AN: Here's a one shot, based after Molly got slugged by Bashira's brother, and before the quick debrief scene.
Prompt sent to me by a friend from tumbler! I can't remember it, but if I find the email, I'll edit this note... (prompts are always welcome!)
It's a first draft, unbeta'd, so I apologise for any mistakes!
Please read and review – and thank you to those that do!
Enjoy!
Lacey
x
But, if...
He stands, leaning against the stark, white walls of the military hospital, arms folded over his chest as he holds his gaze on the wooden door just a few feet from him. He wonders if perhaps he's stepping out of line, if waiting for one of his soldiers outside the bathroom is perhaps above his duty as the platoon's commanding officer. He shifts on his feet, glancing down the deserted, narrow corridor, half expecting a superior officer to burst through one of the doors and pull him up on a disciplinary.
He almost jumps at the sound of a door being yanked open, his attention snapping back to the bathroom entrance as he stands straight. Instantly, his eyes lock with familiar green eyes that remind him of the ocean, so calm and clear.
"Sir?" Dawes' brows pull together in confusion, her feet hesitating briefly as she rubs damp hands together. He does a quick inventory of her injuries, quite thankful that there's only one visible laceration, and it doesn't look too deep; at least not bad enough to require any stitches.
He clears his throat. "That looks like it hurts." He gestures to her mouth, his eyes hovering on her lips, and she automatically dabs at the swollen, tender flesh. She winces.
"Nah, feels like rainbows," she says, her tongue flicking out across the cut, one shoulder shrugging casually. He smirks, eyes flicking back up to connect with hers.
"And what do rainbows feel like?"
"Friggin' terrible," Molly admits, and he laughs softly for her benefit. She scrunches her nose a little, and though she's done a good job of cleaning the dried, crusty blood from her nostrils and skin, he can still see it there, as if it's stained her, a constant reminder that she'd been hurt on his watch. He tears his eyes from her face, averts his gaze back towards the doors leading to the exit.
"We should go," he says, jerking his head softly, and Molly nods.
He can feel her presence beside him as they walk together, his body pulling towards her as if there's a magnetic field that surrounds only them, opposites attracting, and though any unnecessary contact between a male and female soldier is deemed inappropriate, he can't help but slip an arm behind her, hand hovering at the small of her back, possessively, guiding her. If she notices, she doesn't say anything.
He's known Molly Dawes for a few months, and though they'd had a rocky start to their tour, he'd be comfortable in declaring that he knows her well enough to know when there's something on her mind, something she's not saying. Her shoulders slope under the weight of her unspoken words, her brow creases in the centre, eyes narrow as they avoid eye contact, as if she's worried her thoughts will spill the second her gaze connects with someone.
A sign that she's used to doing things alone, perhaps lacks the support she needs back home, has had to be strong for herself for far too long; a notion that has something swirling in the pit of Captain James' stomach.
They step through a set of double doors, into the large, bustling reception of Camp Bastion's busy hospital, and then exit through the main entrance, walking into a wall of heat as they leave the comfortable air conditioned building behind them. A bead of sweat gathers at the base of his hairline, quickly rolls down the nape of his neck, trailing down the centre of his spine.
He glances at Molly as she walks beside him, her pace matching his, her rifle slung over her shoulder – a habit that's become second nature to every service member in the warring country. The usually gobby cockney still hasn't spoken, her gaze fixed on the horizon before her as she veers to the left, and something nags at Captain James' insides; worry, or fear, he's unsure.
He spots the narrow, shaded alley between two huts and he takes the opportunity to grab hold of Dawes' arm and tug her into the small space before she can protest or decline the invitation to be alone in a secluded spot with him. She looks surprised, eyes widening as they shrink back further away from the opening, from possible witnesses, and her brows knit together.
"Sir?"
"Tell me," he demands, dominantly, fiercely, as his eyes lock with hers, and it feels too intimate, because the crevice is barely wide enough for him to spread his arms. Molly sighs, tearing his gaze from his to look at something in the distance, and he thinks he can hear her mulling over her response, trying to decide what to tell him.
"I'm pissed off," she eventually sighs, and there's a rough edge to her tone that tells him she's opted for honesty. Her oceanic orbs flick back to his, and there's a storm brewing in her irises. "Badrais should'a been there, and he weren't."
"We're all angry, Dawes," he replies, and his body is humming because she's standing right there, close enough for him to smell her coconut shampoo and vanilla body spray. "You've got to take that energy and use it for the next mission."
She nods slowly, her gaze moving away again, and she sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, thoughtfully, wincing as she's reminded of the tender cut. He refrains from reaching over, smoothing his thumb over the split skin.
"But he'sdangerous, and he's out there somewhere," Molly says, angrily, as she gestures to the camp outside their secluded spot, but Capt. James knows she means beyond the compound walls. "He kills people, and we had our chance to stop him, but we fucked it up."
"We didn't get him today," Capt. James shakes his head, takes a small step towards Molly, dipping his head slightly to catch her gaze. "But we'll try again. There's always a 'tomorrow', Dawes."
"Until, one day, there ain't." It's the way she says it, her voice deadpan, matter of fact, that scares him, has his heart stuttering, and he sees the torment etched into her pupils as a shadow dims the sparkle in her eyes.
His brows pull together, concern creasing his forehead. "Are you okay?"
Molly heaves a large lungful of air and exhales loudly. "Yeah, I'm fine, Sir." She takes a step back, placing distance between them, as if she's planning on retreating, dropping the conversation. But Capt. James has seen that look before, has been on too many tours to know when a deadly war is battling it out in a soldiers head. The confrontation at the compound has shaken her up more than either of them had expected.
"You're not going anywhere," he asserts, and he knows she knows he doesn't mean her ability to leave the confines of the alleyway he'd tugged her down. "Not if I have any say."
"But you don't, though, do you?" She says, her eyebrows raising slightly. "It ain't that simple. We both know that I could walk out there and get shot in the neck, or blown to smithereens by an IED."
"I won't let that happen," he assures, because the nightmares of exactly that have haunted him for weeks, the threat of having her stolen from him tortures him every time he closes his eyes.
"It's out of your control, Boss. And it's okay, it's what I signed up for, I ain't naive, but I'm the only one that cares for that little girl out there-"
"No," Captain James says, perhaps even growls, because he just can't imagine ever being without Molly Dawes. "It's not okay. It'll never be okay. I'll refuse to accept it."
"But -"
"No," he says again, and he closes the distance between them, brings his hands up to cup Molly's face so he can tilt her head to meet his gaze, so he can channel the importance of his words into her. "You dying negates all good. Death is so unequivocally final, and anything that finalises Molly Dawes is not okay with me."
"But it's possible, Sir," Molly says, stubbornly, and her voice shakes a little. "And I need you to promise that if something does happen to me, that you'll look out for Bashira, that you'll do everything in your power to protect her." Captain James drops his hands from Molly's face, before taking a step back, rubbing his calloused palm over his mouth, skin scratching lazy, day-old stubble, as he fights to keep his anger erupting; anger at the insurgent that struck her, anger at her stubbornness, at her compassion, at her ability to turn his world upside down and inside out, at the thought of ever having to live in that world without her.
"Listen to me," he eventually says, his tone forcibly calm as he regards her. "You cannot die out here, and then expect me to finish the tour and go home, and be okay whilst you float about in some angel like manner."
She almost, almost, smirks.
And he sees it.
"There is nothing in this world that would make me want to leave it faster than having you killed out here, and having to live with that guilt, those images, for the rest of my life."
Any traces of a smile drop from Molly's lips, and he just wants to crash his mouth onto her, to shut her up and steal away any doubts she's got about her ability to survive out here. It takes every last bit of his restraint not to.
"Okay," she eventually says, quietly. "But you know it could happen to either one of us out there, don't you, Sir?"
"The odds would be in your favour, if you weren't so bloody reckless, Dawes," he only half jokes, as the memories of her hanging from a winch, disappearing to chase a girl that dropped a scarf or to play silly games with stones flash through his mind.
"I'm just doing my job, Boss," Molly returns, quickly, and she looks up at him through thick lashes as her mouth pulls into a smile. Something flutters behind Capt. James' belly button, and he can't help but return the grin because she's so damn infectious. "I'll try to be more careful, Sir," she adds, a heavy promise.
He responds with a silent nod, because everything that he'd offer in return would be completely inappropriate. He pulls his gaze away from hers, hands on his hips as he stares down towards the mouth of the alley, watching as the odd foot soldier or armoured vehicle slowly travels down the dirt road, completely oblivious to their presence.
"If it does happen, though," Molly says, bringing Captain James' attention back to her. "Can you just promise me one thing? Can you read that poem you did for Smurf's brother? I liked that one." She smiles, softly. "Oh, and make sure I'm cremated. I don't want to come back as a zombie in a hundred years time or somethin'."
He bursts out laughing at that, a deep sound that rumbles his chest, because only Molly Dawes would worry about becoming undead once she's dead.
He wonders how he'd ever lived without her in his life.
He'd lived, sure, but he hadn't really lived.
"I promise," he nods, and he intends to keep it, because there's a sense of loyalty, dedication and trust, that runs far deeper than that of just a soldier and a commanding officer. A wave of affection washes over him, so strong that he's sure it's going to knock him on his ass, and he sees it in her eyes, too. It creates an ache deep within, a need that he wants to give in to, but can't.
They stand there, entirely too close, and he holds her gaze for too long.
Far too long.
He remembers the way he'd held her after Sohail's death, the way his lips had pressed into her hair, how they'd rested their foreheads together and shared each others breath, how he'd struggled to stop touching her, even as he pulled away.
Sometimes, even he slips.
"Molly," he breathes, and the air thickens, grows hotter, is static. He longs to reach for her, to take her hand and declare her as his. "I...I can't..." he takes a breath, a deep lungful of air as she stares up at him, eyes wide, glassy, and he just needs her to know, to understand. "I'm not able...not free...to be direct with you. Do you understand? I can't...What I want to say, I need to say it in a way that is indirect. Do you know what I mean? I can hold you, when something really bad happens, but I can't..." he shakes his head, takes another breath, exhaling loudly, struggling to find the words to say what he can't. "I just need you to know -"
"I know," she says, cutting him off, her voice barely above a whisper. "I know. Me too."
They stay, unmoving, for another few seconds, chocolate brown eyes piercing her green orbs, and he thinks they could stay here forever, avoiding the inevitable, reality.
But they can't. So he clears his throat, breaks their gaze and straightens his back.
"Good. That's good," he nods, and just like that, he's her boss again, because she knows. "Let's get to that debriefing. We're running late."