AN: So this is just a collection of drabbles I've tapped out to try and cure writers block. I'm currently working on the final chapter of 'When Worlds Collide', but I'm stuck halfway through. I have a couple of other pieces half completed too, so fingers crossed the block budges soon!

So sorry if this is pants – it's just something that I needed to type to try and get my juices flowing again.

Please read and review!

Lacey.

4 Times He Wanted To & The 1 Time He Did

When he takes the time to really think about it, mull it over, he supposes the first time he'd felt it was probably at one of the most inappropriate times.

He'd allowed her to push the limits, tempt fate, as she hauled her body through a loaded mine field using the skill and precision that he'd doubted she was capable of. Capt. James had watched as Molly sliced through the dried riverbed, concerns for her own safety shoved to the back of her mind as the concern for her injured comrade, her friend, drives her forward.

He wonders, briefly, why he'd ever questioned her confidence.

It wasn't until she'd survived a triggered mine, saved Smurf's life by literally plunging her fist into his groin, risked her life for the second time in as little as twenty minutes as she disobeyed a direct order by allowing herself to be hoisted up to the waiting chopper, that he began to wonder how the hell he'd never noticed the burning passion that fuelled Molly Dawes. How the hell he hadn't noticed her.

It was a completely unexpected, irrational and unprofessional thought line, so he shook it off the same way he'd learned to shake any unwanted emotion; he chastised the rest of the section as they whooped and howled, because she ignored a direct order and he is their boss. He is her boss.

He keeps his head down, refuses to let himself think about either missing Private, get's the rest of the section back to the FOB without further incident.

The urge to kiss her as she walked through the metal gates some hours later, battered and bruised, was mainly down to relief and, if he was being honest, a little pride. The rest of the section may have refused to bond with her because she was a girl, fresh out of basic, but she was their girl, his girl, and she'd handled the whole battlefield casualty situation well. Better than well, actually; she'd kept her head, saved Smurf's life whilst dust and sand and relentless sun has rained down on her, choking her as her ears were left ringing from the blast. She'd pushed all of that aside - the pain, the anguish, the fear - as if nothing had happened, as if Smurf's life was more valuable than her own.

For a moment - a crazy, hormone driven second - he'd imagined storming over to her, crossing the small camp in fast, large strides, so he could pull her into him, cup her face in his hands and press his mouth to hers, so he could breathe her in as the relief of realising she's okay crashes into him, like forceful waves of a rough tide.

But the vision passed quickly - so quickly he'd barely noticed it - because she was headed straight for him, and he's her damned boss.

So he'd folded his arms across his chest, readied himself to give her the biggest bollocking in Army history.

He didn't though, because she stood there, haunted and tired, and she's his girl.

As soon as Molly had stepped onto the stage, Captain James had noticed the difference in her; she was shy, nervous, was revealing a side to her he'd never seen before. She stood beside him - as she always had - the deep lines that worried her face smoothed out, eyes twinkling as she leaves herself vulnerable to the section, to him, and he had wanted to just sit down, find out everything about her, how her mind works, who she is. But 2 section were waiting, excited, so he did what he'd come here to do; introduced Molly, Dangleberries, started singing the song he'd waited weeks to sing with someone, with her. He'd tossed her a cheeky wink, because he likes the way her cheeks take the faintest tint of pink even when her skin is bronzed, sun kissed.

He smiled, because she was smiling, and he'd had to force his eyes from hers, because she was all teeth and dimples, she couldn't sing to save her life and it had taken every ounce of his self control, restraint, not to snake an arm around her waist and crash his mouth down onto her, just to shut her up.

He'd almost caved, given in to the urge, the next time he'd felt it. He was angry - at himself for not protecting her, at the Afghan national that had pounded his fist into Molly's face leaving her nose bloody, at her for putting herself in this whole damned situation in the first place. He'd wanted to just grab hold of her, call her out there and then for her stupidity, for being too soft and getting involved with the locals, for trusting the child Bashira, for putting her god damned life in danger. He'd wanted to grab hold of her and shake her until she understood, crash his mouth down on to hers to show her how scared he'd felt, how worried he'd been.

He'd almost done it.

The muscles in his arm had started to tremble, the grip on his rifle had tightened, teeth clenched together as he fought to keep it all in, had wondered if this is how people ended up spontaneously combusting, because in that moment, he's sure he's ready to explode.

It had taken every ounce of his strength not to toss his weapon to the floor, to keep his feet planted to the cemented floor as he looked down into those damaged, stubborn eyes, forced himself to keep professional as he simply asked,

"Are you all right?"

In the end, it had been the very real fear of losing her that had undone him. The possibility of never being able to hold her, her curves fitting against his edges, of never feeling her lips moving against his, of never being able to get close enough to smell the cheap shampoo her parents had sent over to her; it's all enough for him to push past boundaries, forget the regulations he's spent years affirming, because she's worth it.

She'd stood there, looking up at him with broken eyes, tortured by the secrets he'd kept from her, her face masked by the hurt that he had caused her. So he'd tried to put it right, revealed his weakness - his son - had closed the gap between them and took her face into his hands so he could drink her in, the way he'd been dreaming of.

Her brows pull together as she worries, eyes widening at his touch, and he could feel her heart fluttering - fast, firm, steady - under his fingers as he finally confesses what he'd been fighting.

Molly Dawes, the medic replacement, the new girl he'd thought would hold everyone back, stood before him as a grown woman; someone who'd put everyone elses life above her own, has dreams and passions that make her all the more beautiful, moulded and strengthened by life experiences that so few experience, that so few should have to.

She's simply amazing, invigorating and inspiring, and when she looked up at him, glassy eyed, and breathed 'ditto', he'd found himself choking on words he didn't - and still doesn't - know how to say.

So he just leaned forward, ducked his head and pressed his lips to hers, firmly, quickly, lingering only for a couple of seconds. When he'd pulled away, his hammering heart had stuttered, because she'd stayed looking up at him, unmoving, quiet, worrying her bottom lip, eyes fixed on his, searching, as if she was trying to read his mind, peer down into his soul.

But then she'd rocked up onto the balls of her feet, hands gripping onto his assault vest to steady herself as she brushed her lips against his, softly, simply.

"About bleedin' time, Boss," she'd murmured against his mouth, and he couldn't stop the laughter that rumbled his chest and threw his head back.

AN: I just want to say a massive thank you for the support I've received in writing. So, thank you!