AN: So here's another piece, based between episode 3&4. I'm surprised we never actually got to see them discuss their feelings, how it came to them both agreeing to 'wait out'. My muse whispered this in my ear, so here it is! Probably my last one for a while, but we shall see! All rights to the BBC, as always.

Please read and review – it's what keeps me going!

Much love,

GB

XoX

Wait out

You do not involve yourselves with the locals.

Badrai sent her to spy.

Am I going to die?

Come back to me.

Because I love you.

Do you love me, Sir?

Molly wakes with a start, bolts upright in her bed, legs twisted up in the army issued sleeping bag, the taffeta cold against hot skin. Her heart hammers in her chest, pounding against sternum, and sweat rolls down her neck, down her back. She tries to force down deep gulps of air as her body trembles, chest threatening to cave in, voices bouncing around her head as flashes from her nightmares scar her brain. It's not until she's untangled her legs from the polyester restraints that she begins to calm herself, piece her mind back together, brings herself back from the edge of the panic attack looming over her. She swallows against the bile clawing at her throat, can taste metal in her mouth; blood. Her tongue aches, sore as it brushes against teeth, and it takes less then a second for her to realise she must have bitten it to muffle her screams – her sub-conscience aware of her comrades sleeping even during a haunted slumber.

She casts a glance around the room, uses the moonlight filtering through the net windows to make sure she hasn't woken any of the men, is relieved to find them all sleeping soundly, faces relaxed, minds a million miles away. She swings her legs out of the bed, her skin milky in the dark room, slides her feet into her PT trainers and a long sleeved top over her head, before slipping out from the tent.

She shivers as she steps out into the silence of their quarter, the night air cold, chilling her skin. She walks with no destination in mind, the movements helping to warm her body, her exposed legs, and she tries to force back images of Sohail's beaten and broken body, Bashira's tear and dirt streaked face as she stands there with a bomb strapped to her body, the look on Captain James' face when she finally gets the balls up to confess her feelings as the threat of being red misted weighs down heavy on her shoulders. She takes to a jog, feet pounding dusty ground. The memories of Smurf getting shot, the mine almost taking both of her legs, Smurf's declaration of love and Captain James demanding she return to him, her hand in his, plague Molly's mind, and she forces her legs to work harder, the physical ache a welcome distraction from the emotional one.

She loses track of how long or how far she sprints, but by the time she stops, she finds it hard to breathe, the emotional onslaught taking as much from her as the physical exertion. She leans over, hands on knees, forces air in, air out, repeats all over again, until her heart rate has slowed, she doesn't feel like she's being strangled by an internal force. She straightens up, tilts her head back to stare at the stars, something she has already missed doing since being back in Bastion, misses her spot above the toilet block, misses the old camp. She's about to turn back, find her way back to bed, even if she knows she wont be able to sleep now that she's awake, when she looks down from the sky, spots the faint glow through the small window of the temporary building. Swallows against the lump that forms when she realises it's where he is, wonders why he's awake so late. She rubs a hand over her face, wipes sweat from her forehead, is tempted, only for a second to approach the building, knock on the door, shakes her head when she realises she isn't even sure what she wants to say to him, what she should say, because yeah, she admitted how she felt, but he'd left it open, hadn't answered her question, even after he'd held her like that after Sohail crashed at the hospital. Molly takes a deep breath, plants her hands on her hips, squeezes, fights the urge to ball them up, to rap knuckles against the door. She turns on her heel, only manages to take two paces before she hears the door opening, feet shuffling. Her heart hammers as a light trains on her, illuminates her, and then she hears it; his voice, low and rough, quiet yet demanding against the silent night.

"Dawes?"

Busted.

She turns to face him, is almost blinded by the torch in his hand, raises an arm to shield her face. He lowers it quickly, flicks the outside security light on. Her heart stammers, and she swallows against the desire that warms her body as she drinks him in; his dishevelled hair, those chiselled cheekbones, that sharp jaw shadowed by just the right amount of stubble. She bites her cheek, her tongue aching, before she clears her throat, sure that the moment of silence has been long enough to class as awkward.

"Sir," she replies, doesn't make an effort to move towards him, keeps her feet planted to the spot, because she should be heading back to bed, should be avoiding all situations that leave them alone together, needs to stay away from him because he is her boss.

"What are you doing up, Dawes?" He doesn't move, either. Instead, he folds his arms across his chest as curiosity knits is brows together.

"I needed a drink, Sir," Molly quickly lies, and then wishes she could kick herself, feels stupid, because the mess tent is clearly in the other direction and she doesn't even have her canteen with her. She jabs her thumb over her shoulder, "I should go -"

"I have a teabag?" It starts as a statement, but he shifts uncomfortably, like perhaps the offer would be unwelcome, and Molly takes a deep breath, tries to ignore the voice in her head telling her to turn around, to go back, to forget anything has ever happened.

"Okay," she says instead, glances around her nervously, worried in case someone sees her disappearing into her Bosses office. She hesitates for all of two seconds, long enough to quell any doubt, and then she's crossing the gap between her and the Captain, squeezing past his body in the doorway and disappearing into his small, private office.

Molly sits on the spongy, green chair – one of two in the office – watching Captain James as he fills the kettle at the small sink, already comfortable back at Bastion. He glances over at her, a hint of a smile on his lips.

"How do you take it, Dawes?"

"Milk, two sugars," she replies, rubs her hands over her legs, tries to smooth the goosebumps away, is unsuccessful despite the warmth of the office. She casts her gaze around the small, white room, isn't surprised to find it pretty bare with very little personalisation; there's a map of Bastion tacked to the wall above his desk, another of the surrounding area, a couple memo's Molly's eyes are too tired to focus on. She reaches up to scratch her nose, eyes sliding back to focus on the Boss, his muscles defined underneath the right, black t-shirt. Molly swallows.

"Here," Capt. James turns around after a few minutes of silence, a mug in each hand, one extended for Molly to take.

"Cheers, Boss," she smiles, takes the small cup and cradles it in her hands, the heat offering a little comfort, blows against the liquid gently to try and cool it quicker as James takes the seat next to her, settles back and draws one leg up to rest on the other. She twists on the chair, tucks a leg under her, skin prickles as intense brown eyes lock onto hers.

"Can't sleep?" he asks, before he sips at the coffee in his mug, and Molly knows without him telling her that it's the one she'd bought for him in London, on the promise that he'd adore her for always.

"Bad dreams," she answers honestly, tears her eyes from his, stares down into the perfectly brewed cuppa in her hands, brings the mug of hot liquid to her mouth and gingerly sips. He waits for her to elaborate, so she takes another sip before looking back at him, tries to prolong the moment with him, even if common sense tells her not to. "I can't get Sohail outta my 'ead."

"I understand," James nods, leans forward, and he smells delicious, a mix of dust and sand, body wash and deodorant. "I can refer you to talk to someone -"

"Nah, I ain't mad," Molly shakes her head quickly. "It's just been one helluva day, Sir."

"Yeah," James huffs in agreement, before he takes a deep breath, put his mug down on the table, and drops his leg, shifts to sit on the edge of his seat. "Look, Dawes -" he begins, but Molly knows where he's going, can feel it in the pit of her stomach, cuts him off before he can make this moment any more awkward.

"Forget it, Sir," she shakes her head, puts her mug down, forces a smile onto her lips as her cheeks warm. "Forget I said anything today."

"You were less than professional today," James starts anyway, and Molly cringes at the memory, at the desperation she'd felt to confess her feelings as the threat of being red misted loomed before her.

"I know, Sir, and you should have my arse for it," Molly nods, rubbing her palms against her thighs, shivers as if the temperature has suddenly stopped.

"I am the commanding officer of your platoon."

"I know."

"You can not be declaring your feelings for me on the battlefield."

"I know, I'm sorry," Molly nods, cutting him off again, desperate for the moment, the lecture, to end as a hot flush crawls up her neck, over her cheeks. Capt. James lets out a huff of air; frustration.

"God, you drive me crazy, Dawes," he grinds out, rubs a hand over his face, and Molly isn't sure what to say, because nothing makes sense to her; the way he smiles at her, the way his eyes twinkle when he looks at her, the brief touches of skin, the way he laughs at her choice of words – when she uses cockney slang even if she doesn't know what she's saying. She swallows, wonders if she's imagined it all.

"I should go," she mumbles, standing from the chair, avoids eye contact as she heads for the door. "Cheers for the brew, Boss." She reaches for the door handle, can hear him behind her, suspects he's getting up to see her out, because he's a gentleman, even in the middle of a war zone; it's one of the things Molly admires.

"Dawes," he says, his voice low, restrained, stops Molly's heart beat, stops her opening the door, hold vice like on the door handle. "Don't go."

She can feel him, standing behind her, the closeness sending a humming throughout her body, hairs on end. She closes her eyes, tries to will him away, needs her self restraint to win out, to stop her turning around and looking into those dark, chocolate eyes. His hand appears from behind her, slides down her arm leaving a hot trail in it's wake, encases her hand in his, melts her grip. She takes a deep breath, slowly turns around to face him, looks up through thick lashes to locks eyes with him, heart in her throat, thud-thudding at a rate of knots.

"I said, you drive me crazy," he repeats, his spare hand reaching up, stroking a piece of hair from her face, and Molly laughs nervously, like it's some cheesy, over clichéd movie she's in. "Are you laughing at me, Dawes?" James frowns, face moulding into hurt.

"Yes, I mean, no, Sir," she shakes her head, bites her bottom lip. "I just felt like I was in a movie, then. Sorry."

"You're infuriating," James declares, steps back from Molly, drops her hand, leaves it feeling cold.

"I'm infuriating?!" Molly asks as James takes a few more steps back, puts too much distance between them. "Me?!"

"Yes, Dawes, you," James nods, folding his arms across his chest defensively.

"I'm not the one running hot and fucking cold!" Molly snaps, something building in her chest, something she can't put a name to, just knows that she needs to get it out, be free. "I told you I was fond of you; you know exactly how I feel! You're so back and forth, you're gonna give me fucking whiplash!" She huffs out air, fast and hot, then adds, "Sir."

"May I remind you who I am? Where we are? I'm the fucking Captain of your platoon, in the fucking British Army!" James growls, drops his arms, runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more.

"Oh, get off your high horse," Molly scoffs. "I know exactly who you are."

"You are in my command, Dawes. It's against Army regulations, you know that. I can't act upon any feelings -"

"So I'll leave." Molly's saying it before she can even think about it, doesn't process the words until they've left her mouth, when it's too late to take it back, shocks herself when she realises she means every damned word.

"I can't ask you -"

"You ain't asking, I'm offering," Molly interrupts stubbornly, shrugs one shoulder casually, as if she isn't discussing leaving her career so she can pursue a love life with her boss. James sighs, eyes tracing over her serious face, the way her mouth is set, eyes hard, like there's no room for negotiation.

"If anyone is going to be leaving, it'll be me," he says, stepping forward, closing the gap between them. "But we're not going to discuss this, not yet. Not until -"

"We're back at Brize Norton, I know," Molly finishes, bringing her hands up to rest on his chest, closes her eyes and savours the touch. Feels his body shift as he leans forward, brushes his lips against her forehead.

"So we both agree; we're waiting out."

"Yes, Sir. Waiting out." Molly sighs, wonders how long two weeks could drag out.

"You should go back to your bed, Dawes. We're starting the day with a 5k run."

"Really?" She opens her eyes, steps back to get a better look.

"Don't look at me, it was Kinders idea."

"Can't I pull a sicky, Sir?" Molly tries, relishes the smile James gives her, the way his eyes twinkle, and it's enough to prove to her she hasn't imagined it at all.

"Nice try, Private," he chuckles, lightly, before taking a deep breath, looks as if he's torn. "Seriously, you should leave. Go and get some rest." Molly nods, stifles a yawn, didn't realise how shattered she felt until he reminded her where she should be.

"Yes, Sir," She nods, smiles once, before turning to get the handle again, glances over her shoulder at him. "Night, 'en."

"Good night, Molly."

Her heart skips a beat, her name sounding so much better when it comes from his mouth.

She runs all the way back to her tent, doesn't bother to kick her shoes off before she collapses onto her bed, falls asleep almost immediately.

The nightmares don't return.