AN: Here's a first draft of a piece I found on my computer – it's the last piece that I have saved for the 'Our Girl' universe, so figured I would post it.
All mistakes are my own. Based around ep. 4(?) - after Sohail is found in the road.
I still don't own any of it. Damn!
Please read and review!
Lacey.
Aftermath
If there's one thing that the large military hospital – found at the heart of Camp Bastion – is missing, it's a half decent waiting room. For those unfortunate enough to find themselves waiting around for an update on a fallen soldier, an injured insurgent, or, rarely, wounded civilians, there are only two options and neither are particularly comfortable.
The first option, and most popular choice, is the small room that had once been used to store medical supplies and an old ultrasound machine. It now houses three hard, plastic chairs that remind Dawes of school, and a singular, large poster explaining both the importance and benefits of keeping one's rifle clean and maintained.
The other alternative – the least popular – is the long, metal bench that's been bolted to the wall near the main entrance to the large building. Though the entrance hall is generously spacious, and far less claustrophobic than the has-been cupboard, the positioning of the bench is deplorable; the occupants are seated near enough to the sliding, glass doors to feel the stagnant, thick heat oozing through, but too far from the overhead air conditioning unit to feel the benefits of the icy cool breeze blowing through the vents.
So, even though she dislikes small, cramped spaces, it had been no surprise when Dawes had suggested the privacy of the chilled, compact room when Major Beck arrives at the hospital shortly after they do, with a scowl on his face and a long list of questions for both her and Captain James to answer, as if they're personally responsible for Sohail's fate.
She let's the Captain do most of the talking, only speaking up when the Major looks to her to corroborate James' story or when he asks her a question directly. It takes almost half an hour before Beck nods and tells them that they need to head over to the debriefing unit to file a mission report before they turn in for the night.
Kinders makes a surprise appearance after an hour or so has passed, and James discreetly leads him outside of the waiting room, leaving Dawes alone. They stand just outside the room, and she can see James' straight back, and hear just enough through the open door to know what they're saying, but nothing can hold her attention, penetrate her numb mind.
She feels isolated, alone; even as Captain James walks back into the room, familiar and confident, and takes the seat next to her, their knees knocking together. She's never been the type to be victimised, or bullied, singled out by a group of people that want nothing more than to hurt her. Even in school, she'd always been better at throwing the first punch, rather than laying down and letting people walk over her. But this is different; this is murderous; a group of terrorists that are literally recruiting people to end her life. Like she's a mark for a hitman, or something.
Even the weight of her rifle holds little comfort.
She leans forward, her elbows resting on her thighs, and she buries her face in her hands, pressing fingers into her closed eyes as she tries to push the images of a broken Sohail from the forefront of her mind. She can smell metal, copper; a poignant scent that even the medical grade, blue latex gloves can't protect her from.
Sohail's life wont be easily washed away; it'll take days of wear to rub the guilt and trauma from her skin.
Dawes swallows audibly, lifting her head up to inspect her cupped hands, as if she expects to see the blood that isn't there, staining the crevices of her palms, drying in the gaps between her fingers.
She realises that she's shaking.
[]
The doctor that steps into the room with a stoic manner and a solemn brow is young, perhaps he only has a few years on Dawes, and when he notifies them of Sohail's death, it's almost cold, too clinical. His face is void of emotions, though there's a brief softness in his eyes, and he talks over Dawes to Captain James. Usually, the fire in her soul would ignite at the apparent arrogance, but there is no spark within, because how it's said, who it's said to, is insignificant; the fact of the matter is that a man, a soldier, has lost his life.
Lost his life for her.
The reality lands like a blow to her gut, stealing the air from her lungs, and she collapses a little.
It's not like death is new to her; when Dawes was seven, she'd accidentally stumbled across a seemingly unconscious drunk on the steps leading up to her parent's flat – not a completely unusual occurrence. She didn't suspect anything to be wrong until the police turned up on the doorstep an hour or so later, armed with statement pads and endless questions.
And then, of course, there was the group of young ANA soldiers she'd recently had the unfortunate task of declaring as deceased. The smell of stale blood and salty sweat still lingers in her memories, the touch of their cold skin baking under the strong rays of the midday sun taints the depths of her mind.
But as harrowing as they were, this is different; she wasn't responsible for any of those – the people, their circumstances.
It all begins to press in on her; the guilt, the grief, the liability – and she suddenly begins to feel claustrophobic in the small room with the straight faced doctor and the straight talking Captain.
Without waiting for a dismissal, she slips past the blue scrubs and through the open door, turns to her right and takes off, almost at a jog, heading straight for the set of fire doors at the end of the corridor. Her body slams into the fire resistant wood, the seal ripping apart as her heart hammers, adrenaline tainting her blood as it courses through her system, whooshing noisily in her ears. She's oblivious to her pursuer until he reaches out and gently grabs her by the arm, and she spins around to face him.
Her eyes scan his face, and his brows are pulling together, eyes narrows almost suspiciously as his chocolate orbs flick over her.
"Hey," he says, and although the long corridor seems to be deserted, he keeps his voice low, tone soft. "Are you okay?"
Dawes swallows, and she can feel her whole body shaking hard enough she's sure she's vibrating, that he can feel it through his grip on her upper arm. "I'm fine," she says, anyway, because she just needs to get out, to get some fresh air into her lungs, to wash her hands, her face, her body.
"Dawes."
"Honestly, I'm okay," she reiterates as she lifts her hand up to cup the side of her neck, but the copper scent is there again, lingering, haunting her, and her voice breaks a little. She drops her hand quickly, as if her fingers are filled with lead, and pulls her gaze from his so he can't see the raw truth in her eyes. A few seconds of heavy silence pass between them, and then his grip is loosening on her arm, hand trailing down to her wrist, and he's walking away, pulling her along behind him. She's confused for a second, until he opens a door and pushes her inside.
It's a small bathroom, with one sink and a mirror, a urinal and a toilet stall. There's a young Private mopping the floor, whistling a tune Dawes doesn't recognise, until he looks up and spots her and Captain James standing there.
"Give us the room," the Captain orders, and the Private nods without hesitation, props the mop in the bucket and wheels it out of the bathroom in silence. The room smells of urine and bleach, there's an AC unit on the ceiling that rattles as it vibrates, and everything just feels small and insignificant.
He stays silent as he tugs on her wrist again, guiding her over to the sink unit, and stands behind her, leaning to the left so he can turn on the tap. He dips his fingers into the streaming water, testing the temperature, and she watches as he lifts both of her hands, seemingly small in his, over the lip of the basin and into the hot stream.
He rubs at her skin gently, almost massaging, working away at her as if he can see the blood that she can smell.
Suddenly, everything drains from Dawes' body, leaving a trail of fatigue and sorrow, a hollowing, in it's wake. A lump forms at the back of her throat as her eyes stay fixed on James' fingers working across her palms, and her eyes burn, mist, as his breath brushes over her ear and across her cheek.
James' hips press into hers as he leans them both further over the sink, and he adds soap from the unit fixed to the tiled wall, implicitly reticent as his hands slide over the backs of her hands, fingers slipping between hers, hands briefly interlocking, and then the warmth of the water runs over them, rinsing their skin as the pads of his fingers make work of her cuticles.
She feels him washing away the guilt, the anguish, the pain and self doubt.
She's starting to feel clean. She lets her body relax a little, using the basin to prop her tired body up as she turns to face him, eyes watching as he turns off the tap and grabs for the green paper towels stacked on top of the empty dispenser. She keeps her gaze fixed to their hands, watching him dry her, keeping her eyes from meeting his, even after he tosses the screwed up towels into the bin beneath the sink.
His hands are on her neck then, not in a threatening way, but in a loyal, intimate way, and it all feels too much, so she turns her head away, afraid to let him see her cry again, to reveal further weakness. He's already seen her fall apart one too many times today.
But his thumbs stroke at her jawline, and his gaze is fierce, intense, raising hairs on her arms without her even looking at him, and it's beyond all her control.
She can't stop the tears from falling, and he catches every one as they spill over her waterline, leaving messy trails down her sun kissed cheeks. Her lids fall as she takes a deep, shaky breath. His hands stay pressing against her, warming her skin, finger resting on her pulse point.
Then, she looks up at him.
"You're okay," he says, quietly, raspy as if he's completely stripped back, and it sends a shiver up her spine. It's the first time she realises he's standing so, so close.
He seems to move closer without actually moving, body pressing against hers, and she can smell his sweat, the understated notes of his deodorant, as he tilts her head and presses his lips to her forehead. Her hands move up to rest at his waist, fingers clutching at his shirt. It's the second time he's held her, and it's delicious and dangerous, and they're playing with fire whilst doused in fuel.
She nods, swallowing audibly, but she doesn't pull away from him.
"I'm worried about you," he confesses and he's so intense she has to look away before she crumbles in his embrace.
She shakes her head, eyes fixed on the side of the mixer tap, and it's his own honesty that brings out hers. "I don't know how to deal with this."
"Molly," he whispers, and he tilts her head in his hands, forcing her gaze to lock with his.
She doesn't think he knows how it feels to have him look at her like that; to have the weight of his stare cut her open and strip down all of her defences. How he manages to make her forget everything about herself in the face of his unwavering dedication and unsurpassable protectiveness.
"You're going to be okay," he says, and it's insistence and belief, and a promise and everything in between, because if she's not okay, neither is he, and they can't afford to crumble and fall when they've already come this far - emotionally, physically, mentally. In war. In love.
She looks at him, and she can feel every single day of the past five months they'd spent together, day in and day out, all of the bottled emotions and illicit feelings, and it's all being reflected right back at her.
She gives in then, body falling against his as they melt together; a moment of shared weakness, of forgotten regulations and war torn countries. She slides her arms around his waist, and his hands are in her hair, at her nape, and she can feel the rise and fall of his chest with each breath, can hear the rhythmic beating of his heart.
It dawns on her, as she envelopes herself in him, that she'll never feel clean again.