to reach up to touch her and growled in frustration at the pain raising his arms caused. Cursing, he slammed his eyes shut and tried to focus on getting his breathing back under control as it felt like shards of glass were shooting down his chest. "For fucks sake!"

He was warmed to feel her reach down and hold onto his hand at his side, squeezing hard while she decorated his face with kisses that, though small, made him feel dwarfed in love and affection he often felt he didn't deserve. Between them, his stomach growled, breaking the somewhat fragile heavy moment between them.

"We need to get you down to that pool for some scoff, because I don't know about you, but I'm bloody hank!" she declared, suddenly sounding less like Molly James and more like Lance Corporal James-Dawes. "Now, stay put, you heavy bastard, while I call Eggy. That's an order."

"Um, Molly?" His hesitant voice pulled her back almost as much as the hold of his hand did. "I'll need some clothes first."

Looking down, Molly burst into cackled with her head thrown back, having entirely forgotten that he was naked under the sheets at his hips. Leaning down to leave a peck on his lips, she grinned her trademark toothy grin.

He wished he could keep her there, he thought, in that moment, where the outside world couldn't touch her.

"I s'pose if you have to get your glad rags on…" she conceded sarcastically, watching him smirk and inch his head side to side in a slight shake.

"And you say you aren't just with me for my body!"

"Not half, mate!" The comment made her laugh, the sharp exhaling tickling his face, but he watched the look in her eyes change to one that held a thought that was much more somber. She became very quiet and this time her smile was less about bravado and humour but something much deeper and more intangible. Smoothing a hand down his face as though admiring a piece of art, her eyes finally met his again as she tried not to let her expression fluctuate, evidently engaged in some kind of internal dialogue.

"I wish I was 'alf the talent you are at expressing me'self," she sighed. "You know that's not true, don'ya?" Suddenly, her voice was urgent, causing her trip over her words and look away. "I know I can be…provocative—"

"—Molls—"

"—But look where that's got me," she continued, ignoring his attempts to console her. "I mean, yeah, sex with us is fucking mind bending—!"

"—Molly—"

"But you know that isn't why I—fuck—You know I love you—"

"—Dawes!" Finally, she fell silent. "Hey, I was just joking!" He looked up at her face, fraught with worry and unease, and he sighed. "Come here," he murmured, his hands twitching at his sides as he yearned to be able to lift the weight of his arms enough to hold her. Thankfully, she lowered her face to lay against his, her forehead hot against his cheek. "What's this about?"

She rocked her ahead in a minuscule movement to imply a shake of the head, remaining stubbornly silent. The only implication of her internal battle was the way she gripped his hand against the sheets, rhythmically stroking the back of his hand with her thumb and tracing his tendons as she often did.

"Naffink," she mumbled thinly and Charles could already sense he would not be getting an explanation out of her now. Something told him this had a great deal to do with the dark shadow of her Commanding Officer lingering over her. "Sorry. Just fragged, tha'sall."

After they'd managed to get Charles down by the pool, Molly brought him breakfast to his sun lounger. Each of the boys, like excitable puppies, each bounced out to meet their beloved Bossman, only to then emotionally all collectively salute him. Molly, who had settled on the end of Charles' lounger, knew her husband enough to know he would be heavily emotional at such a sight, but would manage just about to keep it in.

"It's mega' to have you back, sir," Mansfield managed, the telltale signs of tears in his voice that made the group smirk, Molly in particular having predicted that he would cry.

"I wish I could say the same about being back with you cockwombles," Charles retorted, though his voice was nearly as light as it should have been.

"All thanks to Lane, ain't that right, sir?" Fingers countered in his usual blunt humour.

"So they say, Fingers," Charles conceded, evidently enjoying the banter around him and therefore not rising to the bait as he usually would have.

Molly watched as Georgie made her approach and cut in. "He's still a better person to locked up with than all of you lot put together, so they'll be no laying into the Bossman, alright?"

Molly smiled at her friends, listening to their boundless energy and the upbeat mood she had awoken in seemed to dissipated somewhat, despite the fact it was only just ten o'clock in the morning. She sagged, wishing, for one, that she could lean back into Charles' chest like she had done so many times before when he liked to sunbathe. He would curl her between his legs and force her to stay with him, despite the fact he knew she didn't like sun bathing much. And he called her the Koala!

Charles' foot nudged her thigh, waking her from her blank stare. Blinking up into the sun, she realised her friends were looking at her, laughing at whatever it was she had quite clearly missed.

"What?" she laughed, though the sound did not feel natural even to her.

"Daydreaming again, Dawsey?" Charles chided from behind her, though his tone was warm and their closeness clear to all who heard it. She flushed, laughing easily at herself, though thankful when the group dispersed. The pressure to be her usual self, the Dawesy they knew and expected, felt too much. She felt like a fraud, pretending that she was as she had been… because she was not sure she knew who that woman was anymore.

Busying herself with retrieving sun cream from the bag, she quietly tasked herself with applying it to Charles's skin while they all chattered around her. She hoped they wouldn't notice her uncharacteristic muteness.

As she sprayed his thigh, massaging slowly into the skin almost absentmindedly, her mind feeling as though it was a million miles away. She marvelled at the strength of the muscle under her hands, considering all that his body will have been through to become so resilient… even in the face of a terrorist hostage situation.

"Oi, oi, Molls!" Baz hollered from a few beds down, waking her from her methodical task. "Don't suppose you fancy applying my sun cream like that, do ya?"

"Oh piss off, will ya?" she fired back, the retort harsher than she meant.

"Nah, she's too busy making sure the Bossman is covered, eh, Boss?" Fingers countered, triggering multiple sniggers amongst the Section, evidently expecting Molly to respond with her usual humour. Such banter, before, would have simply triggered further banter from Molly, as was her sunny, Cockney disposition, but today, it inevitably raised her hackles. She wasn't sure why and it bewildered her. All she did know was that a joke that sexualised her, which would have once barely registered with her, now tugged at a newly exposed nerve. She was not sure how she could ever feel comfortable with such things, now she knew what could come of it.

"Strike one, Fingers!" Charles cut in, his tone low and authoritative with only a hint of humour so to not rouse suspicion of something wrong, a move that caused her to raise her eyes to her husband in slight surprise. He wasn't looking at them, though. His expression was unwavering as his gaze sought of her own, filled with a sincerity that implied the magnitude of his unspoken questions. Knowing it wasn't the time for such things however, she just smiled at him easily and went back to her task.

"Thanks for that," she whispered once the boys - all rather bemused at the intensity between their friends - went back to their usual frolicking and all round idiocy. Her hands were now busy cover the other leg, working up to his thigh, untouched by the sun unlike his deep olive arms and calves.

"Of course," he dismissed equally softly, shifting his hips suddenly as he tried not to grimace.

"What? Are the painkillers still not kickin' in?" Looking at his expression of discomfort, she frowned. She hadn't even tried to put cream on his ribs and chest yet!

Instead though, he just laughed a little, through gritted teeth, before opening his eyes and looking at her with a familiar intensity she had not expected; a look that had so often left her squirming in the years she had known him.

"It's just," he began, beckoning her with a tilt of the chin to lean closer. "You might not want to carry out suncream duty so thoroughly in public, love," he whispered, suddenly looking uncharacteristically sheepish. "But I applaud you for your vigilance."

It took her a long moment to comprehend what he was getting at, as it often did when he used words from his vocabulary that she hadn't heard too often before, but when the penny dropped, it did so with a clang.

Looking down at his groin, she could suddenly see the slight hint of exactly want he meant making a slight tent in his trunks.

"Bloody hell—Oh god!" She whispered, covering her mouth. Usually, she'd have thrown her head back and laughed. Now though, the sight of arousal left her feeling struck dumb. "I'm sorry! I didn't think—!"

Below her, Charles, typically, did not seem embarrassed. Instead, he seemed thrilled, handsome bugger. She knew he was always smug at the prospect of making a joke at her expense, as she usually did the same to him. Smirking at her, his eyes were bright like caramel as the sun streaked across his face, making them shining like the conkers Molly used to collect in school P.E lessons when she was meant to be running cross country. He had his lip snagged between his teeth, evidently trying both to hold in his laughter and what he really wanted to say. She wasn't sure if he was aware what that expression used to do to her… or the fact that now it made her feel guilty, because she couldn't go there. Not right now.

"Sorry." The word flew from her and she knew it was not hers. Usually she was the last person you would ever hear openly apologising if I joke could be had instead; usually she laughed things off or made a joke to bask in making things even more awkward. Now though, the idea of male arousal not only made her feel dirty, but also desperately guilty. After all, Charles had survived atrocities even worse than she had. He deserved a wife who could take care of him in every way, she thought, and she could not face him that way. At the moment, the thought of such strength lead only to thought of how easily she could be overpowered; thoughts of guttural arousal lead only to memories of the clammy unwanted skin contact against her own or the scent of unfamiliar sweat.

Suddenly, she had an intense urge to flee, feeling a wave of nausea. Placing down the sun cream bottle, dismissed herself hurriedly, barely computing the excuse that came from her mouth – something about needing a wee. She knew he would be looking at her, mystified, as she left but she cared little in that moment. Hurrying to her room in a haze, she only felt her lungs heave fully again once the door clicked shut and marked her temporary removal from the rest of the world.

Standing against the door, she could do nothing but focus on her breathing, feeling exhausted. She had gone for a run down the hotel's stretch of beach early in that morning, having woken from the recurring nightmare that warped precious memories with Charles into the memory of her rape, covered in sweat feeling stifled and suffocated. She had had to get out and running had always been her coping mechanism ever since her first tour. Thankfully, Charles' painkillers meant he didn't stir at all as she moved from the hotel bed and threw on some fresh clothes, but not before pressing a reverent kiss to his beautiful curls. The last thing she wanted was for him be subjected to anymore distress. He deserved some peace.

Sadly, that did mean however that she felt very alone, despite the fact there was no place she would rather be than here, with her old Section and with Charles. She couldn't find the words to express how numb she was feeling, even to herself, never mind aloud to someone as precious to her as Charles; a man who would internalise all he heard and somehow blame himself for it all. Now, as she stood attempting to grapple with her own chaotic train of thought, it all made her furious, because she utterly should be ecstatic! He, the monster that claimed her against her will, poisoned all that had once brought her joy by burying her under the rumble of her former strength and she hated him for it. Guttural, violent hatred she had not felt before in her entire life, not even during war.

Her insides were still sore and now that she was anxious, they seemed to hurt more. Her skin itched, too and was covered in goosebumps despite the heat. All such symptoms were most definitely that of anxiety and she knew as much, being a medic and all, but she couldn't wade out of it enough to see what she should do to banish them.

Really, if she was honest, she knew she needed her friends, her love, the people who knew how to save her from herself… but she felt minuscule and fraudulent in the face of their expectations; especially Charles'.

She had known the look he gave her like the back of her hand. Ever since their first 'night' together – which had in fact been an incomprehensible entire afternoon, evening and early morning – she had known Charles' sexuality was fierce, much like her own. While he was not nearly as openly promiscuous, she was surprised to discover that he was equally, if not more, flirtatious than she was. She had soon realised that when he had been her superior, he had suppressed a great deal of his personality out of necessity. She had thought him to be rigid, uncomfortable with displays of emotion; the complete Roger stereotype. In reality, he was so much more layered and wonderful, with an innate ability to not only read those closest to him but also to display a wide emotional spectrum openly, especially for a bloke. While sometimes he was partial to his 'sulks', he was also incredibly energetic and cheeky. He had played her at her own game easily on their very first date, firing back quips just as fast as she dished out her own. In all, he was twice the man she even expected him to be… which was why she now felt so guilty for feeling so hollow.

Because it made it all seem as though she didn't care, when in reality she cared more than she had ever given a shit about anything! She suspected it often came across as though she didn't love him quite to the level that he loved her, as was often her anxiety, because she had a hard time expressing it, but she did. Fuck, did she love him – so much she was often breathless and speechless with it; afflictions she was hardly burdened with often.

It was intoxicating, the way he made her feel. It was unlike any kind of affection she had ever known in her life – and it wasn't all grand gestures and extravagance like her Nan had assumed to begin with. Her Nan seemed to have decided long before they were even married that her admiration and adoration for Charles was rooted in fickle things, like his bank balance or his status or how good he looked in his Number ones, despite the fact she adored Charles too. Her dad was the same, though he liked the man less, finding his voice and stature a little intimating still, even now. It said a lot more about the priorities of her family than anything to do with her, Charles had said – and he was right on the money, of course. Eventually, it had come to the point where Molly was able to just laugh at such suggestions because it sadly meant such people would never understand a love of such depth and mutual connection as the one she was. Lucky enough to have found.

She knew herself better by now, and more importantly, she knew her Charles better, too.

Her love for him was rooted more in the way he always made time to kiss her goodnight and good morning, even when their schedules were completely out of sync; or the way he always made her a brew just as she liked it before he made himself a Rosabaya. He even enthusiastically offered to teach her to drive and to swim and then pretended not to regret it when he clung to the car for dear life or, along with her, swallowed half a pool of chlorinated water.

He was mighty and courageous in ways she could never be but did she try. She stood, proud, and liked to watch him triumph, because it felt like she triumphed too… which is she now felt so cruel for shutting him out, but it didn't feel much like she had a choice.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door behind her, making her jump and lose her breath. Bloody Nora, she was more jittery now than she had been even after her first tour!

Eggy's voice came, muffled, from the other side, clearing the fog that had descended around her. "Molly? There's someone in the foyer for ya – Redcaps. D'ya know why?"

Molly felt her heart leap and stutter. Just when she was anxious enough, the military police had arrived. Fuck, she didn't want to deal with this now… or ever. Yeah, never would be better, actually.

"Alright, thanks, mate!" she called, her pulse racing again. All her concentration to get herself calmed down had gone back out the window, it seemed. Barely breathing, she yanked the door open, fixing her best smile. "I best go see what the geezers want."