A/N: Hello all - just to let you know I have been getting your reviews and I promise, even though there are big gaps between chapters, it's because I'm always working on it - or trying to at least.

This is the first of a difficult few chapters to write, despite the fact they contain some much needed fluff, so I hope you guys approve. Please do let me know if you have any suggestions / feedback / things you want me to cover, because I always have issues seeing the bigger picture – and also constantly feel like I'm struggling to write Charles, so any advice on that would be much appreciated!

If you're extra nice to me, there may be a generous surprise for y'all in store...


"I just want to sleep. A coma would be nice. Or amnesia.
Anything, just to get rid of this, these thoughts, whispers in my mind.
Did he rape my head, too?"

― Laurie Halse Anderson, "Speak"


XXVIII

Renaissance (Part I)


Molly still felt as though she was moving through a fog, even after a long twelve hours of being knocked out by sleeping pills. She wasn't sure which ended up being more traumatic, having to go to Charles' solicitor – now hers, she had to remind herself or the fact that she had lost herself entirely, in the end, to panic. It had all suddenly become too real, too fast. When had she become this person, a victim, who had to go through one of the most serious kind of Court Marshals? A woman who the newspapers were writing about? A woman Charles seemed frightened to be himself with?

The latter point rang true when she awoke that morning, as he wasn't beside her. Something deep in her stomach dropped and somehow she found she wasn't even surprised to find his side of the sheets were long cold. She was filled with shame and embarrassment as she tried to remember the events of the previous evening and found that she struggled to. All she knew was the fear; it was not something she was likely to forget… nor the look on Charles' face when he had held her under the stray of the shower while she had been too dizzy and detached to move.

She had never felt so close to death than in that moment, teetering on the knife's edge between complete cognitive and physical unraveling and being all too aware of her own fear.

When she finally plucked up the courage to make her way into the kitchen where she could hear Charles pottering, she felt strangely like she did that very first morning at Royal Crescent – so very out of place and unsure.

"There she is!" he greeted warmly, only just turning to her as he kept one eye on the eggs he was poaching. His tone was already too bright and too keen compared to his usual low and demure morning gravel, which told her all she needed to know about how he was feeling. Insecurity was always his mask.

She moved toward him quietly and chose to distract herself by putting the kettle on, greeting him with a tired hum. She pretended not to feel his eyes on her as she moved as she waited until she was ready to look him in the eye, feeling strangely shy and on edge. Thankfully, he didn't push her, simply asking her jokingly if she wanted avocado, (and knowing she hated it). She wrinkled her nose in disgust and only then did she catch his eye, an easy chuckle falling out of him as his question had the desired effect, having roused a reaction out of her.

He looked as exhausted as she felt, but the smile of his mouth stood out rather unnervingly as a stark juxtaposition. It didn't skip her notice how his eyes were puffy in the way they only ever where when he had been rubbing them… which he only ever did after he had been crying.

She had to bite her lip from wanting to cry with the guilt at the very thought that her situation had brought him to that, crying alone while she slept. Instead, she swallowed her own tears down and moved to help him get out the plates, deliberately moved into his personal space – a silent indicator to him not to be anxious with touching her. She smiled at him, though the expression was brittle, and pressed a tender and casual kiss on his cotton-clad bicep, as it was all she could reach at her natural height. Immediately, his expression softened to one she recognised as a genuine look of gratitude and endearing surprise, as he halted in his breakfast preparations to pull her into him for a cuddle and a long kiss to the crown of her head.

"How you feeling?" He murmured against her hair, keeping tight hold of her body, for which she appreciated.

She grumbled nonsensically and didn't look up at him, instead looking past him. It was only then she noticed the central charging port for the house phone was disconnected completely.

"Wha' happened? You frightened the thing will blow up?" she joked, taking a step back to see his face. She watched as the look of discomfort crossed his face, as though there was something that he didn't want to tell her.

"What? What is it?"

He cleared his throat, a sign of awkwardness in him, and reached up smooth a seemingly imaginary strand of hair behind her ear.

"The bloody press," he shrugged, trying to offer her a smile, but he must have been able to see the nauseating worry that rolled her stomach at the idea that yet more journalists had found the story.

"Fuck," she whispered, grabbing onto the counter for support. "How? How are they even allowed to print who I am? And what about you––your career, too––." She tried to flee, rushing to the window to peep through the partially closed shutters to see if she could see any journalists, but thankfully, the story obviously wasn't a big enough deal for anyone to be camping on their doorstep.

"––Don't you dare worry about me," he interrupted, following her to take a hold of her body before she could panic, wrapping her in the tight hold of his arms in a stress hold that she knew was designed to keep her from getting worked up. "You're going to be okay. The media is fickle – they'll be onto a new story but this afternoon."

Molly didn't believe him, but appreciated his attempts to offer her appeasement.

"Do you think maybe you should call Doctor Kahn…? Maybe have a session?"

Molly groaned miserably against the soft wool of his jumper, inhaling the comforting lingering scent of his aftershave. "If I promise to cuddle you all day instead, can I just… not?"

Charles hummed against her ear, a warm and delicious sound that made her stomach turn over. "As much as I would love that, and I do give wonderful cuddles, I'm not sure it would be quite as effective as a psychologist."

So that is how she ended up at Doctor Kahn's office for an emergency appointment that afternoon, giving in to Charles' gentle prodding. He drove her the short distance to the clinic, calming her anxiety about running into any journalists, and then gave her the rather suspicious look of excitement, telling her that he would be picking her up afterward… and that he then had a surprise for her.

"A wha'?" She grinned as her hand poised on the handle of the passenger door, as she momentarily forgot her churning stomach caused at this very idea of going back into Mr. Kahn's office. "Nah, you never!"

Charles whispered out a laugh, pressing a kiss to her brow. "I decided that I think what we need is just a night to just be us, you know? So, that's what we're doing." Then, suddenly, his expression turned, as it always did when he was nervous.

No, not nerves, she realised in a moment of epiphany, but self doubt.

It was a strangely reassuring thing to see such a familiar expression on the face of someone who was usually so sure.

"We don't have to," he rushed suddenly, nearly falling over the words. "I just figured we haven't even been for a dinner in––."

She couldn't keep herself from grinning all of a sudden. "––Oh shut it, you soft tosspot! 'Course I'd love a surprise!"

The smile he gave her in response was almost enough to propel her through another session being psychoanalysed.

Almost.

"So, this episode, this panic episode you had, how did it feel, compared to the last, the one in that happened to you in the gym?"

Molly glumly sat looking at her hands, unwilling to drudge up the memories. "Well, this one only happened 'cause some poor bugger put his hand on my back to move me out the way––but the last one was––more––less––violent, I guess?" She blushed, embarrass by her bumbling and lack of ability to understand what she was trying to say. "Sorry, I ain't sure I understand it enough to even know how to explain."

"There's no need to apologise," Doctor Kahn assured in his best, soft voice, taking a moment before she posed a question. "Are you familiar with the term Rape Trauma Syndrome? It's often referred to as 'RTS' in most articles that you may have come across it in."

Molly's stomach tightened, feeling so very out of place. "Maybe somewhere, but I got to say, it weren't ever something I thought I would ever have to focus on too much, in my job… Not then, anyway."

"Well, it's a relatively simple theory, really," she began explaining, ever diligent. "A founding idea is that rape disrupts normal physical, emotional behaviours; that it essentially causes psychological trauma."

Molly couldn't help herself as she snorted out a cynical laugh. "Yeah, well, ain't that a given?"

"Well, yes, to those who have experienced it, it's been clear since the dawn of time… But to medical science? This paper kind of put it all down in one place and gave a name – and therefore a voice I suppose – to the specific form of post-traumatic stress that accompanies someone violating your body." Molly frowned, trying her best to keep up. "The theory outlines that there are three stages to the trauma a rape survivor goes through and our job is to work out which you are in… and how best to help you move through to the third and final 'renormalisation stage'. Do you understand?"

Molly manage a nod, choosing not to speak.

"Now, the first stage, the 'acute stage', is the immediate phase, what you described as happening to you in the days after the rape occurred and Charles was kidnapped. No one person's immediate reactions are the same, which is important to remember."

"Like what?"
"Well, usually women fall into one of three types: 'expressive' with their emotions – i.e. they appear agitated and hysterical, crying spells, etcetera; 'controlled' – no emotion and asserting that 'everything is fine'; or they become 'disbelieving' – they have difficulty concentrating or even doing every day tasks and a poor recall of assault."

Molly tried her best to absorb this information, and, typically to her nature, silently began obsessing as to which group she belonged to… and which others would say she belonged to. Frightfully, she almost felt like she belonged to all three.

"An' the other two stages?"

"The second is referred to as the 'Outward Adjustment Stage' and essentially covers the period afterward, when survivors seem to have resumed their normal lives, but usually fall into maladaptive coping strategies."

"An' which am I now?"

Doctor Kahn smiled. "Well, that's what we have to work on. It seems to me that the panic you experienced last night sets you fall into the second phase. Tell me; up until the panic episodes in the last few days, would you say you've been resuming 'ordinary' life? How are things with Captain James?"

Molly chewed her lip, her longterm nervous tick, but smirked at the use of his title. "'e's been… wonderful," she sighed. "But just as things feel normal, I suddenly feel wrong again."

"You feel 'wrong'? Could you explain what you mean by that?"

"I guess I just feel… tainted." She rubbed her eyes, as an excuse to look away. "Not good enough for 'im."

"The first time we met, you described that you once felt intimidated by him when your relationship was new, because you felt he was too different a class… and because you felt he was 'too handsome' for you. 'I don't know why he still puts up with me, but I'm grateful', I believe you said."

Molly shrugged, feeling her cheeks warm at the idea that she actually recalled verbatim of her verbal ramblings. "Well, yeah." She suddenly felt foolish, hearing it from someone else's lips. "It's the truth, innit."

"You feel this way, now, after what has happened?"

"No disrespect, but is that even a question?" She couldn't help but laugh sardonically. "I feel useless. I'm a nervous wreck. I feel even less worthy of him. I haven't been able to sleep without him with me since we got back, I hate the dark now – not to mention trying anything else with him."

"'Anything else'?" She echoed, as was her habit. "By that I'm assuming you are referring to physical intimacy?"

Molly, inevitably, squirmed under such a description. "I…tried," she shared before she could even stop herself. "But he... he said he couldn't…you know."

Molly expected Doctor Kahn to balk at this, or at least react, but as it was, she seemed unsurprised. "That's interesting, though not uncommon. I remember we discussed your nerves around being touched before… What made you decide to try?"

"I was…" She swallowed, suddenly feeling annoyance at herself as she pushed out her words, impatient. "I was bored of being this version of me, the version who is scared and… deprived."

"Sudden loss of marital intimacy can be hard," Doctor Kahn assured.

"But it just all went to shit," she mumbled. "I thought, I don't know why I thought, but I thought that maybe if I tried one of them aphrodisiac teas and got meself…in the mood," she cringed a little at the topic, "then maybe it would just suddenly be like to used to be… and finally be easier to forget."

"And did he explain to you why he could not reciprocate your sexual advances?"

Molly picked at an imaginary lint on her trouser leg. "He said he couldn't, um… 'cause he'd feel like he was taking advantage of me."

Doctor Kahn was unnervingly quiet for a long moment and Molly could feel her eyes on her, until suddenly she prompted: "And?"

Molly found herself playing dumb. "Hm? 'And', wha'?"

"While it is common for a survivor of rape's significant other or partner can feel…hesitant about resuming intimacy after an assault, what I think is more worth discussing here is why you felt the need to try and inebriate yourself in order to do it."

Molly smiled, nervously. "I would happily discuss, Doctor Kahn, but I ain't got a clue what that last word meant."

"You say you drank an aphrodisiac in an attempt to try and forget," she explained, unfazed. "That in itself is an entirely understandable justification, but in itself is an example of the 'Outward Adjustment Stage'. You're attempting to resume your normal life, but doing so by forcing yourself into a position by taking an aphrodisiac? Perhaps implies that you weren't actually quite ready, so you were just trying to force yourself into sex as a coping strategy."

"So… I am stuck in Phase Two?"

"Well, not necessarily, these things are fluid. It certainly sounds like you were on the evening we just mentioned, but did something change? I notice you spoke of it as though the feeling the need for aphrodisiacs to get over your fear only happened once?"

The fierce blush on Molly's face must have given her away, because Doctor Kahn dark eyes suddenly seemed to shine knowingly.

"He… We…managed to do some stuff – after we'd had a bit of a domestic about it all though, 'course… and after that I wasn't so worried about not being able to…feel like that again."

"This 'domestic' you describe…?"

"Oh, god, it was a bloody palaver… I shouldn't have pushed him. He told me 'no' and, just like I always do, I wouldn't have it, would I? And then suddenly he was angry, like really shouty angry, and he told me that he was only doing it all because he was trying to look after me and that he wasn't just my sex toy, he was my husband, and that he had feelings too. It was awful and I felt so disgusting at the very idea I made him feel even a tiny bit as shit as I feel all the time knowing someone didn't listen to me about my body."

Doctor Kahn smiled. "It's good that you came to that conclusion though, Molly, and it's good he was honest with you, even if it did cause temporary hurt. That's what you both need in these situations: complete transparency. That way, trust can build again."

"It was never that I didn't trust him... I just didn't trust me not to freak out... Just the idea of something being inside me..." She shuddered, the phantom of her former captain feeling as though it passed over her grave. "So I thought, if I weren't sober, at least then I'd be less likely to lose my head and upset him."

"While it is admirable that you don't wish to upset him, it's not your responsibility to worry about how your feelings affect him; not only is it a fools errand, as your true feelings will always come out eventually, but it's important that you don't bottle it up or you will never properly be able to move on." Doctor Kahn wrote something on her notepad.

"I just... I can't hurt him," Molly sighed, pressing the heels of her palms into her eye sockets. "He's the best thing that ever bloody happened to me and... he don't deserve this. He has shit of his own he ain't dealing with and here I am, having panic attacks and loading mine on top – and now the newspapers have found out that I may have been asbused by my CO and now. I could be to blame for getting him loads of shit – sorry, trouble – because, well, y'know what the bloody Army's like."

"Have you been being harassed by these journalists?"

"One came to the door," she explained, "the other day, from some small, local paper, asking if I lived there because they got wind that I may have reported my CO for assault – and one left me a voicemail… and now, Charles' had to take the phone of the hook."

Doctor Kahn hummed, sympathetically. "I'm sorry to hear that. Have you told your Liaison Officer?" Molly shook her head, the thought never having crossed her mind. "Either way, Molly, just try not to let it distress you too much. Try to stay away from social media and, with any luck, it should become disinteresting to them as quickly as they picked it up." Molly gnawed her lip, unsure. "Does it give you anxiety because your peers in the Army may find out?"

Molly snorted, sardonically. "Just a smidge, I s'pose."

"May I ask you to explain why?"

Annoyance stoked in her gut. "Because it ain't any of their business? Because I don't want that to be all they see when they look at me? Because the Army is a fucking village and it will be all I'm known for amongst all the men who already think I'm weaker for the rest of my career?" She wanted to be sick. "And that's only if I win. If I lose? If he's let off?" Her mouth was dry, her hands clammy, as she shivered despite the warmth of the room. "Well, ain't no way I could stay in anymore."

There was a long moment of quiet as Doctor Kahn wrote in her notes and Molly found herself wishing shed refused to come – she felt more anxious now than she had when she'd woken up that morning.

"I think what would really help you would be for us to go through some calming exercises – some of which you may be familiar with of course. How does that sound?"

Reluctantly, Molly agreed.

"Have you tried discussing with Captain James how you feel? It seems you're obviously harbouring a lot of anxiety that only manages to get out in bursts – anxiety attacks, if you will."

She had a point there. "No…not since the first night he was rescued," Molly sighed, meekly. "I mean, I've tried, but it feels like he doesn't really know what to say, because how can he really understand? And when it comes to the topic of sex, well, it ain't really come up since I tried and failed that time."

"Don't you think perhaps it is worth another try? How was he to you this morning, considering your panic attack?"

"I don't know," Molly worried, chewing her lip. "From what I can remember, he held me all through it – put me in the shower and wouldn't leave me… But this morning, he was pulling that smile face he makes when he doesn't want me to see he's fragged about somethin', but I could tell he'd been crying while I was asleep because her eyes were all puffy."

"And that bothers you." Doctor Kahn sat still for a moment, thinking. "Though, that is exactly what you described you do to keep your emotions from upsetting him." Molly felt her stomach drop, suddenly understanding. "Do you see the irony?"

Molly's lower lip jutted out as she tried her best not to sulk. "Never was very good with irony," she mumbled, sounding like a moody teenager but too wrapped up in trying her best to digest everything to care.

"Both of you seem to spend an awful lot of energy trying to shield the other from emotions that you perceive might upset them," she observed aloud, "which is really just a form of repression. It's hard, but I think you need to release yourself of your feelings. Have you thought of keeping a diary?"

Molly frowned, bemused. "There weren't really chance in me' Mum's council house because it was so full of little bleeders who'd just read it… Plus, I ain't good with words, really. I barely got any GCSE's!"

Doctor Kahn watched her carefully. "You're very open about that, but also you expressed before that you used to fight with Charles over him trying to teach you things…" She paused with her pen against her cheek. "I think he always saw in you what I see now, which is you may lack the schooling, but you are more than capable once you put your mind to something."

Molly flushed under the praise, her eyes down.

"You're not writing for it to ever be read, so you needn't worry about what you write – I think it's just important that you don't let the words fester."

Inwardly, Molly wanted to roll her eyes, because she thought it incredibly unlikely that should would get round to putting pen to paper. She managed to say nothing, just about. "As for Charles, I think you both need to sit down, back to back if it helps, so you don't have to worry about feeling uncomfortable, and just try and let the other in on your fears... You might find that sex and intimacy doesn't feel so frightening once you realise you both have the same fears, hm?"

"'Suppose so," Molly mumbled, quietly ashamed to have not seen it herself.

Later, when Charles came to pick her up, he seemed as equally quiet and apprehensive as he had that morning, all hidden behind a false smile. She took one look at him and suddenly couldn't help but lunge over the centre console to hug him as tight as she could, seeing now that all those false smiles only meant he was trying to protect her. Her earlier uncomfortable nervousness dissipated, leaving only an all too familiar yearning for him, to be close to him... and a renewed vigour to remind him how much she appreciated him.

"Oof!" Charles grunted with a laugh at her sudden assault, momentarily stunned into not returning her embrace. "Well, then," he chuckled. "Hello to you, too!"

She squeezed him even tighter, her eyes suddenly pricking with the treat of sudden tears. "Hi," she murmured against his jumper-clad shoulder.

"Hi," he murmured back, his voice suddenly just as soft. By now, he was returning her embrace with a tender kiss to the side of her face and a squeeze around her waist, though he still rather bemused. It was such a stark contract from her reaction to him that morning that he found he wasn't sure how to digest it. She pressed her face into the skin of his neck that was exposed at his collar, her lashes tickling him and making him want to squirm in his seat.

"Are you okay? Sweetheart?"

She finally let him go enough for him to see her face and was surprised to find a soft smile on her face, rather than the upset grimace he had been expecting.

"Yeah," she said gently, reaching to stroke his face, the slight dark bristle on his skin tickling her palm. "I think I am, actually." Suddenly, she couldn't contain a strangely random burst of enthusiasm, though she tried to guard it, for fear of looking ridiculous.

As per his promise, he wouldn't tell her where he was taking her, though it soon became clear to her through familiar roadsigns alone that they were headed into Bath. She couldn't help herself as a barrage of questions fell from her lips, speaking over Charles' attempts to sing along, annoyingly beautifully despite his deliberate obnoxiousness, to Smooth radio.

"Do quiet down, Dawesy, for you will get no clues from me and you're interrupting a classic."

Molly snorted unattractively and swiped his arm, which was extended over the central console so he could hold her hand; longstanding habits die hard, she supposed. "Bloody hell, I forget what an old fogey you are, sometimes." He went to take offence, his mouth open in mock outrage, but she was sniggering still. "Y'sure you shouldn't have become spokesperson for Smooth & Grey FM or whatever instead of a shouty Captain?"

His quick reflexes meant his fingers swiped at her waist in a violent and sudden movement that roused a squeal out of her. He somehow always managed to know just where to tickle her, even one handed… and while driving.

"Stop it, you prannet! You know I hate it when you––and put two hands on the bloody wheel, for gods sake!" Her protests were loud, but they both knew they were half-hearted, as measured by just how much she was laughing through her words. His laughter, mixed in with the swirls of his favourite 80's music, drowned out her protests. It was such a beautiful sound, she soon forgot all about them. She turned up the radio, mostly to keep him asking questions, but also to keep him singing. She loved it when he felt free enough to sing.

Molly felt her stomach twirl with anticipation as they arrived at none other than the hotel where they had their wedding, the beautiful Georgian architecture achingly familiar.

Immediately, her heart leapt and she snapped her head round to look to him questioningly.

"Wha––Charles, why are we here? Is this the surprise?"

He winked at her, revealing nothing, smirking as he brought the car to a halt. He opened his door, the valet already waiting eagerly for him to give up the drivers seat. He raised himself out of the car, throwing his head back in beckoning. "Come along!"

She followed along, bewildered, as he pulled his military holdall from the boot, followed by hers, which was immediately taken from hum by the bellboy in the foyer. He grinned at her as he practically bound up to the reception, squeezing her hand.

"Charles––," she attempted, gently, strangely apprehensive.

"––Shh, all will be revealed," he hushed, willing her with his excited eyes to trust him and, of course, she did. He checked them in as she watched curiously, before leading her to the lift.

"So…" She drawled as they got into the lift, holding onto his hand with both of hers, needy for contact with him even more than usual.

"So, I know how much you love hotels," he began, tilting his face toward to look directly into her eyes.

"So you do listen?" she swiped humorously, wrinkling her nose at him.

"And," he continued, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly at being interrupted, "I was wondering if you'd like to go on a date tonight." Suddenly he looked bashful again, as though doubting his idea. "You know, just you and me."

Molly could see herself giving him a toothy smirk in the mirrored glass wall, amused, if also a little endeared, at the sight of Charles feeling unsure of himself.

"A date, here?" She had to admit, she was a little confused. Yes, they got married here, but she wasn't sure it was really the kind of place for a date…

"Yes, here," he said, suddenly unfazed again, leading her out of the lift with his holdall over his shoulder. He leads her down a corridor she didn't recognise and she was about to fire a needless, sassy comment in his direction, but the words died on her lips at the sight of the room that greeted them. It wasn't quite the honeymoon suite she remembered, but it wasn't too dissimilar. The bedroom lead into an open-plan living area, which had been rearranged so that instead a personally laid dinner table for two in the middle the room.

"Oh," she exhaled, looking around at the beautiful softly lit interior before turning to find Charles watching her apprehensively.

"I just thought… Well, you've been uncomfortable in rooms filled with people recently and so it might be better if we have… a romantic dinner for two…without any worry about anyone else being around at all."

She seemed to have lost her words, her earlier bubbling energy at the sight of him seeming to suddenly invert, as she was overwhelmed by how much he had evidently considered her. She knew he deemed hotels to be nothing special and much preferred to be a homebody; that historically he had loved going out to fancy restaurants not only because he could feel like he was spoiling her, but also because, in his words, it allowed him to 'feel the high of just being seen with her' when she was dressed up all nice.

Therefore, the very idea he had chosen this, to stay within the considered relative security and normality of a hotel room, told her that he recognised her new fears… and respected her enough to yield to them – for now at least. She could hardly remember having told him half of her fears aloud, and yet, in that moment, it felt as though he understood at least enough of that which she had been trying to motivate herself to put into words.

"Fuck, Charles," she breathed, breathless with the honour and inadequacy she felt simultaneously. "I don't know what to say, 'cept," she moved to sit down on the bed, "Well, I ain't sure I bloody deserve ya'."

He immediately settled beside his, his hands between his knees. "Nope," he declared defiantly, making them both break into wide smiles. "Sorry, but that's bollocks." She shook her head at him as they both allowed gentle chuckled to escape them, falling into a, now all too familiar, impasse. "You deserve a proper date, so thats what you've got." Reaching behind him, he pulled the holdall toward them and began unloading clothes, clothes she recognised as her own. "I packed some stuff that I know you like, I hope you don't mind. I didn't want to ruin the surprise."

He sounded nervous, but as usual, he had little reason to be. The clothes he had chosen for her, at a glance, were perfectly fitting. Not too fancy, but definitely enough for a dinner date. He had even packed her make up bag and necessary toiletries, including tampons, which made her smile, though she was pleased to realise she no longer needed them. Wrinkling her nose, she leaned in and puckered her lips and playfully pecked his lips.

"I ain't sure if it should be worrying how well you know ya' missus' wardrobe, mate."

The slight rigidity in his expression relaxed immediately as he laughed, reaching forward and trying to grab her playfully as she hurried out of his reach and in the direction of the bathroom. Somehow, he managed to swipe her behind with his hand, rousing a minuscule squeal of surprise from the back of her throat.

She dumped the holdall in the bathroom and pulled out the silky deep mustard coloured wrap-around dress, hanging it on the back of the door. She could hear Charles turning on the news in the other room and smiled to herself at how ever predictable he was. She began rummaging through what else he had packed, but found herself faltering at the sight of some of her best underwear, laying, perfectly folded of course, in the bottom.

The idea that Charles had packed it made her flush like a teenager and it felt all of a sudden as though she wasn't a grown married woman, but her old, silently anxious teenage self. She gnawed her lower lip as she sunk to sit down on the toilet seat, holding the delicate garments between her fingers, all soft pastel colours and embroidered flowers, finding herself wondering if this was Charles' silent way of asking her if she was ready to finally restart their physical intimacy. If so, part of her was ruffled at the thought, as it would be incredibly presumptuous of him… but then again, she gently reminded herself, it was also very careful of him, and well within his rights to do.

He could have put her on the spot, quizzed her, pushed her to 'be ready', but instead of making them both uncomfortable, he left her a hint instead. He really was a stiff Rupert through and through in that respect.

The Molly James who bought this particular intimate set was a woman in the entanglements of the honeymoon period, thrilled by the secret love affair she had found herself embroiled in with a grown man whom she couldn't help but marvel at for his intellect and his quiet adoration for those he kept in his little circle. She had wanted to impress him, she remembered, but more than that, she had wanted to feel sensual, since the sensation was so new to her then and it empowered her like a burning fire in her chest.

She envied that woman now, for the ease with which she could feel so confident knowing what her husband wanted… and in what she, herself, wanted.

The new Molly couldn't seem to straighten out her thoughts long enough to pinpoint exactly what her desires were… but she knew, stroking the silk, that she didn't want to be beaten. She wouldn't be beaten.

So, she stood, locking the door, and began stripping in front of the large expanse of mirrors at the sink. She hadn't looked at herself naked properly since this entire thing began and, strangely, she found herself holding her breath as the last of her practical underwear fell to the ground. The woman looking back at her was familiar, right down to the tattoos on her arm, wrist, shoulder and the most recent one hidden intimately just under the curve of her left breast. The latter two were for the most important men to have ever existed in her life: a tiny white Smurf that on her shoulder in memory of her dear, dear friend… and the curled script of Charles' hand that read 'Ditto' beneath her breast, the one word that came to symbolise all they could originally never say.

For some reason, she had half expected for the sight of herself not to be familiar. She sight of herself without the bruising on her thighs she remembered with a sigh of relief, but she no longer looked at herself and saw the woman Charles thought was sexy. She couldn't imagine feel that deep-seated confidence that once came second nature to her when she was naked, which was a panic-inducing realisation. Not to mention the fact she had not properly shaved in a week and therefore felt self conscious at the sight of her natural hair growth starting to become a little unruly.

Sitting down on the toilet, she stared back at the lingerie in her hands and sighed frustratedly, throwing it down onto the floor. Suddenly, it felt symbolic of all the pressure she was putting on herself by trying to compare herself to the the Old Molly, whom never knew this kind of intimate trauma that now felt like it was stained, indelibly, in her memory.

With a final huff of indignation, she rose and began, defiantly, applying some make up, enjoying the ritual of doing so. She didn't wear make up often, and she knew Charles didn't care too much for it as an Army man, but she liked it, sometimes. She liked the sense of armour it gave her.

Time passed quickly when one concentrated on mastering the perfect cut-crease eyeshadow effect and lathered oneself in complimentary body lotion, so Molly soon lost track. She grumbled at the sight of the dark hair growth on her shins and the itchy long stubble under her arms. Thankfully, she always kept a travel razor in her wash bag, and she slowly, diligently, began to shave. She looked at herself in the mirror and sighed at the thought of attempting the incredibly awkward logistical challenge of the most intimate kind of grooming. Perhaps she was just being lazy, she considered, but she couldn't help herself. The older she got, the more resentful she found that she was at the idea that she should shave down god-knows-where, rather than because she wanted to, all because it was what 'society', polite women did for their husbands.

Well, her body was hers, and she decided then and there that, beyond trimming as she liked, she would not allow herself to feel shame over such trivial things anymore.

She dried herself off and stood, looking at the underwear on the floor and felt herself stirred into spontaneity by defiance. In a move of swift decision, she pulled the dress down from its hanger, slipping her arms into the sleeves and tying a row around the waist of the wrap dress. The silk against her entirely bare skin was wondrous, the fabric brushing her freshly shaved shins as her thigh peeped through the split. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and was pleased with what she saw. She'd certainly never worn this dress without a bra before, much less without any underwear whatsoever, but she suddenly realised how much more comfortable and empowering it was to choose not to wear such things.

Now at least, if Charles tried it on with her, he would soon have his answer… by way of easy access.