"Does the thread begin to fray?

I haven't left my room for days.

I don't want to turn my darkness into something you can't escape."

-Hanging By Your Halo - Lauren Aquilina


Molly did as he'd asked and changed, rather reluctantly, into his clothing. The joggers were an old pair of her own that she must have long left behind and the West Ham shirt was the one she had gifted him their first Christmas together. She was on such an emotional roller-coaster of a day that she was surprised at the roll of sorrow that swamped her at the sight of the shirt. It felt like such a symbol of the joining of their lives as one, that shirt, as shitty polyester and garishly colourful as it was. And yet, he had worn it proudly back then and game to games with her and her family. He'd allowed himself to fully assimilate into their lives in a way she could only confess she never really managed well into his life. He always said it was because he had a childhood of loneliness and was always mournful for a big family. She always secretly thought it was just because he was socially and emotionally intelligent than she would ever be.

It was odd, to use the master bathroom, given they always used one of the guest suites when they used to come here. His room was void of anything that told her it was now his, besides the novel neatly bookmarked, the bottle of his aftershave, sets of cufflinks and the photo beside his bed that was taken at their wedding. A photograph she knew to be his favourite, whether they were intoxicated and crumped, but grinning at one another as she sat in his lap on one of those grossly overdecorated wedding chairs. It hurt to look at their smiles.

As she made her way back into the living room, she noticed he'd turned on a lamp or two given how dark it has gotten with the bad weather. She hated to admit that he still had an effect on her, but she knew deep in her gut it was still just as true as it used to be. She didn't even mean lust –– for years since, that part of her had died beneath the acidic hatred and betrayal she carried. The draw to Charles had begun that way, but so soon became a deeper bond of kindred spirits, as he had always called it.

In the face of news she may need the horrors of cervical radiation, or worse, have to face her own mortality, the aggressive need to be in his presence had returned, which she had repeatedly buried and convinced herself had died over the last two years.

Mostly, she had craved the safety that her past self had felt every time she had been with him. A safety that in that horrible, sickeningly panicked moment in the doctor's office, she knew she had to go in search of again and damn the consequences. It was like an absolute siren call of nature, like a bird to the South or a magnet to the poles.

What she hadn't expected was for him to look so different from how she remembered him… or for him to be so emotionally transparent. After all, the last version of him she knew had been so shut off and so opaque that she remembered barely recognising him the last time they were together. He'd been outraged at her suggestion he should leave her –– in his eyes, there was nothing wrong. He had been thin, drawn and had a sickeningly far-away, detached, almost wired, look in his eyes, constantly. He had stopped singing, or laughing, or being able to watch TV and he had, in the end, even entirely cropped his hair to a buzz cut after a night of desperation when she had tried to show him affection and told him how much she liked that it was getting long.

Bizarrely, this one small act had crushed her in that moment. It had felt like a personal attack on her.

She knew now with the help of her own psychologist, that it had been an attack of the version of himself that he no longer felt he deserved to be, much less receive praise for.

Fast forward to now though, his hair was the length she'd always liked, slightly longer than regulation actually, but still just as coiled and curly. There were a few new greys in the fold of his parting, which she was secretly pleased to see, as she had some too now and had always been resentful that he hadn't, especially given he was almost eight years her senior. He was much bulkier than she ever remembered him being, even when things were good. He had clearly taken up extreme exercise, perhaps even weightlifting by the look of him. He'd always been strong but lean, given his height, but now she was unable to stop herself noticing the increased ratio between his broad torso, defined shoulders and his slim waist…nor the increased size of his arms beneath his taunt long sleeves…

At the sofa, he handed her a beer and she inwardly scolded herself from her wandering eyes.

"Sorry, only got the shit 0.5% alcohol stuff," he excused politely, handing her the cold Heineken bottle. "I don't really drink these days."

Another surprise. She raised her eyebrows as he settled down a foot from her on the large family corner sofa. "Oh, yeah? That sounds a bit shit."

She watched his eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiled at her rather typical response. He had a few more lines than she remembered, but only marginally, and she liked them –– they meant he was smiling.

"Yes, I uh… Thought it best. PTSD meds and all don't really agree with it. I do miss a good glass of merlot."

She couldn't help but roll her eyes. "Oh, you Rupurt."

He nose crinkled and brows quirked in mock disapproval. "I seem to remember you didn't protest when we drank an entire bottle of '76 at my dad's 70th…"

She was assaulted with memories of that rather hazy evening, remembering how much they laughed as they consumed as much of his father's red wine collection they could before he would notice, as he himself was long gone to liven up what was otherwise a thoroughly dry gathering. They had been so giggly and ridiculous and ended up sitting on a series of crates in the corner. Charles had poked her nose with his index finger to 'prove' he wasn't drunk, narrowly missing her eye. She done the same, but with a kiss to his nose and before they knew it they were littering each other with the lightest, most sickeningly aimless kisses… Just love-sick and drunk and happy.

She grimaced. "Okay, good point." She took a long pull from the bottle, smacking her lips together in deliberation. When she looked over, he was watching her with a smirk, knowing exactly what was coming. "Yeah, it is a bit shit," she sniggered. He gave her a look that said, 'I told you so,' so he didn't have to.

Just as she was about to throw something else equally innocuous into the preverbal conversation ring, a roll of all too familiar discomfort clenched her abdomen and she had to close her eyes and bite back a groan, a hand reaching to massage the area upon instinct.

"Woah, are you okay?" Never one to miss a trick back in the good old days, it seemed he was back to his former self at least in his skills of observation. She opened her eyes to see him closer than before, now only centimetres away, his hand grasping her arm, the heat of his warm skin-to-skin contact around her bicep a welcome distraction.

"Painkillers are wearing off," she sighed. "Fuck's sake."

"Right, I'm calling my mother," he murmured as he sat back down beside her, reaching for her slick iPhone on the side.

Immediately, she sat up and tried to reach for the phone. "No, Charles, I couldn't ask her to do that––"

"––Molly, you're in pain." She recognised the look on his face as the one of Captain James who would not be argued with, but something else, too. An openly honest neediness, a desire to be relied upon. "Please let me help you."

She sighed and rolled her eyes, but they both knew it was in jest. "You can ask for her opinion, but I ain't paying them bonkers prices her private friends charge."

He rolled his tongue in his mouth and held back a laugh as he typed out a text to that effect. He immediately was up and off again and Molly couldn't help but try and call him back to save him the trouble. Of course, he didn't listen, back a moment later with enough painkiller options to knock out an elephant.

"Bloody hell," she murmured dryly with a brittle laugh. "Pays to have a doctor in the family."

Charles snorted in agreement. "Mother is nothing if not fastidious about her own personal pharmacy."

"Yeah, whatever that means."

Then, it was his turn to roll his eyes as he left the room again, as he always did when she underestimated her abilities to understand his vocabulary.

She swallowed the tablets promptly and she did a double-take at the sight of the old pink plastic hot water bottle with fish shapes inside in his hand as he came back. It was something he always had done for her, before, and another noticeable thing he stopped doing once he was entirely buried in his PTSD. He'd always made her a traditional hot water bottle in her favourite silly pink one with the fish, once he knew she was in pain, before even being asked.

He handed it over and it was delightfully warm.

"Thanks," she said, the word small and humble. She sighed in relief as she pressed it to the lowered softness of her abdomen, curling around it with a groan. He hovered, concerned at how the stark the pale blue nags under her eyes made her look so pale. He settled back on the sofa directly next to her.

"If you need any other supplies, they're in here," he said, almost shy as he handed over the soft, furry cargo pouch she had long used during their marriage for the likes of paid and tampons.

Molly looked at it in visible surprise, looking up at him in shock.

"Where did you get this?"

He wasn't shy to have the stash of because they were intimate products, but more to reveal to her that he'd kept it, even after two years of estrangement.

But of course he had. To throw it away would have been to admit to himself she might never be coming back.

"I found it in mum's extensive medicine cupboard. It must have been left here at some point."

Molly felt a fresh, unwelcome roll of emotion, burning her eyes and making it hard to swallow as her throat blocked up and ached. She looked at the pouch in his hand, still half in hers and half in his, and tried her best to compose herself. Somehow, it would never have occurred to her that he would think of her enough to keep something so banal as a pouch of menstrual necessities. In all honesty, she had convinced herself throughout their two years apart that he had moved on, forgotten her, that perhaps he and Georgie had run off together to live their perfectly aesthetically pleasing life.

To be confronted with just how wrong she'd been, it felt like a horribly bitter reminder of the time they had lost, just as time might now be a finite entity for her, and for what? Of what a waste it all was… and of the thought and care the person who hurt her so much could somehow still have for her.

It was exhausting.

She slowly retracted the pouch from his hand and gave him an openly tearful smile. Moving quickly before she could change her own mind, she leaned up onto one knee on the sofa to reach him, balancing herself against his bicep and pressed a firm, tender kiss to the apple of his cheek. She felt his breathing tremble against her face as he exhaled in surprise.

"Thank you," she murmured against his shoulder, before letting her forehead rest there.

Charles, shocked at the sudden tenderness of their contact, closed his eyes at the waft of the scent of her in his nostrils, all apple shampoo and hint of perfume, now mixed with traces of his own cologne from the shirt she wore, a combination that all but sang to him.

His hand found her back, firmly on her waist, as she allowed herself to lean all her weight on him in an almost-embrace. He had to tell himself over and over not to cry again –– it was getting bloody ridiculous –– as he felt her tremble against him and give in to her tears, finally.

Such sobs shook both their frames as he held her to him and he grimaced against his own emotion with every one.

"It's okay, let it out," he whispered, his speech coming out croaked. "I'm here. Now matter what happens next, I won't let anything happen to you, even if I have to beat down every door on Harley Street."

"Good job y'got rich parents then, innit," she mumbled into his shirt.

Despite the morbid topic and the horrendous nature of worry around it, he strangled out a laugh. "Even if I were penniless, I'd do all I could."

She lifted herself off him enough to try and catch her breath, making a noise of through her clammed lips. "Please don't make promises you can't keep, Charles."

"I have every intention never to break a promise to you ever again, Molly," he said with absolute certainty and confidence as he reached to wipe her eyes, the way he used to.

She was so tired, emotionally beyond reproach. No one ever talked about how exhausting it was to hold one's ground. In moments such as this, with his dark, soulful eyes as expressive as when they first met and as unwavering as truth itself looking at her without a single spark of doubt, it was impossible for her to even remember why she had fought herself so hard.

Sometimes, she realised in both fear and elation, giving in was also bravery.

Burrowing her head back against his collarbone, the long-sleeved soft cotton of his shirt a real, tangible comfort despite the solid, hard build of his tense body beneath. His arms were around her and squeezing her as tight as she realised she was holding him.

"I fucking miss you," she whispered through sniffles into the charged air between them, her voice muffled by his body. It skipped neither of their notice that she didn't use the past tense. "A part of me died without you, watching the life leave your eyes and having to walk away anyway, then I vowed I never––"

He contracted his arms in a squeeze of affirmation in response, but out of her sight he had his eyes clenched shut over her head against the waves of sadness and overwhelming relief that hit him in equal measure. He rotated his head enough to kiss her head repeatedly upon impulse, the way he used to and she rotated her face to receive them. They fell haphazardly in a way that raced her heart, first on her face and then on forehead, not just the top of her head.

"God, you have no idea how much I've missed you," he choked in response. "I have been somewhat dead inside, I suppose, for so long… but not for the reasons you think. I'm so sorry."

The two of them stayed in this embrace for a long time, until Molly shuffled down and lay her head on a pillow against his thigh and fell asleep, sniffing through a tear-congested nose. He felt the full weight of her head increase as she drifted off and he looked down with emotion he could barely control.

For the first time in a long time, he let himself nap, too, resting his hand on her head, stroking her hair with the lightest of touches and admiring the side profile of her face, her freckles and her natural eyelashes.

To have the softness of her body against him again, in his own shirt no less, was a sweet kind of torture –– both absolutely everything he had dreamed of...while also being devastatingly not enough.