AN: So it's been a looooong while since I posted...since I had time to write, really.

This came to me whilst I watched Our Girl a few days ago – because my boyfriend bought me the boxset (yes, I did all 5 episodes in one day, shh!)

It's unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own!

Please read and review! I hope you like this one!

Lacey

Maybe we could

Waiting is the worst part, Molly learns, and inevitably the longest part, too. Though the room is small, barely wide enough to accommodate the three plastic chairs lining the far wall, she still paces the length of the waiting area, like a caged lion, eyes watching medical personnel rush around in the organised chaos of Camp Bastion's hospital through the darkened panes of glass.

Molly takes a deep breath, her feet halting when the motion of moving back and forth is no longer adequately soothing her, as a hand runs up over her face layered in dust and desert grime, over tightly braided hair. She doesn't have a watch, and there's no clock on the stark, white walls, but she knows that it's been too long, that she should have had news by now; whether good or bad. She contemplates leaving the confines of the waiting room, of tracking down one of the doctors and just asking outright for an update, perhaps she'd even push her luck enough to demand one, but she's held back by the promise she'd made to Captain James; that she wouldn't go anywhere until he'd returned from the head.

She takes another breath, a deeper one, a useless attempt at cleansing herself from the guilt that's got her chest in a vice, that's weighing down heavily on her shoulders. Her hands shake, and the contents of her stomach bubble and swirl, makes her feel sick. Sohail's blood still stains her skin, and no matter how many times she scrubs her hands under scalding hot water, she still sees it there, tattooed as a permanent reminder that this was all her fault, that she'd caused this. Molly closes her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose as she tries to push the images of a beaten and broken soldier, one so strong and arrogant and defiant of her, away from the forefront of her mind.

"Dawes."

The sound of his voice, so calm and clear, so professional and restrained, rips through the stagnant silence of the waiting room. Molly jerks her head up, spins around to face him, her oceanic orbs locking on to pupils that remind her of chocolate and honey. For a second, she loses herself, can't make the words form in her throat for fear of falling apart, of coming undone at the seams and letting everything spill out. It's not until Captain James takes a step further into the confines of the room, with the corner of his mouth dipping slightly and his brows pulling together, that she sees it; the pain, the regret.

Sohail didn't make it.

"Oh, God," Molly finally chokes out. It all happens at once, like an invisible tidal wave of emotions slamming into her, stealing her breath, her focus, her own damned restraint. Her eyes mist as tears form, she gasps for air as the guilt crushes her, collapsing her chest and she just can't breathe, because this was her fault; she'd gotten a man killed, because she'd been too fucking involved. "Oh, God." Her gaze flicks down, eyes staring at her blood stained palms.

"Dawes," Captain James says, taking another step towards Molly, and it's his tone that makes her look back at him, to tear her eyes away from her hands, because he sounds so wounded, so torn. And then, without even thinking about the repercussions if they're caught, they're closing the distance between them, their bodies crashing together, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck, and his snaking around her waist, pulling her close.

They stay that way, moulded together, for an immeasurable amount of time, tucked away in the privacy of the small room.

"Molly," Captain James eventually whispers softly, his breath hot against the sensitive skin of her neck, when her sobs no longer rattle her body and her legs no longer shake under the weight of her shame, of her regret. She swallows against the thickness at the back of her throat, before loosening her hold, releasing him from the embrace, her cheeks warming at the embarrassment of her momentary lapse of inner strength and control of her emotions.

"Sir," she returns, her voice hoarse, gritty, as sorrow blankets her larynx. She waits for him to take a step back, to place some distance between their too close bodies, to start the lecture that she's sure he's waiting to begin. But he doesn't move, his breath fanning the top of her head as she refuses to lift her gaze to meet his, too afraid to see the disappointment etched deep into his burnished pupils.

"Molly," he says again, equally as soft, as soothing, as one of his large, calloused hands reaches up, lifts her chin so his eyes can catch hold of hers. He traces her face, eyes running over hers, her nose, tear streaked cheeks, her mouth. His brow furrows slightly, head lists to the side a little as he returns his gaze to hers. "Are you okay?"

She ponders his question, teeth worrying her bottom lip, before inhaling a shaky breath. "It's all my fault," she utters honestly, even if she didn't mean to. "I should'a listened to you. I should'a -"

"You're not to blame for this, Molly," Captain James interrupts, his thumb sweeping across her cheek to catch a tear as it spills over her water line.

"But Sohail died because of me."

"Sohail was murdered because he was loyal to you. To us. To the greater good," Captain James says matter-of-factly, his palm falling away from Molly's cheek as he takes a step back, and the distance between them suddenly feels cold, gaping. "That's nobodies fault, especially not yours."

"But the Taliban want me dead, Boss. Because I got too involved -"

"Dawes, they're extremists. There's no reasoning behind who they are, or what they do. That's why we are here." Captain James' gaze is so piercing, Molly can't help but nod, to agree with him even if she isn't entirely sure he's right.

"I know," she says with a huff of air, before rubbing at her nose, and turning to collapse into one of the uncomfortably hard, plastic chairs. "It's just...it's been one helluva day, Sir." She runs a hand over her now dry face, rubs at sore eyes before pushing some loose strands of hair towards the braid secured at the back of her head.

"Yeah," he sighs in agreement. "Yeah, it has."

Molly watches as he moves towards the darkened glass window overlooking one of the busiest sections in the hospital – effectively one of the emergency departments – his back to her, and she wonders if perhaps he's recalling her declaration of her feelings for him. She cringes, because with hindsight, it wasn't such a good idea. It's not like she's ever known what love is; Artam was her first proper boyfriend, and that wasn't really love, just more of a convenience. And she certainly had no right to just confront her Boss, and ask him to declare his feelings, in the middle of a god damned battlefield. Molly suppresses a groan.

"I'm sorry," she says to his back, hands fidgeting in her lap. "For what I said, you know, earlier."

Captain James' back instantly straightens, his shoulders square. "Forget it."

"I will, I just meant -"

"Dawes," his voice is tight, restrained, the warning subtle, but Molly hears it. Instantly, she knows he's no longer being her friend, and he's back to being her superior officer. "We cannot have this conversation here."

"I just wanted to let you know, that I know I was out of line," she quickly utters, because the more she thinks about it, the way she'd asked him so directly if he loved her, the more she wishes it'd never happened, the more she wants him to know she'd rather forget about it too, because, Hell, he's so far out of her league, she doesn't know what she was thinking in believing there was a chance that he'd actually be interested in her.

"Yes, you were." He turns to face her, his jaw set squarely, his gaze fierce. Molly shrinks back in her seat a little as warmth spreads up her neck, over her cheeks, because now she knows he's been thinking about it, too. "You were incredibly unprofessional. You acted out of selfishness, and stupidity, with little to no regard for your fellow comrades safety."

Molly nods, flushing at the scolding, eyes misting again, though this time, she refuses to shed a tear. "I know."

"You cannot go around declaring your personal feelings on the battlefield. You put the whole platoon's lives at risk; lives that I am responsible for."

"Yes, Boss." Molly nods, though she doesn't drop her gaze, keeps her eyes fixed onto his, and though they flash with anger, there's something entirely different there, something she can't put a name to.

He sighs, runs a hand over his face, up through already dishevelled hair. "Dammit, Dawes, you put your own life at risk, today."

"I know, Sir," Molly nods, a little relieved that at least his tone has softened, even if the intensity of his stare hasn't. "I just wasn't thinking. I saw that sheet, and I dunno. It could'a been anything, an IED, a rigged body, and you were headin' straight for it. I just...I wasn't using my nut, Sir."

"I'm the Captain of your platoon," he breathes, shaking his head softly. "These feelings; they can't happen. It's unethical. It's against Army reg-"

"I know," Molly cuts him off, before she stands back up from the chair, crossing her arms over her chest, as she asks, "And if you weren't?" because it dawns on her, suddenly, that he hasn't even answered her former question; in either admittance or denial.

"Molly." It's a warning that she doesn't care for, because the way his eyes soften and his brow creases slightly, she just knows, as if she's been reading him for her whole entire life. "You are in my command. Nothing can happen."

"Until I'm not," she points out, boldly. He stares at her, eyes narrowing slightly as if he's contemplating her, mulling it over, fighting a war that's battling it out somewhere inside of his head.

Eventually, his shoulders relax a little, and he nods. "Until you're not."

Molly's mouth dries, her heart stammers, and pulse quickens, because it's the first confirmation that he's in this with her, that she's not imagined the whole thing, that she doesn't have some stupid, sex deprived crush on someone she can't have. She smiles, and it takes every last inch of restraint that she has not to cross the space between them and crash her mouth onto his, to not reach up and tangle her fingers in his dirty locks, to not arch her body into his in an entirely too intimate way.

"So, that's it then?" She asks, for verbal clarification. "We wait out?"

Captain James nods, lips twitching upward, softening his features. "We wait out."