Fingers crossed, I've fixed the formatting issue?!
So...I'm a bit late to the party - I know! Can you believe that I watched the original 'Our girl' Pilot and first series as they aired on the BBC years and years ago. Maybe? If I went on to tell you that I had absolutely no idea that they had continued the series, you probably wouldn't believe that. Alas, it is, however, the case. I recently, meaning about two weeks ago, came across the series on BBC iplayer and was flabbergasted to find that there were another 3.
I very quickly realised that the story of Molly Dawes was not to be continued, but the mention of her and seeing Captain James as part of the series, meant i was excited to watch it. Series 2, was, to say the least, interesting. It was nothing like the first series, but i wanted to give it a chance, so I overlooked that. The Captain James from series 1, although a minor-ish character, was still recognisable and some of the faces from two section remained.
From early in the episodes of series 3, i wondered what had happened to Captain James. Why had they dramatically changed his personality and behaviour. I didn't particularly like the character of Georgie and the loss of Elvis, didn't particularly touch me, though i did think it was a shame they killed him off without exploring him a bit more.
But that injury - that betrayal - that total 180 in morals - I couldn't even finish it. i've never fully watched past the Belize tour, because i was so upset with the forced relationship between the two characters, because they killed the love interest off and needed to add some form of sex into the show, instead of just allowing it to be army based until they could build some chemistry between Georgie and another character.
So, here I am, discovering the world of fanfic, and joining the land of make believe. I know that the people behind Our girl have said that Captain James' absence in the last series is because he left the army and was fixing things with Molly, but i'd rather pretend Georgie Lane never happened, in all honesty. That can make me as sad as the next person, for all I care! Oops!
I'm not pretending to be a great writer. To be honest, I'm not pretending to be a writer at all. This is probably the biggest load of bleep you've ever read, but it's supposed to be for fun.
I'm open to constructive criticism, and I know my spelling and grammar is atrocious at times, mainly from a lack of proof reading and fat fingers.
Flames are not necessary. If you don't like what I've written, be that my story, authors note, characters, plot or anything else in-between, just do us both a favour and leave. No need to make nasty comments and waste your energy or my time. If you want to offer me ways to improve - i'll look forward to taking any relevant suggestions into consideration.
To any of you still out there reading, I hope this gives you some enjoyment. I thought it would be fun to tell the other side of the story. I'm sure it's probably been done, but you can never really have too many Charles/Molly stories, so who cares, right?
I'm looking forward to browsing some of the stories on offer here, at some point.
So, until next time, wishing you all - Happy reading!
Charles knew he needed to focus, but quite frankly, it was a boring debrief, pre operations and he had other things on his mind.
Swigging from the Styrofoam cup, he swished the liquid around his tongue with a grimace, before swallowing harshly, the bitter taste of liquid, masquerading as coffee, hitting his throat, before he let out a louder than appropriate sigh, catching himself mid noise and turning it into a cough as some of the eyes around the table glanced suspiciously at him.
Today was going to be a long day!
Having had the go to deploy, he'd been given permission, by his commanding officer, to go home for the weekend to see his family. He'd be able to see his parents, but more significantly, the most important person in his life, his son. Which was why he didn't need to be sat here, discussing the amount of paper clips they'd need to take with them to Afghanistan or something equally as trivial.
Sitting with gritted teeth, because the Brigadier, taking pride of place at the top of the table, deemed the amount of paper clips and board markers they were taking with them to be information that was a priority over informing Charles that he was in need of a new medic after his previous one had suffered an injury while on leave. The lack of respect left him him with an irate burning that filled his belly as he bit his tongue to avoid the charge he would be up on after he scathingly uttered words that succinctly expressed the rage he felt at the idiot who commanded far more than he should have been trusted with. The actual knowledge that his medic needed replacing set his stomach on edge. The idea that he would have a member of the team, who, quite frankly, wasn't a member of the team, left him feeling unsettled. His team had been preparing together since basic training. They were amalgamated as a group and knew the strong points of each other. Crucially, as the Captain, he also knew each and every one of his men and what they were capable of. An unknown entity filled him with dread.
Instructions from higher up the food chain decided who he'd get as battle replacement and as far as he knew, he wouldn't find out until he was on the tarmac. He wasn't deemed superior enough to need to know before then, even though he was the one that was tasked with ensuring the man would return with his life and limbs.
Charles had left the meeting in a flare of anger, saying nothing to nobody as he went and wishing that Major Beck, his superior, wasn't already out in Afghanistan, so that he could vent and be given the sage words of wisdom the other man had, to accept that the army had its way, and bitching and moaning about it wouldn't change a thing. His little 'what would Beck say?' moment, told him, the other man would tell him to piss off home to his family. And so, he did just that.
From as early an age as he could remember, Charles' parents had pressed upon him the importance of hard work.
He'd been born into a life of privilege, but, according to his father, that didn't mean that he could shirk the responsibility of earning his own keep or being an independent and well rounded adult, who had a stellar work ethic and drive to succeed.
Arriving at Royal Crescent, Charles inhaled deeply, preparing himself for the onslaught of contact he was about to recieve.
His fourth tour of Afghanistan, and yet it never really got any easier, when it came to saying goodbye to his loved ones.
He wasn't the problem. He loved his family, and he would miss Sam something rotten, but his being on tour was easy for him. His nearest and dearest, however, sat at home, waiting for news and dreading the day an unnamed officer turned up at the door to deliver that final blow, to say he was another casualty of some war or another and was never coming home.
Releasing the breath he hadn't realised he was holding, he turned his key in the door and pushed -
"Hello!"
"Charles!" The high pitched cry of his mother from the kitchen made him wince.
"Good to see you son!" His father called, walking towards him, from the lounge, with a massive grin and an extended hand. Henry shook his hand and pulled him into a hug, before withdrawing to allow his wife access.
"My baby boy. It's wonderful to have you home. Why can't you stay here - you could give it another go with Rebecca and work behind a desk, safely?" He rolled his eyes with a smirk and leaned down to press a kiss to his mother's cheek. He understood her neurotic desire to have him safe, but he wouldn't be pressured into a desk job, or a loveless marriage.
"One day, mummy, but not today!" He offered, causing his father to snort.
His father, Henry - not the author - came from a long line of officers. He'd grown up with the realities of army life and knew the strain his own father's job, love of country, and duty had put on their family unit. So, it hadn't come as a surprise to anyone except the General himself when he'd decided against army life for his career. Albert James, had been furious. It had taken many a year for him to come to terms with his sons choice to practice criminal law instead of providing legal services to Queen and Country by supporting and working for the armed forces. The desire for his son to fulfill a legacy he had created had waned over the years, once Henry achieved QC status as a barrister.
Although he came from substantial money, General James had been all about army life. His father and Grandfather had both been army veterans before him, so he'd been extremely disheartened to learn that the tradition wouldn't carry on through his own children. Like Henry, Elizabeth had avoided the army, becoming a Surgeon and working for an NHS hospital instead of the armed forces.
There, she'd met Marcus, who was an anaesthesiologist, and married him, before having three children. Rather dissapointingly to her father, but, a source of pure joy to their own, they were all girls. Flossie, the eldest at 32, was stubborn and strong willed, named for her paternal grandmother, Florence, the nickname instilled upon her by her stickler for army routine grandfather had stuck throughout her lifetime, nobody ever calling her by her full name, unless her mother deemed her to be in enough trouble.
Alice, who was Elizabeth's second born, now 29, was a timid girl, who had been blessed Lissy by the general, and hardly had the heart to discourage it at any point in her life, even if the nickname made her feel more meek that she already was. She was the real brains of the family, studying for her PHD in Psychology and working diligently to make herself and her family proud.
Their youngest, wayward daughter, at 24, was Beatrice. Birdy had been a happy accident five years after they thought they'd waved goodbye to nipple pads and nappy bags. She'd started off causing trouble, by being conceived through the use of diligent contraception, before continuing her reign as that one exasperating child most families had. The one who never played by the 'what had come before' rule book, not to mention her parents rules.
Henry, who Albert took great pleasure in calling Hank and setting his sons teeth on edge, had married school teacher, Evelyn. In complete contrast to his own, career minded daughter, his daughter-in-law had happily given up her career when their eldest son had come along, in favour of being at home with her children. She didn't want them being raised by nannies while she worked. She wanted to be there to provide them with love and mollycoddling. When Stewart was still only a concept in the womb, she'd handed in her resignation and devoted her life to making a home.
The general respected her really. Living on campsites with the army and having to reign in adult squaddies was enough for any man to recognise that it took a strong women to wrangle toddlers and live the life of a housewife - or it should have been. The ones who had sense recognised the fortitude it took.
Stewart, dubbed 'Art', was now 33, though any who mistook him for the 3 year old he mimicked in behaviour and attitude could be forgiven. He was a commercial airline pilot, who had zero interest. in the armed forces, much to the General's relief. No relative of his was joining the RAF, army man through and through, that he was.
Although the General loved all of his grandchildren, Charles, now 29 and a successful Captain in her majesty's army, had very quickly become the apple of his eye.
As a young boy, the idea of playing solider had been the only thing he'd dreamed of. He'd spend hours listening to his Grandfather's war stories. And as the only grandchild interested, he'd been given full focus, even before following in his footsteps.
"Can't we just build the track, pops?" A young Charles had asked him Grandfather, when he'd recieved a new train set for Christmas when he was six.
"Now remember, Chuck - Proper preparation and planning prevents poor performance!" The army general had explained, cryptically to the youngster, before pulling out the instruction manual and perusing it for a good three hours, any chance of a swift build off the table, and hours lost to Charles James and his desire to send his trains around their track.
Penelope, at 26 rounded off the James family - of that generation anyway, as a nice rounded number six grandchild. Though she wasn't quite as rebellious as Birdy, she was far from the dream that was Alice. Outspoken, bolshy and carefree were just some of the adjectives that could be laid at Nel's feet - and they were the positive descriptions for that particular hothead.
Evelyn James was a women who lived to take care of her family. One of her biggest traits was that of a feeder, in all aspects. So much so, that she might have spoiled her children just a bit! Affection, love, belongings, food, all things that she fed to her family.
Henry had taken on a slightly different approach, though he'd never dismissed his wife's teachings.
"Every responsible adult needs to be able to take care of themselves and none of you will find husband's and wives who want to do it for you, even if your mother does! It's not glamorous, but so many things in life aren't! Get used to it! But, the most important thing you can do in this word is achieve financial security. That way, you don't need to rely on anyone else. Having a trust fund, doesnt count as achieveing financial security, either. Working your arse off - does! Understand?"
They hadn't, but they'd nodded along anyway!
Charles had thrown himself into his schoolwork and was rewarded with good academic grades. Outside of academia, he joined the army cadets and made the most of the taster of a life he craved.
He'd even become a semi passable cook by the time he hit his university years, even if he didn't try quite as hard, to become a self reliant adult and clean his own cereal bowl in the mornings.
As lady luck would have it, Charles had never struggled to find a friend who wanted to take care of him and wash his cereal bowl. He'd always been, what his mother would tell him was, uncommonly attractive - and of course she'd say it when Stewart was never far behind, giggling maliciously about mummy's boy being beautiful - meaning he'd always been more popular with the ladies, though he made friends easily, because of his charismatic personality.
His mother had surpassed herself with the shepherd's pie she'd had waiting for him and after three helpings, he was strategically full.
He had plans to finish his glass of red wine and then pass out in bed, under the influence of the alcohol and the food coma. Tomorrow, he was seeing Sam.
"Have you got everything you need? All packed and ready to go? Do you want anything specific when I send your first care package?" Evelyn bustled around the kitchen, picking up her sons plate and placing a kiss against his curly hair, which made Stewart snigger from the other end of the table. Charles glared at him, before answering his mother with a cheeky grin.
"Unless you can build me a swimming pool to combat the heat, I doubt there's much you can do, but thanks."
The sound of the front door slamming against the inside wall made Evelyn growl, lightly, while Charles and Stewart suppressed the sniggers they wanted to let loose.
"Oh bugger!" The voice, that could only belong to his baby sister, called in annoyance as the sound of her stumbling around and slamming the door back onto its rightful hinges made Evelyn tut loudly, before she scurried out of the room to give her youngest child a bollocking about the paint marks.
The boys shared smirks with one another, as they listened to the tell tale sign of their mother berating the wayward child of the family, while Nel muttered forcefully under her breath.
The voices became more distinct as they made their way to the kitchen, Evelyn still lecturing, while Penelope rolled her eyes and tried her best to ignore the matriarch. She grinned, seeing Charles for the first time.
"Hi shithead!" She cried out as her mother's palm connected with the back of her head.
"Language, Penelope!" Evelyn scowled, while Stewart cackled madly.
"He says much worse and you never give him a dent in the back of his skull!" Nel grumbled, rubbing the back of her head as she flounced into the dining chair closest to Charles.
"That's because he's her baby!" Stewart sniggered, sending mock kisses towards his brother.
"I'm her baby. I'm the youngest!" Nel muttered, angrily.
"I'm sorry, did I say baby? I meant favourite!"
"Charles can't help it! Those filthy army mouths have lead him astray. When he leaves and settles down, he will change his ways." Evelyn offered, causing Charles to duck his head and hide the obnoxious grin that was playing at his lips. Clearly she'd conveniently forgotten that he had previously been, what she considered settled, but had still sworn enough for his father to threaten to wash his mouth out with soap, at the ripe old age of 24. Penelope glared and Stewart muttered under his breath.
-didn't even deny that he's her favourite!"
Charles leaned over the counter, as he fiddled with his much loved and trusty Nespresso machine. Pushing the handle, he felt the familiar resistance before the Rosabaya pod capitulated and allowed the machine to close.
He pressed the button, grinning happily, and letting out a content sigh. He was really going to miss this over the next six months.
The aroma of his favourite coffee drew Stewart into the kitchen. He whistled, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl and taking a large bite, the sound of his crunch reverberating around the kitchen as he fixed his brother with a roguish grin.
"I'd love a coffee, bro!"
"Well, you know where the kettle is, bro!" Charles offered, with his own sarcastic smirk, as he leaned back against the cabinet and folded his arms in his Captain manner.
"What time are we expecting the scamp?"
"Anytime now. Rebecca is dropping him off. She's going to stay for breakfast and then she's got a work thing to head off to."
"Mum will be in her element. She'll think you and Becky are a dead cert if she finds her here, lingering over your waffles." Stewart smirked.
"Shut it, you tosser!"
"You know I'm right!"
"We're separated. Getting a divorce. Have been over for years. She's got Mike. Mum needs to face reality. I'm not coming home to be with Rebecca and that's the last I want to hear of it!"
"Oohh! Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed."
"Well I don't need to be constantly reminded of what a fuck up I am and the fact that my marriage is over and I'm on the way to being divorced before I even hit 30. We were never meant to be together. The only good thing that came out of our relationship is Sam. We're better off as friends." Charles finished, throwing the tea towel he was holding down onto the counter, as the doorbell chimed loudly.
"Daddy!" Sam cried, launching himself against his father's lower half and causing him to grimace, with a choked groan as the child's head collided with a fairly sensitive part. Rebecca sniggered and caught Art's eye, as they shared the merriment of Charles discomfort.
"Good thing you two are on the road to divorce, because there's little chance of any more Sam's after that blow." Stewart chuckled, as Charles shot him a glare, wincing.
Deployment day had always been something that Captain Charles James relished. Every time he recieved orders, it filled him with excitement and purpose.
Knowing that he was responsible for a platoon of men and bringing them back from a war zone safely, gave him pause, with some anxiety, which was why he was so harsh on his recruits. He didn't want to have to live with more guilt than was his due as an officer. Lives would be lost. It was war. He wasn't idealistic and knew it was a grim part of the job to lose soldiers. But that didn't mean he was willing to waste lives unnecessarily. And after Geraint...
More recently, he'd found it difficult, knowing that he was leaving Sam behind. Having moved out of the family home two years before, he barely spent anytime with his young son, because his job was demanding and when he wasn't at work, he wasn't going home to his family, like he once had.
To say he'd never loved Rebecca would be a lie. They'd met at university and sparked an instant attraction. But after Sam was born, their priorities had drifted apart. That wasn't to say Sam wasn't the most important thing in his life, or even hers, it just meant that he and his wife had a different way of looking at things. Rebecca had never been what he'd call, naturally maternal. They hadn't sat down together and discussed the number of babies they planned to have, or even remotely broached the subject. Both were more career focused, with goals and expectations about where they wanted to get to in their chosen vocations.
Sam had been the beginning of the end. The result of too many mojito's at Rebecca's cousins wedding and that 1 percent chance of pregnancy when contraception was diligently wielded. When they'd found out they were pregnant, it hadn't sparked instant joy. They were young and unprepared. It had taken several weeks and an appointment to one of those clinics, before they'd determined that they'd wanted to keep the baby. They'd gotten married, quietly, after that, mainly to appease Rebecca's parents and his own.
Sam was loved! There was no doubt about that. But, if they hadn't been part of the minority of failed contraception, they probably wouldn't have chosen to have a child. Not at that point in their lives, anyway.
And so, the whole experience had made them both wary. Once was a mistake, twice was a choice. Just because they had Sam, didn't mean they were going to be one of those couples that settled down to produce more mini me's for the sake of it.
Their sex life had taken a hit after that. Both of the mind that abstinence was key to avoiding expanding their already larger than anticipated family.
Charles' life in the army became a point of contention. He was away from the family home more often than not, leaving Rebecca to chase her own career dreams, while being Sam's main caregiver. This didn't make for a happy wife - or indeed, a happy life!
His wife wanted him to live a settled life, at home with her and Sam. She wanted support to care for their child. The responsibility of day to day life, shared, so that she could share the chance to fulfill her goals.
Like his mother, Rebecca wanted him to give up his active role in the army - or possibly any life in the army.
Most people would be scared of the idea of life in service. For him, it was the opposite. Life without the uniform fucking petrified him.
The final nail in the coffin came with the realisation that, actually, now having had Sam for over two years, Charles found himself more inclined to the idea of giving his child siblings in the not too distant future. He'd broached the idea with his wife one evening as they lounged on the couch, the television playing some foreign movie, with subtitles, that neither was that interested in, both too tired to still be awake, but afraid to be the first to admit defeat, in case they were acused of not making the effort to spend their little time together, together.
Too many sips of wine had loosened his tongue to the point where he thought it would be a good idea to suggest they consider their options.
Rebecca had flat out refused, telling him she'd rather sew her vagina up than have anything come out of it again. Charles' army reflexes were put to the test as the photo-frame with a picture of his first platoon, on tour, sailed towards his head, after he suggested a cesarean. She'd called him all kinds of unflattering names, suggesting that he was trying to turn her into a human incubator while he swanned off to play soldiers.
In the end, they'd grown apart. The lack of physical relationship, the distance, the desire for different things and the demands upon their relationship as both a couple and parents became too much. So, they'd gone their separate ways, deciding before Sam was three, and as Charles set out on his second tour of Afghanistan, that it would be better to separate and try to salvage an amicable relationship for the sake of their son. And they'd made a good go of it, building an almost friendship. Charles still loved Rebecca. She was the mother of his child. He just wasn't in love with her.
They'd filled for divorce earlier in the year, deciding it was time, once Rebecca's relationship with Mike became more serious. Charles didn't begrudge her. Though a tiny part of him felt insecure at the fact that Mike would spend more time with his son than he did.
This was the life you chose! His mother's sarcastic voice ran through his mind.
"Do you have your 'chief, daddy?" Sam asked, only slightly distracted by something in the background.
"Yes! I have it in my pocket here!" Charles patted the pocket over his heart, with a grin. "I love you, scamp!" He called brightly, through the ipad in his hands, watching as the young boy blew him a kiss, excitedly shouting goodbye, before running off out of the room currently on view.
"Do you want me to get him back?" Rebecca asked, sounding tiredly apologetic.
"No, don't worry. I'd rather it be like this than see him getting upset by me leaving."
"You leaving is all he knows, so he has no reason to get upset!" She answered, her tone not nasty, but it wasn't mollycoddling him either.
"-Becca" his own tone, however was wounded.
"I'm sorry Charles, but it's true. Let's not argue about it before you go. We hope you have a safe six months. Call when you can and take care of yourself. Sam loves you. And I don't hate you." She cracked a smile, trying to ease the tension of thrity seconds before. He gave a small chuckle at her choice of words.
"Yeah...I don't hate you, either." He offered back, letting the rest of his laugh out of his nose. "Look after yourself and Sam and I'll speak to you soon."
They shared one last smile, before he cut the call off and the screen that had only seconds before shown him the face of his ex wife and their son, went black.
"Hello Buttercup! Miss me?" The obnoxious voice caught him in the meeting room he'd been in, for a final briefing with Major Beck over the satelite coms, before take off. Looking up, startled, and for the two seconds it took for his brain to catch up, he was annoyed that any of his platoon would dare to disrupt him. Catching sight of the smug grin that played on the mouth of his, somewhat grudgingly, best friend Charles rolled his eyes, dramatically.
"What the fuck are you doing here, you giant dickwad? I thought you were in Indonesia?"
"I was, but got back yesterday. Thought I'd pop into Bath on my way through. Your parents send their love. And Becky sent this!" Elvis Harte, the cocky bastard, handed his friend a thick envelope with a grimace.
"She'd have a fit if she heard you calling her Becky!" Charles mumbled, distractedly, as he used his index finger to tear open the letter.
Freezing slightly as he read through the cover sheet of the wad of documents, he sighed, frustrated that she hadn't mentioned anything about this in their earlier phone call.
"Sorry to be the bearer of - I can't bring myself to say bad, because I think it's the best play you've ever made - news!"
"Shut the fuck up, Elvis!" He told his friend dully as he read the wording on the letter, telling him that the documents within held his decree absoloutle, effectively dissolving his marriage, legally. He stuffed the papers, forcefully back into their envelope, before looking up at his companion and plastering a smile on his face. "I'm the sorry one. Sorry you dragged your shit eating, grinning arse all this way, when I'm about to head off." Charles grinned, causing Elvis to roll his own eyes.
"Yeah, well, I'm off to Amsterdam tomorrow, but I'm stopping in at Art's on my way back. Your mother sent an apple crumble for him. Apparently he's got a hot date, and has promised to bring a homemade dessert to her home cooked meal, so he's conned old Evie into making it for him."
"He's such a fucker!" Charles laughed, as Elvis told him about his brothers antics. "This is what he does. Because he knows I got all of the cooking talent in the family, while he got his ugly mug"
"Right, well- don't get your ugly mug blown off by those bastard taliban. You need to come back so that I can remind you how much better looking than you I am."
"I could say the same for you, Mr special forces!" They grasped each other in a manly hug, that lasted a little too long, to really be considered manly, before Charles mumbled. "This is why we were named the first openly gay couple at Sandhurst!'
Elvis snorted, before puckering his lips and planting a slobbery kiss on Charles cheek.
"Love you, Priscilla!" He announced, brazenly, before giving a wave and turning on his heel, leaving his friend to snigger madly, before attempting to manage a more fearsome mien. He struggled for a second, before he remembered the envelope that currently rested in his hand.
That was enough to sour anyones mood!
He shoved it into his bergen and swiftly marched out of the room, the same way Elvis had gone, but turning in a different direction as he exited. He nodded at the few soldiers milling around in the corridor as they stood to attention, before making his way out of the fire exit door that lead to the tarmac.
"Can it really take you massive cockwombles this long to get into your sections for a bloody photograph?" Charles snapped, Captain mode well and truly in place as he watched the pathetic bunch he'd been shouldered with.
Glancing to the left, he did a double take as he watched a tiny girl appear from within 2 section as they knelt down in front of her. She barely measured the waist of the soldier behind her. Clearly, this five foot nothing was his replacement medic. He huffed, lightly, not feeling confident about the choice. What he felt was preety pissed that they'd spent the last six months training as one group only for the medic to be replaced the day they were due to leave for Afghanistan.
He watched as she smirked, clearly finding amusement in something unknown to him. Captain James wasn't unfeeling. He had a sense of humour. But if he wasn't laughing, he didn't expect anyone else to be.
"What are you laughing at, medic?" He called, gruffly, in annoyance.
"Cockwomble, sir!" She sniggered. Charles felt himself sneer at her immaturity, before glancing around at the rest of the platoon.
"For the benefit of our alleged new medic, who are we?"
"THE UNDER FIVES, SIR!" The entire platoon, baring little miss giggles, chanted. He took a small amount of pleasure at the jump she gave, as the men shouted beside her.
"And why d'you think we're called that, medic?" He challenged, to see if she could think on her feet.
"I- I don't know, sir."
"Well, take a look." It was almost gentle, the way he said it, but it was laced with something that even he couldn't pinpoint.
The medic sized the group up for a few moments, before answering, her voice sceptical
"They look young, sir?"
"And everyone of them is in my charge, so if you can't cut it as our medic and part of the team, I have no hesitation in lobbing you out of the plane. Is that understood?" He finished, giving her a dark look. He really wasn't in the mood today.
"Yes, sir." Her voice almost quivered slightly, and Charles resisted the urge to roll his eyes, as he watched her inhale deeply and try to hide the fall of her face at the public set down.
He gave her one last glance before making his way into the middle of the platoon, to join the photograph that it had taken much too long to fucking take!
Standing in the lineup, he felt, rather than saw, eyes on him. Glancing right, to the same pair of weary green eyes he'd just spent the last 3 minutes glaring at, he saw her nervously watching him. Clearly, she was sizing him up and probably making use of the new vocabulary he'd just taught her. Not many new privates would meet his eye after he'd made a show of them.
He turned back to the photographer, fighting the urge to smirk.