AN - thanks again for the positive response to the last chapter. I have been having a bit of an ongoing struggle with this latest update, so would be interested to hear what you think. Please R&R!

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The day began much like the previous one hundred and twelve had in the small forward operating base in a Northern province of Afghanistan.

One hundred and twelve days of dusty, humid, heat being the first thing that Charles registered when he became aware of his surroundings.

One hundred and twelve days of sleeping in a rickety camp bed, in a tent providing around ten metres of privacy.

One hundred and twelve days of Captain 'stern face' James.

One hundred and twelve days of forcing every muscle in his body not to betray him, of not showing every person in this place, including Molly, that he was a man completely and utterly, and so very inappropriately, in love.

He wasn't sure how he had managed one day, never mind one hundred and twelve of them.

But he had.

He was sure that somebody up there was coming up with all new ways in which to torture him. Just when he thought he was beginning to master the process of keeping a lid on the constant, torturous sense of need, love, and desperation for her that bubbled under the surface, something would always happen which threatened to blow the lid straight off of the carefully covered emotions.

Take day sixty, for example.

Two section had been out on patrol, when Fingers had decided that it would be a marvellous idea to have a kickabout with a couple of the local lads who had been constantly pestering him for a game since their arrival. Within five minutes of starting, the ball had been kicked out of play, and upon retrieving it from its faraway spot, he had been confronted by a boy of no more than twelve years of age wielding a pistol. He had been tricked; the child was the son of an insurgent with a grudge against UK and US forces, and the boy had decided to take matters into his own hands. He was nothing more than a child, yet he was aiming a lethal weapon at Fingers' head.

To make matters even worse, if that was possible, Molly was the closest to the scuffle which inevitably broke out around the incident, and had decided, in her wisdom, that she would try to intervene and negotiate with the child in broken Pashto.

Charles had screamed, and shouted, and when that failed, he had downright begged down his radio headset for her not to fucking go near them, to wait out for backup, but she had ignored him and involved herself regardless. Molly Dawes was a force to be reckoned with. She was brave, and at times, completely foolhardy.

And he was completely and utterly in love with her.

Which meant that he generally spent every single waking minute terrified of what she was going to do next to put herself in danger. On day sixty, she had eventually dealt with that child. After much talking, she had taken the weapon from his trembling fingers, and comforted him as hot tears rolled down his young cheeks. Charles had watched them from afar, trembling far more than an officer ought to, heart still in his throat, absolutely fucking furious with her, but at the same time, falling even harder.

It didn't matter what he did, he couldn't switch his brain off from constantly wanting, needing and desiring her.

So he counted the days instead.

One hundred and twelve down. Forty four to go.

Forty four more days of keeping a lid on this, then he would be able to breathe. And do all of the other things that he had been dreaming of.

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The morning of day one hundred and thirteen started off precisely like every single other one which had gone before it.

Molly had resolved, whilst they were stationed at the FOB, to sleep in the med tent rather than share a communal tent with the lads. She woke at her usual time of 5am, with the first chinks of daylight beginning to snake into the window of the small tent. She loved this time of the morning; not quite sunrise, but light enough for the new day to begin to sneak into her consciousness.

He wouldn't be long now.

Every single morning, at this time, before anyone else at the FOB was awake, he snuck by the med tent with her cup of tea, always holding a travel mug with a coffee in his other hand. She was never a coffee drinker, but now whenever she smelled the bitter aroma of the drink, she would associate it with their early morning meetings. It was now familiar and comforting to her.

He would hand her a cup of tea, and they would take ten minutes to sit in the med tent and pretend they weren't a Captain and Private stationed together to fight a war in deepest Afghanistan; that they were just a young couple in love, at home, watching the sun rise together. He would intertwine his fingers with hers, and they would sit, sipping their morning drinks together. Sometimes they would talk, others they wouldn't. If there had been a particularly difficult day beforehand (day sixty one was a good example), or on days when they were finding it more difficult to keep up the pretence, then they wouldn't speak as much.

So long as they had this moment to start off the day, they could find the strength to go about the rest of the hours they would spend apart in emotional terms. Close in proximity, but keeping up the pretence that they were nothing but colleagues.

As predicted, she heard the door panel of the tent being carefully unzipped as he entered. She had woken not five minutes previously from a particularly vivid dream about him, heart pounding in her chest from how real it felt. She was ridiculously desperate for him; it had now become a running joke between them that the water could never be cold enough in the awful shower blocks at the FOB. The dream last night had been so utterly delicious that she unwittingly licked her lips as she saw the protagonist appear before her; reality so much more impressive than her imagination. The sight of him combined with the early morning heat wasn't helping her to get rid of the warm, moist, heat between her legs.

She was still breathless from the memories, images continuing to linger in her head. She watched his limbs as he moved in the way only he could; those hands were holding her cup of tea now, but in her dreams they had been all over her, undressing, teasing and then bringing immense pleasure.

He knew he was in trouble as soon as he took one look at her; she was like a lioness ready to devour her prey. Oh god, he was so not equipped for another inevitable moment where he would have to hold out on her. It was torture; albeit the sweetest form of torture he had ever known.

He made his way to the bed; she had not yet risen from her resting position on it, and reclined, simply watching him as he moved. Not a word had been uttered yet.

He moved himself to the ground, falling to his knees so that he could get closer to her. How very appropriate. She had managed to bring him to his knees in every single sense of the term. He placed both drinks on the ground beside him, before taking them both by surprise with his next movement. He could have sworn he didn't intend to do it. It was so incredibly foolish considering his current quandary, but he did it anyway.

He closed the gap between their faces, hand winding through her hair and holding the back of her head so that he was bringing her face even closer to him. The intimacy between them had developed to the extent that he knew exactly what she wanted him to do next and he instinctively reached for her lower lip with his mouth, nibbling on it carefully, before releasing it and opening his mouth. What had originally been intended as a tender, early morning 'hello' kiss was forgotten, as his tongue swept into her mouth, demanding entry. She gave it to him happily, sighing contentedly into the kiss, demanding more. This was what she needed.

It was a dangerous game though. Before his brain could filter what was happening, things had moved forward with such speed and intensity that his rational, professional side was at least ten paces behind the man who had held out for months, and who was currently pinning Molly to the bed, hands under her t-shirt and caressing her beautiful, bare breasts, teasing her nipples as she sighed and moaned contentedly.

Fuck. He had to stop this. Now.

As soon as he registered what a complete idiot he was to start it in the first place, he forced himself to engage his brain, and pulled back, withdrawing his hands reluctantly, and letting her mouth go from the ravaging kisses he had just been bestowing on her. He silently willed the blood in his body to return to his brain, rather than other, much more needy, organs.

She was bereft as he pulled away from her. While she understood the reasons that they needed to wait out, she couldn't actually bear it any longer. It was torture, seeing him every day and not being able to touch him or kiss him. This was the furthest things had gone while they were at the FOB, and for the minute before he pulled away, she had felt so utterly complete. And it was now over, way too soon. She felt like crying with sheer frustration.

He had the good grace to at least look sheepish as he cleared his throat and tried to push his hormones to somewhere, anywhere, where they wouldn't threaten to overwhelm him.

"Morning" he murmured quietly, still watching her.

She sat up and withdrew her legs from her sleeping bag, hoping the movement would trigger some sort of end to the frustration she was currently feeling. He bit back a groan from the very back of his throat as her bare legs emerged from the material. She was only wearing her knickers and a tshirt under there. What the fuck was she trying to do to him.

"Morning" was the muttered response, as she moved past him to grab her cup. "Hoping this cuppa has some sort of magical quality to calm me down after that."

He could barely look at her. "Molly?"

"What?"

"I'm going to need you to put some fucking clothes on." She breathed out a small laugh at the expression of complete torture on his face as he stared at the ground.

He looked up at her when she didn't make a move to pull on something to cover her. "Seriously" he continued, shaking his head. He was trying to fill his head with anything other than the sight before him.

Think about the drills you need to run with the lads this morning. And the meeting you need to have in the ops tent. That's it. Drills. Meetings.

She watched his torment, trying not to laugh at the fact that he was just as affected as her, if not more.

"Aren't you enjoying the view?" She asked, maintaining her most effortless poker face as she stretched her legs out before him. She made sure to stretch the sleep from her body as she raised her hands above her head, the movement lifting her t-shirt to rest just above her belly button, exposing her lower stomach and underwear to his agonised gaze.

"Jesus Christ. Are you trying to give me a heart attack" he muttered, his timbre low and very obviously affected by the sight before him. Her nipples stuck out like pebbles under the soft cotton of her t-shirt, aching for his fingers to touch them again. She squirmed at the thought, and watched him with hooded eyes.

He cleared his throat and found his grounding from somewhere, god knows where, because every single particle of his body was screaming at him to take her there and then. He moved to stand up, legs wobbling and ready to betray him.

"Ok. I..I need to go. Enjoy your tea" he muttered, ready to turn and walk from the tent.

"Nice to see you're standing to attention boss. I do love a keen and eager soldier.." Her gaze was directed firmly at the tent in his trousers, biting her lower lip as he let out a small chuckle at her innuendo, despite his discomfort.

She would pay for this. He would take great delight in thinking up new and unusual ways to torture her.

"You'll get exactly what's coming to you Dawes." He grinned wolfishly as he thought of those ways that he could torture her, leave her as desperate and needy as he currently felt. He should probably stop thinking of those things if he wanted to get rid of his current problem.

"I look forward to it, Sir." She gave as good as she got as he departed the tent, both anticipating just what they would be doing precisely forty four days from now.

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Although day one hundred and thirteen began like any other at the FOB, it certainly didn't continue in that manner.

The platoon had carried out the morning drills successfully, and despite his earlier encounter with Molly, Charles had managed to regain a semblance of control over his rampaging emotions. He surveyed the compound as he stood at the heart of the small camp, hands on his hips, watching as his men, and his woman, carried out their various jobs before his eyes.

He was beginning to feel a sense of clarity, a vision of the light at the end of the tunnel beginning to appear. He had so many plans for the future, for his and Molly's future, and he was impatient to begin them now. But, for all the reasons he had constantly repeated to himself earlier, he had to hold back. For now.

He didn't want to scare her with the intensity of his feelings; he was still acutely aware of the age gap between them. Whilst he was a divorcee in his early 30's, Molly was only 21, and only just beginning her army career.

That was another issue to deal with; her burgeoning career. Beck's warning to him to watch her closely, and ensure that nothing happened to disturb her progress was still ringing in his ears. He knew that, as a last minute casualty replacement, it was never the intention for Molly to join his platoon in the long term. She would, in all likelihood, be returned to her previous regiment and platoon. He would eventually have to confess all to Beck, but he hoped that the moment would be far enough off in the future for him to pass it off as happening on their return to the UK, after being in his chain of command. It was another issue to deal with, but they would get through it.

He was disturbed from his contemplation of the future by the unmistakable sounds of a chopper in the distance, making its way closer and whirring overhead. It pulled nearer to the FOB, preparing to land at the side of the entrance.

A feeling of foreboding quickly took over his senses. There could only be two reasons that a chopper was landing; either the ASF were needed at short notice for some reason which he hadn't been informed of yet, or some sort of unannounced visitor was landing. Either one of those options inevitably meant trouble.

He sought out his ANA counterpart, Cpt Azzizi, who was equally bemused by the appearance of the chopper. Clearly, judging by his surprise, there was no question of the ASF landing. Surprise visitor it was, then.

He watched from the entrance as Kinders made his way to the now landing helicopter to meet the mystery visitor. By now, the presence of the chopper was attracting attention from the group of soldiers, all of whom were bored by the limited company they were currently keeping, and curious as to what was currently going on.

Kinders met the soldier who leapt from the chopper, carrying full kit, and accompanied him to the entrance, keeping with protocol and ensuring at all times that no surprise insurgents were lying in wait to strike. When the men had safely entered the perimeter of the compound and pulled their helmets from their head, he registered, with complete and utter surprise, the identity of the man who had just arrived.

It was Chris.

Only it wasn't Chris. This version of his best friend looked worried, not to mention completely exhausted. He had the unmistakable look of a man who was trying his hardest to appear composed. It might not have been noticeable to those who weren't as well acquainted with him as Charles was, but he instantly knew that something was very wrong with his friend.

"Chris? What on earth are you doing here?"

Chris looked directly at him; no jokes, no witty banter to greet him, just looked straight at him with a blank expression.

"Hi Charles"

Ok, now he was seriously concerned. His brain galloped at one thousand miles an hour as he tried to think up some perfectly rational reason why his best friend would land at a FOB in the middle of nowhere, completely unannounced. He had none.

Chris finally gathered himself enough to speak, simple and non committal. "Could we have a word please?"

"Ok. We can have a word, and then you can tell me why you're acting like a complete robot."

Chris flinched as the two men walked towards the ops tent, and right there and then Charles realised that he probably didn't want, under any circumstances, to know whatever was about to be dropped on him. If it had been enough to render Chris, his unshakeable, unbearably annoying best friend into this shell, then it was something he absolutely did not want to know. He had a feeling he had no choice though.

As they moved out of earshot, Chris lowered his voice, and uttered the words that Charles definitely didn't want to hear.

"Where's Dawes?"

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Molly had witnessed the entire scene from the confines of the entrance to the med tent. She could see that Charles was looking for somebody, and guessed that it may be her from the downright look of worry she saw in his eyes. Chris didn't look right either, and she wondered what the hell was going on.

Her eyes met his, and he cocked his head towards the ops tent, indicating that she was needed there. She followed on behind the two men, increasingly curious as to what was happening. Whatever it was, it didn't appear to be good.

She entered the tent shortly after them, not missing much of the conversation as far as she could tell. She had been on the verge of trying to initiate some banter with Chris, having not seen him for months, but one look at his face told her not to bother. He was ashen-faced, looking anywhere but at Charles. Eventually, he spoke up, addressing Molly first.

"Alright Dawes?"

"Yes Sir. Bit surprised to see you out here mind you." She didn't want to overstep the mark and ask exactly why he was here, but it was currently the elephant in the room. Or the tent, in this case.

"Ok, well I'll stop pissing about and get to the point." He looked weird, infact he looked pained, and Charles didn't look much better. He clearly wasn't looking forward to whatever it was that his friend was about to say.

"Beck asked me to come out. The JCCC have granted you compassionate leave." He looked at the ground as he spoke. Molly felt her stomach lurch. Oh god, what had happened?

"What the fuck, Chris?" Why have they granted Molly compassionate leave? And that doesn't explain why you're here?"

"It's not for Molly, Charles. It's for you. I'm here to take your place. The chopper is waiting to take you back to Bastion, then back home."

His stomach lurched further than he thought possible as he paled, and he felt Molly grab him, providing support without needing to be asked.

Chris looked up, took a breath and uttered the sentence he had been dreading saying since he woke up that morning and heard the news for himself.

"I'm so sorry to have to tell you this Charles" he looked close to tears as he continued. "It's your father. He passed away."

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