A/N: Hey y'all,

So, I've been dealing with family stuff this last few weeks that's really set back my muse in my head, therefore any conversation about these lovely two to get my inspiration back up (and give me something to think about) would be much appreciated!

Because of these unfortunate distractions I've had, I've been working on this chapter for a while, so I decided to cut what I've been writing in half to give you something to be going on with. I hope this satisfies for a bit while I try to get the next part finished...

Poor CJ isn't going to be a happy bunny. But I promise it won't last.

xxx

Stars Walk Backward

(P.S. as usual, the quotes at the beginning are inspiration. Usually they're songs or prose that remind me of Molly, her resistance, or of Molly and Charles' love. Gabrielle Aplin's song below is so beautiful and every time I hear it I think of these two, my current muse... and their ghosts, of course.)

XII

"Oh, today I'm just a drop of water
And I'm running down a mountainside.
Come tomorrow I'll be in the ocean.
I'll be rising with the morning tide.

There's a ghost upon the moor tonight...
Now it's in our house.
When you walked into the room just then,
It's like the sun came out.

I'm an atom in a sea of nothing,
Looking for another to combine.
Maybe we could be the start of something...
Be together at the start of time."

— "Start Of Time" by Gabrielle Aplin

They say that scars mark out the map of your life and that, if you are lucky, love can fill these lines like rivers, nourishing new life.

Molly was not sure where she had read such a thing, which once upon a time would have meant bugger all to her. (It was most likely in one of Charles' poetry collections that she glanced at whenever he left it outside in their little back garden when he fell asleep on the sofa.)

She would have been sceptical of the truth in such flowery words, if Charles was not such a concrete pillar of proof of how love can endure and nourish no matter how deep your scars. After her interview with the Redcaps, she had felt somewhat more comfortable in herself again, just a little, after he kissed her and held her, easing her into a state of heavy joy. There was no doubt that such a feeling could only be temporary, like the bruises on both their bodies and those much deeper, but she let herself enjoy it all the same. She could see a glimpse of her old self, though it was fleeting, as she recognised the gleam of happiness in her eye that only Charles could bring.

She had gone to dinner with the others that evening, saved from having to discuss her interview any further with Charles, at least for now. They both seemed to reach a metaphorical impasse, realising that there was no rush. As long as they were not in denial that they had demons that needed exercising, it would do no harm to simply ignore them, at least for the duration of Decompression, and so that's what they did. Action reports had been filed, interviews carried out. For a few more days, they were free to simply breathe a little.

Therefore, that evening they joined the Section and Molly was surprised it was a relief to be in their company, despite the slight whirlwind of chaos the boy's always left in their wake. None asked any difficult questions – they knew better than that – and all simply seemed overjoyed having their old Under Fives family back together, of a fashion.

She recalled once upon a time being so terrified to be with them, because it meant lying to them every time they comforted her about Smurf or mentioned Charles as their Bossman. They had nagged her to back and beyond about why she had been reassigned, confused why she could no longer be their medic. She had told them it was because she wanted to go back out there, and since she wasn't just a soldier, she could do just that, mentoring. What she didn't say was what she guessed they all knew by then: that it was also because of Smurf; not only the shit-storm that went down on tour, but, all too soon afterward, losing him. None of them had understood why Smurf had lost it aside from Brains, whom Molly learned much later had grown wise to her crush on the Boss and disinterest in romance with Smurf long before the others. They had all watched on at that checkpoint, barely able to hear an intelligible word as Smurf had engaged in a shouting match with the Boss; an unimaginable thing to do as a mere Private. Smurf had shaken it all off before he died, shouldered the blame, said it was his mistake, that he thought he had seen a weapon in the hands of the villager, which was why he shot the poor man's goat. The others seemed to swallow this nonspecific excuse, perhaps because he had been so reckless more than once prior… or perhaps it was simply because the alternative, which just so happened to be the truth, no doubt seemed so implausible.

Watching the lads piss about in the bar while she sat flush up against Charles, Molly couldn't help but think back on that time of small white lies and how heavy they had felt. Charles had decided he was going to give up his commission, all so he no longer felt the need to hide, but Molly had fought him on that, frightened the boys would treat her differently. They had, too, when she had finally told them after her second tour training medics. They had howled and shrieked with laughter when she told them alone, but the moment they realised she was serious and were then faced with the two of them together, every single one of them had been silent and awkward, even Fingers, much like they had been when she first joined the Section.

She couldn't entirely blame them, she rationalised, but it still left her panicked that she had lost the brotherly connections she had treasured. This had not lasted, of course, as soon they were over it enough to begin taking the piss instead, chiding poor Charles for how much he 'loved a bit of medic' at every given opportunity.

Fast forward to the present and she had sighed happily as she observed how these same men didn't even look at she and Charles twice, despite the fact they were sat flush against each other, intimately quiet and introspective as they watched the rest of them bantering. They had all begun drinking after they had finished their delicious local grill. Despite the fact the British Army would never condone that squaddies got plastered, they always did of course, mostly thanks to losing tolerance while on tour. That evening, even Molly, a seasoned drinker, found that four beers left her face feeling pleasantly numb and her lips tingling. She found herself laughing with such enthusiasm that her sides hurt, but she could not even recall by the next morning what had been so funny. Even Charles had got a little tipsy, despite the fact that he should not have really been drinking on his strong pain meds. She knew he was drunk when he began gazing at her with ogling eyes when she wasn't looking at him – and even when she was – blinking sleepily and smirking. While the lads were being loud, debating and laughing, he whispered soft, slurred nothings from just above her ear – so many, in fact, she had not been able to help but aggressively roll her eyes.

"You're wasted, mate," she had giggled, bopping his nose with her index finger, or rather she intended to, but her alcohol-impaired depth perception meant she actually poked the corner of his eye. His nose wrinkled upward as he chuckled in response, an expression she had come to know like the back of her own hand.

"So are you, Mrs. James."

She couldn't argue with that.

They had been sat so close that she could feel the heat of his thigh against the length of her own, his fingers toying with hers against it. Usually, they would never have behaved like this, with such blatant affection and abandon of the regulations that frowned upon emotional involvement, even if it was during Decompression… but then, they would never normally be together during such a time, since they could no longer work together. As Charles had pointed out, none of this was exactly conventional.

As it was, she had cared little in that moment. All that mattered was that he was here… and so was she… if a little fragged.

"Oi," she had giggled, having to tilt her face up look at him when they sat side by side. She flipped her hair over her shoulder; a show of mock defiance. "That's Lance Corporal to you."

He had sniggered again, his eyes half closed as he rested his head against the padded love seat bench they were squashed into, with only just enough room for two. For hours, Charles didn't appear to move much at all, just observed and chimed in every so often. Perhaps it was because of the pain he was in, but more likely by the look of him because he was sedated up to his eyeballs. That being said, his fingers were still restless, as they always were, interlocking with hers only to slide at a snails pace up to her fingertips and then over, caressing her rough, battered knuckles. She often wondered if he realised he was doing it. He always had a way of making her feel as though she was precious, despite the fact her hands were far from elegant or pretty, dry from her manual work and the heat and marked with tiny scuffed and callouses. He touched them like they were fascinating… much like he touched her elsewhere, too.

"I have always liked a woman in power," he whispered against her ear, nearly falling over his own words. It hadn't escaped her notice that she felt the whisper run through her like electricity, lust setting a fever across the back of her neck in a sudden flush. If she hadn't been so frightened at the prospect of anyone getting that close to her, she would have certainly pushed the boundary further, thanks to the brazen nature provided by alcohol. As it was, she had just given him a smirk – a thin disguise of her true fears, which, for once, Charles could not see through. His choice of booze and pills was her temporary saviour.

—x—

"Moll."

Eggy's voice penetrated through her dozing as she recollected on their time in their little Decompression bubble. As she readjusted her senses, it took a long moment for Molly to digest where she was: half asleep in a military aircraft, her bottom numbed to buggery. Her friends were around her, in a line to her left and opposite too, perched in their two parallel lines in the very loud, slightly chilly and uncomfortable transit plane. They were supposed to be belted in, but one glance down the line and Molly could see that they weren't. Baz and Brains were currently engaged in a very intense and almost aggressive looking game of travel checkers. Beside her on her right, slightly removed from the group be a metre or so, was Georgie, in the medics seat, overlooking the fold out stretcher seat, situated on her other side parallel with the wall of the plane. If she leaned down, elbows on her knees, Molly could just about make out the familiar head of dark curls of the man that lay there, albeit somewhat begrudgingly, as they set off.

Molly had placed herself at the end of the row, opposite where Charles as Captain would usually sit, had he not been injured, so she could be as close to him as possible. Opposite her instead was their replacement Captain, a woman whose name Molly could not remember for the life of her, mostly to do with how little sleep she had had in the last week, but also because she had made all but one appearance since Molly's arrival. She had spent the entire rest of the time on the wire with London apparently, and had wanted to keep out the Section's way once it was clear that they would not be requiring a replacement Captain in the long term. She seemed kind enough, if a little timid for this lot, Molly had thought.

What Molly had not expected was to feel such a yearning to be at Charles' side, even when he was only two paces away. She was used to feeling so independent and liking it, but now she felt shaky and on edge, as though she expected someone would tear him away from her at any moment. Perhaps such panic and anxiety was normal, after experiencing what the horrors of loss and grief could feel like. Either way, she did not enjoy it, feeling so needy. Thinking back on the last few days, she realised how naive she had been to assume that the few days they had together in the sun would erase whatever it was that she could feel spawning inside her and slowly gnawing at any peace she had managed to find in her nut. They had only had four days… but, whenever they were allowed to go into their bubble, her and Charles, it always felt like four years... and she was sad to be leaving it behind.

Blinking away the blurry sleep of her eyes, she turned to her friend and superior, who was leaning toward her as though about to mention something classified. His eyes were darting between her and the stretcher over her shoulder. "I think Georgie might need you…" he said, the words laden with meanings unsaid.

A soft, panicked noise roused her from her sleep-ridden haze and confusion, snapping her gaze back to where her husband lay, watching almost numbly as Georgie moved from her seat and began moving her hands over his front. Frowning, Molly realised she was trying to keep him still, despite the fact he was already strapped onto the gurney. More distressed sounds roused from him, loud enough for the boys directly at her side to turn their heads, and then instantly pretend they hadn't. Molly's heart throbbed with empathy and anxiety, watching his hand that rolled over the end of the gurney seat twitch with the soft, upsetting sounds. He was dreaming.

Before she even quite processed what she was doing, Molly threw off her safety belts and moved to take Georgie's place in the medic seat before anyone could protest. She knew she shouldn't; she was not his medic, nor even in the Section. They were not on duty, of course, but there were still lines that should not be crossed. Molly, though, no longer had the energy to care.

She drank in his face as though she had not seen him in days, noting the pitched, pained expression on his sleeping face. His cheekbone, lip and eye were a dark bruised colour now, angry shades of burgundy and purple, but not nearly as swollen as they had been. His lashes fluttered as his mouth was open a little, sounds of distress escaping as he brow furrowed suddenly, his head twitching and sending a reactive grimace and whine through him in repercussion.

"He's going to hurt himself if he keeps that up," Molly said anxiously, keeping her voice low so that their nearby fellow passengers could not make out her words over the very loud drone of the plane engine.

"Let's hope he settles," Georgie agreed lowly, moving to shuffle through her medical bag. "He wouldn't want them to see him like this."

Molly nodded mutely, looking over her shoulder at the neat lines of comrades behind her. They looked up to Charles and she knew by the way they were trying a little too hard to appear busy and distracted that they had mostly heard him and were almost as uncomfortable at the sight of their Bossman in distress as she was.

Her hands had a mind of their own, tenderly smoothing over his bearded cheeks and his forehead, stroking him like her mum used to do to her whenever she would come in crying over Arten and seek sanctuary in their bed. She should not be touching him like a wife in front of the his Section… but she could not bear to see him so frightened. Not her Bossman. He was usually so ironclad in his resolve and strength that had become an anchor to everyone and anyone that knew him.

He was mumbling unintelligibly, his voice moving up and down in pitch as though he was begging. The aircraft suddenly shook a little, nothing untoward, rocking Georgie was was crouched on her feet without a seatbelt. Charles flinched in his sleep at the sudden move, as though trying to move away from an invisible hand. In doing so, he pulled against his safety belt, fidgeting his hips as though in panic and no doubt making his own pain worse.

"His ribs!" Molly stressed aloud, only just managing to keep her voice a near-whisper so the nosy buggers behind wouldn't hear. "Bossman," she murmured, barely able to stop herself using his name, as lowly as she could, leaning down to speak to him against his ear. She tried to pretend her voice wasn't shaking. "You're just dreaming. Wake up." Looking up at Georgie as she crouched at Charles level with a concerned expression pressing her stethoscope to listen to his chest, Molly tried to remain as calm as possible. "He's panickin', G," she said needlessly, her hands fidgeting to help. Molly watched him toss and turn, or at least try to, and therefore begin fighting against the restraints that stopped him from rolling off the gurney.

"Boss," Georgie said clearly, gently bracing his body on his shoulders as he rotated in his sleep. "Boss!" Suddenly, something clicked. "Oh, shit, I'm such an idiot! We were tied up – by Shabaab!" Georgie breathed. "God, I should have thought about that before I belted him…"

"He's probably dreamin' about it," Molly sighed softly, hurrying to undo the seatbelt, latching onto her friend's train of thought. "Poor Charlie," she whispered, feeling weighed down with sympathy, smoothing her thumb over his deeply furrowed brow from where she sat, glad that her body was blocking her signs of affection from the group. He whimpered again, making her cringe. "He wouldn't want them to see this," she whispered worriedly, smoothing his uniformed shoulder affectionally and picking off an imaginary lint. "We should wake the poor bugger."

She inwardly had already been fretting about Charles and how he would cope with being put on medical leave again. He had struggled with his leg and the rehab it had required for all those months while she went off on her second tour, her first without him. He was a soul that hated to feel idle, usually filled with boundless energy that even made Molly feel exhausted at times; particularly when it involved going on a 'Christmas Day walk' after she had stuffed herself with Alison's roast dinner… or running a local 5k just to see who would be faster. His leg bothered him these days if he attempted such long runs, so he was often even more restless for lack of being able to expel it all. Now though, she worried all the more, seeing how he was fraught with demons. She was swamped with a fresh wave of guilt. How hadn't she noticed over the last few days that he was suffering even in his sleep? Had she really been so self-involved?

"Boss!" Georgie called, slightly louder, lightly tapping his cheek to rouse him. "Can you open your eyes for me?" Molly watched his eyes flutter, his breathing still erratic as his movements, unbeknown to him as he slept, were only putting him body through more pain. "Boss!" Georgie repeated, loud and clear. Molly held her breath as he flinched at the sound, as though frightened into wakefulness by raised voices.

His sleep-ridden brown eyes came into view, glassy and unseeing as they darted left and right to take in his surroundings, evidently looking for the threat he was dreaming of. She felt ill to see the fear there, something she was all but unaccustomed to. His breathing was fast, panicked, thanks to his dreaming, which only lead to more chokes and gasps as he registered the pain it was causing him.

"Wha—?! Molly—," he cried, or attempted to, but his voice was strangled as he instantly tried to sit up, grabbing her arm as though worried she was in danger.

"Shh. 'Ello, mate. It was just a dream," she murmured, noting the temporary frightening lack of recognition in his eyes. "You're okay!"

He seemed to look at her for a long moment as though he couldn't quite believe she was there, his eyes watering. Though Molly couldn't quite bring herself to believe he was about to cry. She hurried to assure him, repeated hushing him as Georgie helped to hold him down, groans escaping through gritted teeth. "Shh, breathe." His breathing was shallow and erratic and she watched as his perception of his body's pain came back to him, robbing him of breath even further. "Shh, you're okay. Breathe," Molly repeated in her best calm, no-shit medic voice. She pinched the bridge of her nose, attempting to kerb the arrival of a headache. Her other hand, hidden and subtle against the canvas, curled into his hair, unable to resist comforting him.

"I'll get you some relief," Georgie said in her clear, confident tone, pulling out some medication. "Try to focus on your breathing, Boss. I know it hurts. Squeeze Molly's hand. Do you want the stronger stuff? It's been a long time since you were dosed up."

Molly reached down, taking in his upside down features, and held on tightly to his hand. He instantly squeezed it, almost hard enough to make Molly want to exclaimed out loud at the discomfort, but she held her tongue. Looking over him, she noticed a slight sheen to his skin, indicating the stress he had been under in his night terror; there was no way the aircraft was even remotely warm, even when you were wearing two layers.

To her surprise, he was trying to shake his head against the canvas while also attempting to get his breathing back under control. "N-no, Lane," he gasped, closing his eyes a moment as though to collect himself. "No morphine." When his dark eyes opened again, he was looking right up at Molly and she almost felt his soul right through her in their honesty. "I don't want – to – be hazy – for Sam," he added, still tightening his grip on her hand. Molly felt her heart expand three sizes. He was always looking out for others before himself, even when he was in agony.

"Alright. Here are some ingestibles," Georgie conceded. Molly did not miss the surprising amount of sympathy in her friend's voice. Usually she was quite detached when she was working with a patient. "But you'll need to sit up to take them."

Molly winced with the sounds he made as they propped him up enough to swallow the pills, because it almost felt as though she could feel his pain too. They both apologised profusely when it was done because his strangled gasps were so desperate, as though he was moment away from pleading with them to stop.

"Sorry," Molly whispered close to his ear once they were finished, smoothing her free hand over his hairline so lightly it could almost have been a figment of his imagination. "They won't take long to kick in though, big man. Promise."

He made the slightly of nods in acknowledgement, his eyes never leaving hers as she then sat back in the seat properly as he turned his head to follow her movements.

"Why are you—," he broke off his own speech, battling with the pain, "—apologising?" He managed a tiny smile, though it wobbled. "It's your job… Medic."

Molly couldn't help but grin back. "Yeah, so you best do as you're told, mate, or you won't get any of the good stuff." The joke fell on deaf ears, as they both knew they were putting on a show. Neither were interested in saying anything aloud. All Molly wanted was to comfort him in a much clearer way… but it would be put on a charge.

As she sat back in the medic's seat, Georgie gave her a wink and mouthed that she would sit in the seat Molly had previously vacated. Looking around curiously, Molly noticed that no none was looking at her, not even the new Captain. If anything, they were all being suspiciously ignorant, considering she knew what nosey buggers they all usually were. She stared forward, noticing the slightest hint of old graffiti on the opposite wall of the aircraft, some pointless memento that some faceless squaddie on his way to war had felt the need to scratch there.

"Dawesy."

Her head snapped back to Charles, his low gravelled voice barely loud enough to be heard over the engine, but it was like she was hard wired to hear him even from a mile away. "The medic advised me to hold your hand. For the pain. Best do as she says."

He spoke with such coy humour, even when in pain, Molly was thrown back to when he had been her Boss. The exact tone suddenly reminded her of all the times he would toss a comment over his shoulder, his tongue tucked into his cheek as he was always so bloody pleased with how funny and clever he thought he was; he had been flirting with her, she realised in retrospect, in plain sight.

She had let go of his hand to sit back straight, but now he was trying to move his hand towards her along the canvas. Automatically, she reached over to take it, knowing no one could see from the angle but hardly caring if they did.

"Well then, I'll suffer through it, since it's a medic's order…" she whispered, grinning as she momentarily forgot the tension of moments before and could think of nothing but the soppy smirk he gave her in return. "You're alright, love," she added quietly, breaking character because she couldn't resist making his cheeks flush, as they always did when she called him by pet names. It made her smirk behind her other hand.

"Bit familiar, Lance Corporal," he joked, his chest sounding tight as the words were half hearted. "Someone might just think you have a thing for me."

She barely kept in the laughter that suddenly bubbled in her gut, overt and almost hysterical considering the joke hadn't been that funny. God, she really was fried.

"Shit – best not," she replied, biting her lip. "Someone might hear and tell my husband." She watched delighted as he smiled fully this time, despite his weary eyes. She knew from previous experience, he liked this game.

"Husband, eh?" He closed his eyes as the plane rolled, his form stiffening momentarily against the pain. After a beat, he was looking up at her again, his head turned in her direction. "What a lucky chap, having his own personal bed nurse—,"

She instantly poked him in the soft flesh of his exposed neck for that comment. He made a noise of protest, but the cheeky bugger was only grinning even wider.

"—He's a bit mouthy, too. Bit like you, sir."

He suddenly all but choked on his own saliva."'Mouthy'?" He suddenly looked so desperate to laugh that he might burst. "Molly James… calling me 'mouthy'?!" She knew, if it weren't for his ribs, he would be howling by the look in his eye. He had his lower lip in between his teeth as his body shook with repressed laughter, only for his to then choke on winces twice as crippling. "Now I've heard it all!"

She felt her stomach clench with glee she felt at making him laugh. Laughter was their connection started, after all, in the old days when it had been the only kind of intimacy she was sure she would ever have with him.

"Well, y'have to admit, you are shouty... Sir," she shrugged, trying her best to wink at him but suspecting she looked like she had a twitch. (The title felt alien on her tongue these days, since she hadn't worked with him in years. Such formalities only appeared now during particular intimate moments between them, when he would play Captain... and she a mere wide-eyed private). Where they held hands, his thumb had begun its usual restless trails along her tendons and knuckles, leaving tingling patterns in its wake.

"I'm only shouty with people I – really like—," he replied somewhat rigidly, evidently growing weary with the game as he closed his eyes, but not before giving her an affection smile that crinkled at his eyes and make him look utterly soft.

"Don' stress y'self about the dreams," she whispered needlessly, feeling a need to say something but was unusually lost for words. "No one heard." It was a lie, of course, but it felt necessary. Why add salt to his wounds?

He did not answer, though the look her gave her begged her to both quit this conversational topic while also wanting her to hear all he wished he could say, without him having to say it.

"How long until we land?" he asked, his voice tight with discomfort.

She stroked his temple in minuscule movements, reacquainting herself with the peach softness of his skin, the exact position of his mole. "Just three hours," she replied, looking down at him with sympathy, suddenly desperate to draw him a bath and spoil him, away from prying eyes. Not that she would be able to for a few hours minimum when they returned, with the surprise his mum had planned… and not that he knew that yet. She chewed her lip thinking of how displeased he would be when he found out he wasn't going home to quiet... but a party.