AN: So here's the final chapter. It's a really long one, but I just couldn't break it up.

Hopefully this one will make up for the lack of Dawes in the previous!

Thank you to all reviews – they honestly blew me away. It's the support that's gotten me through and kept me writing!

Hope this is the ending you all were hoping for!

Lacey.

Xx

PS: This chapter got a little...ehem...naughty, so should probably be rated M. Ooops!

We All Fall Down

He's hasn't prepared himself to see her again, which is ironic, because he's standing outside of her hotel room, knuckles rapping against the wooden door. A few moments of silence pass, and he wonders if she's sleeping because it is almost midnight, but then he hears a fumbling with the chain and the lock on the other side.

"It's me," he says, lamely, assuming she'll know who 'Me' is, and there's a brief hesitation, as if she's reconsidering her decision to answer, and then the lock clicks, and the door slowly creaks open. His eyes immediately find hers, and they're puffy as if she's just woken, and the tug that he feels behind his sternum is almost painful. He releases the breath he hadn't know he was holding.

"Hi."

"What're you doin' 'ere, Sir?" she asks, and her brow slips as if she's confused, but he doesn't buy it for a second. She knows.

"Don't," he says, and it's too strong to be a plea, but far too weak to pass as an order. "Don't pretend you don't know." His gaze holds hers, and there's a flicker of something brewing behind her green irises.

"Go home, Sir," she sighs, and her jaw sets defiantly, almost as if she's challenging him to refuse. Her body shifts a little, the majority of her weight baring on the left leg as she favours the right. When his gaze drops, he can just about make out the faint outline of a bandage underneath the thin cotton of her pink onesie. He glances back up.

"Please, Dawes."

"No," she cuts him off, and there's a flash of hurt in her stormy irises. There's a brief pause, as if she's doubting her next choice of words. "You should be with your wife."

It's like someone has punched him in the gut and knocked the air from his lungs. It's not like he'd intended to keep it from her, but he hadn't planned on her finding out from anyone but himself. Her knowledge of his marriage has completely blind-sided him, and he can tell that his reaction, his lack of denial, has quelled any doubt that she may have had about the authenticity of the rumours.

"How -"

"Does it matter?" she asks, her eyes narrowing. "You need to leave." She hops back a little and moves to slam the door in his face. He shoves his foot in the way, and it pounds against his boot with a loud thwack. "Move," she says, when the door rebounds back at her, and she catches the handle in her hand. Her eyes refuse to meet his.

"You're right," he says, hurrying before she tries to cut him off again. "It doesn't matter how you found out, but please, let me in so I can explain."

"Explain what? How you forgot to mention that you were married?" When her eyes flick back up to his, there's a fierceness there he's never seen before.

"I didn't forget -"

"You lied to me," she states simply, and in the openness of the hallway, he's beginning to feel vulnerable.

"No, I never," he says. "Please, let me in so we can talk." She sighs, her foot catching the door so she can stubbornly fold her arms over her chest. "Just give me ten minutes," he pushes, and he holds her gaze for a long time. When he think he can see the fire in her eyes burn out, he says, "I'll stay out here all night if I have too." She sighs at that, and this time, it sounds a lot like surrender.

She glances over her shoulder, into the small, dimly lit room, and then she's slowly stepping back, both hands reaching for the door for support. She allows just enough room for him to squeeze past her.

"You've got five minutes," she warns, closing the door behind him. "It's late. You should be at home."

He wants to say something corny and poetic, like "Home is where the heart is' or 'Home is wherever you are', but he's completely overwhelmed by her, by the intimacy of the small hotel room, by the subtle, lingering scent of her coconut shampoo and vanilla body spray. So instead, he comes out with "So should you be."

She snorts at that and rolls her eyes, and though they've moved further into the room, she stays standing, awkwardly balancing on her good leg. His eyes fall to the double bed, where the covers are rumpled as if she's been sleeping on top of them, and then over to the flat screen tv – the old movie that's playing is their only source of lighting – and then he notices the two bucket chairs accompanying the round table under the half open window.

"I needed some peace and quiet. Home's just too...busy," she says, shrugging a shoulder, as she watches him assess her room. "How did you find me?"

"I have a buddy in recruitment that owed me," he says as he moves around the bed, heading for the table and chairs. "He gave me your parent's address, and they told me where I could find you. Your father is an interesting character, to say the least."

Her brow dips. "You know that's stalking, right?"

He doesn't answer her as he stands at the window, his back to her, staring out into the night. The lights of London City twinkle in the distance, through the falling sheets of rain, and the sky rumbles ominously. He can feel her eyes on his back, watching, waiting, and as much as he wishes he could prolong the moment, he owes it to her to explain.

"We're divorced," he says conclusively. He inhales a lungful of the fresh air that breezes through the open window, and it smells of wet concrete."It was finalised weeks ago." It's the first time he's said it out loud, really confronted it, and it's almost liberating. He turns back to face her.

"And that's supposed to make it okay?" she asks, and there's betrayal in her eyes, but it's the shakiness of her voice that gets to him the most. "I'm supposed to just forgive you, like that?" She holds her hand up and clicks her fingers.

"I was going to tell you as soon as we were back at Brize Norton," he promises, and it's the truth. "I was going to tell you everything, I swear."

"Everything?" she echoes, and her brow slips, before, slowly, realisation smooths it back out again. "Oh shit," she breathes. "You've got kids, 'n'all."

He contemplates her for a moment as he rubs a hand over his mouth, then up through his hair. Then he nods once. "I have a son," he confesses.

"Shit," she repeats, and it all looks too much for her as she reaches for the bed. She stumbles over to it, perches at the bottom of the rigid mattress. "Shit. Shit. Shit."

"This is why we were waiting out," he says, taking a step toward her, but it sounds weak, even to him. "You don't take personal onto the battlefield. You, we, needed our heads in the game. Out there, in the 'Stan, I was your Commanding Officer, nothing else. You know that." His feet stay glued to the spot, and it's like his shoes are slowly filling with lead as he waits for her to respond. She stay completely mute, though, her gaze fixed on the tv, unblinking, and it makes him feeling uneasy. "Mols?" he gently prods after a minute or so, and it's enough to jolt her back to the room. She turns to face him, and he can see the fear and panic mingling across her face. He closes the distance between them, placing himself directly in in front of her, his feet either side of hers. "Hey," he whispers, his hands reaching up, smoothing over the cotton covered shoulders, up to her neck, his fingers stroking along her jaw. She stares up at him, silently, her eyes wide, glassy, and he's never seen her look so defenceless. (Except, you know, when she was almost dying in his arms.) His eyes trace over her face, lingering on the long lesion disappearing into her hairline, and the glue that's sealed it closed shines in the flickering glow of the tele. She swallows, and he can feel her throat flex beneath his palms, and her breathing is fast, raspy; she's struggling to silence it.

"We were waiting out," he says, barely a whisper, and she nods softly, her hands coming up to settle against his chest. Her hands are trembling, and he understands why, because he's surprised his body isn't vibrating it's way around the room.

"I know," she says, her voice low, rough, heavy with emotion, and he wants to lean forward and kiss her so bad, it's a physical ache, but it's still too soon. Instead, he presses his lips against her hair, so so softly.

"That IE changed everything," he whispers, his hands falling to her shoulders as his eyes find hers again.

Her hands slip from his chest, brush over ribs and settle on his waist. "It didn't change anything, Boss."

He shakes his head in disagreement, because he doesn't believe that for a second. He pulls her into him, her small body fitting against his, and even after serving together in a war, she still feels fragile to him. She lets out a long sigh that sounds heavy with sorrow, and she fidgets a little, but she doesn't fight him, his embrace. It's not until she gives in, her body relaxing into him as her face buries into his torso and her hands moving around to his back, that he says,

"Let me stay."

She pulls back then, and her gaze holds his for a long while as she tries to decipher his request, the reasoning behind it. He holds his breath as he waits for her to say something, and it suddenly dawns on him that he has no idea what he'll do if she says no. She chews the inside of her lip as she regards him, and then, slowly, nervously, she nods.

He steps away from her, and the space between them feels cold and gaping. She shuffles around to the right side of the bed, and he heads for one of the chairs under the window, shrugging out of his jacket as he moves.

"You don't have to sit there," she says, almost shyly, and her eyes drop to the space next to her as she eases herself into bed, gingerly lifting the covers over her wounded leg. "If you want to."

He nods, swallowing, before tossing his coat over the back of the chair, and kicking off his shoes. He slides into bed fully clothed, and she turns the television off by the remote, plunging the room into darkness.

"I wish you'd told me, Sir," she says sleepily, and his eyes are beginning to adjust to the lack of light.

"I know," he whispers, and he stretches out on his side, inching his body a little closer so he can comfortably rest an arm over her waist. She doesn't protest. "It's Charles," he whispers, his breath tickling her ear.

"Hmm?"

"My name," he elaborates. "It's Charles." In the barely-there moonlight, he watches her eyelids peel back, and her brows pull together as she twists to get a better look at him.

"Charles?" she repeats, and if he had the energy, he'd laugh at the disbelief masking her features. He nods, and her mouth breaks out into a toothy grin. "God, you poor sod."

"Well, I didn't chose it, did I?" he says, smiling at her blatant amusement. "Now shush. You need to sleep." There's an almost silent chuckle, and he loves the way it makes her vibrate, and she shifts her body to get comfortable again. He watches her eyes flutter closed, the ghost of a smile still playing on her lips.

"Good night, Charles," she whispers, and the way she says his name, so breathy and sleepy, makes him feel warm and fuzzy, and connected to her on a level he's never felt before. As she slowly drifts off into sleep, the tension of her body melts away and she relaxes into him, her curves against his edges, and he just can't follow suit, because he's too busy watching the way her lashes flutter, learning the rhythm of the rise and fall of her chest, wondering how the Hell they've ended up here and why the Hell he tried to fight it.

The warmth of her body and the constant pitter-patter of falling rain eventually sends him off into a peaceful sleep some time in the early hours of the morning.

[]

When he wakes a couple of hours later, the rain has stopped and the sky is a smoky indigo. Molly is warm beside him, her breathing shallow and even, and when he moves, she moves too. He carefully removes himself from beside her, retracting his arm from her waist, and she frowns but doesn't wake.

His clothes feel old, dirty and well worn, and he could really use a toothbrush. He tiptoes over to the table, slips his feet into his boots, and writes a quick note explaining that he has to head home to sort a few things and to see his son.

He leaves the silence of their, her, room, and hurries through the corridors of the hotel, and heads straight out into the bustle of London commuters.

It's a long drive back to Bath, and he can't help but feel as if he's still dreaming.

[]

"Oh," Rebecca looks up at him from her place at the breakfast bar, her hands cradling a mug of steaming coffee, the Daily Mail spread out across the counter. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Where's Sam?" he asks, throwing his set of keys and mobile phone down on the kitchen counter.

"You've just missed him," she replies, her attention flicking back to the article she's reading. He looks up at the kitchen clock, and it reads eight forty five. He must have missed him by minutes.

"Fuck."

"You'll see him tonight, though, wont you?"

"I'll stay until he's gone to bed," he nods, before turning to head back into the hallway, his boots thudding against hardwood flooring.

"We have to tell him, Charles," she calls after him as he reaches the foot of the oak staircase. "Soon."

"I know," he returns, before heading upstairs for the shower, taking two steps at a time.

[]

"Are we going to talk about this?" he asks her, as they settle back against the headboard, and she presses play on the remote. She picks the last fry out of the McDonalds container, before stuffing the wrappers into the brown paper bag. He tosses the packaging across the room and gets it into the waste paper basket. He keeps the victory to himself. Score!

She stays quiet for a moment, slowly chewing the fry. She swallows.

"There's nothing to talk about," she finally says, so quietly, it's barely a whisper. "You're my Commanding Officer; it's practically illegal. I googled it."

"It's complicated," he agrees, and she nods but she keeps her attention fixed to the TV screen. It's not until the end credits begin to roll that he decides to break the silence that's settled between them.

"Can I stay?" It's barely above a whisper, but she hears him clear enough. She let's out a long breath, and she seems conflicted. She swallows hard.

She nods.

[]

He's not usually a light sleeper, but the thunder claps loudly above them, and the room vibrates, startling him awake. It takes a second for him to get his bearings; he's still stretched out in her bed, arm encircling her waist, chest pressed against her, still fully clothed.

She's moved onto her back, and she's moved one of the pillows from under her head to under her injured leg to prop it up.

She's awake.

Her eyelashes flutter as she stares up at the shadows on the ceiling, watching them move as the raindrops trickle down the dirty panes of glass. He moves a little, and his grip loosens on her waist, but her hand flies to his wrist, keeping him in place. He twists his hand around so it's palm up, and her eyes flick down to it for a second, before she's sliding hers on top.

He captures her fingers between his own.

She takes in a deep, slow, silent breath, and he thinks that perhaps the constant pitter-patter of falling rain is haunting her, dragging her back to the IED, like it does him. But it's different for him, now; distant. Like he's far removed from the pain and fear of it all whilst he's laying with her.

It's her that makes him ache.

"Do you love me, Dawes?" He asks, because he needs to know, but he says it so quietly, he's not even sure she's heard him. Her gaze drops from the ceiling and she looks past him to the window, staring off at the lights in the distance. There's a long moment of hesitation, before she replies, equally as faint,

"Yes."

It's a strange feeling. He feels a rush of joy, and his body tingles all over, but it's chased by a heavy sense of dread, of complication. Nothing about this, about them, is simple.

He props himself up on his elbow and looks down at her in the darkness. Her face is tattooed with the shadows of the raindrops, her eyes are wide and he can see the reservation there. He releases her hand from his, and brings it up so he can cup her face, thumb stroking the soft skin beneath the blue-black smudge covering her cheekbone, and he can hear her swallow as she tries to contemplate his next move.

And, without really thinking about it, because if he did he'd probably decide it was a bad move, he leans down and kisses her.

His lips press against her, softly, just enough to feel the warmth of their bodies meeting, the softness of her beneath him, and then he's pulling back, eyes searching hers. Even in the bleak darkness, he can see the way her irises darken, can feel her breaths quicken. Her tongue comes out and flicks across her bottom lip, and as far as he's concerned, that's his invitation. He bends his head and connects their mouths again.

Her lips instantly part beneath him, and she exhales in a rush, like the damn of all of her apprehensions, her restraint, has broken, caved in, and she just has no control any more. She's kissing him like she means it, her lips sliding against his, slowly, deeply, and she tastes of salted fries and spearmint toothpaste, and he thinks, as her hands find their way up to his neck, into his hair, that she might just be enough to drive him crazy.

He can feel his breath coming in short, sharp pants, because he just can't seem to catch it, and his hand pushes up the hem of her baby blue tank top, his hand barely skimming over mottled ribs. He's revelling in the warmth of her body, the way she writhes under him and arches her chest into his. There's a sharp pang of pleasure that stabs at his gut and warms his groin when she sucks his bottom lip between her teeth, and her fingers graze the stubble as she traces his jaw and moves down to his neck.

"I want you, so bad," he breathes, and he doesn't care if it sounds corny, or clichéd.

One hand is curled into his hair, and the other is at his nape, fingers dipping beneath the neckline of his shirt, and she's panting against his mouth, but it's like his words have thrown a bucket of cold water over her, and she's pulling away. She tucks her face into his neck, and he can feel her breath on his pulse point just under his jaw.

"Molly?" he breathes, and his voice is thick, husky. She doesn't answer as she presses herself into him, and he can feel her breaths evening out, though her grip doesn't loosen as she holds on to him. He forces himself to relax, to lay back down next to her, slipping out of her hold. Her eyes open, and her gaze returns to the ceiling, and he thinks he can see tears gathering at her waterline. He slides his arm over her stomach, pulling her tank top back down, before slipping his fingers under the hem so he can trace lazy patterns over her hip. "Does your leg hurt?"

"A bit," she nods, her voice low, gravelly. She turns her head to face him, and a tear rolls out of her eyes, down her cheek and drips into the space between them. "Why me?"

He thinks about it, and even now, lying in the darkness with her, he's not sure he has an answer. "I don't know," he says, helplessly. "I just..." and he stops, completely at a loss for words. He wants to say 'Because it's you, Dawes. Everything about you. From the moment I laid eyes on you, it was you. It will always be you. And even when I knew it was against regulations, when I fought really, really hard to ignore it, I couldn't stop myself. But I give up now. I give up. I don't want to fight it any more. So please; Let me win you. Let me have you. Let me love you.

But even to him, that sounds too much like the poorly written poetry that you'd expect to find in a cheap Valentine's Day card. He wants to tell her everything about himself, his life; about his marriage, and divorce, with Rebecca and how amicable it all is, and easy. He wants to tell her about his son, and how amazing he is, and that he's already a master at playing the cello, which is really weird because neither he nor Becks have a musical bone in their bodies. He wants to let her in on his dreams and ambitions, and share stories from when he was a child, what it was like growing up with two wealthy parents. But most of all, he just wants to hear everything about her.

He doesn't say that, though, because it's all a bit much.

"Because you're you," he says instead.

She doesn't reply to that, but she does tighten her grip on his arm, and shifts her body closer to him. They lay there for a while, in silence, her thumb tracing circles into the back of his hand until they finally drift off to sleep.

[]

When he's away from her, the world moves around him in a blur. It's like he's hyper-alert, and everything is crystal clear. The black and white world he once lived in is fading into technicolor.

He begins to pack his things up during the day when Sam is at school, and over the period of three days, he manages to move most of his belongings into his old room at Mum and Dad's.

He still hasn't told Sam.

[]

"We shouldn't be doing this," she says into the darkness a few nights later, as his hand trails up and down her ribs, tracing each long, narrow shape. His wrist accidentally brushes the underside of her breast, and it feels warm and soft, inviting. He swallows.

"Just one more night," he says. "Then I'll go home."

He can see it, the fight in her; the battle between what is right and what she wants. He knows, because he can feel it, too.

It was the IED explosion, he tells himself. People don't act like themselves after something like that.

He wishes he could believe it.

"I thought I could fight it," she confesses quietly, and she sounds defeated.

"I thought I could, too," he whispers, his breath tickling her ear. "But then I thought I was going to lose you, and now I don't want to."

She turns to face him, and her nose is millimetres from his, and even now, after spending several nights with her, the dreaminess in her eyes catches him by surprise. Even by the late night moon, he can see the sparks in their depths.

"It would ruin us," she says. "They'll throw you out. Everything you've worked for..."

He shuts her up by crashing his mouth onto hers.

Her hand comes up and cups the back of his head, fingers tangling with his messy, brown locks, whilst the other rests against his neck, thumb grazing over day old stubble. There's a tug in the pit of his stomach, and he's aware of her body pressing against his, and he takes in a deep, shaky breath as he pulls away; a show of restraint.

Her eyes darken, and her gaze falls to his mouth as she sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. She slowly pulls him back in, so she can brush her lips against his, teasing him, daring him.

He resolve goes out of the window.

He's only human.

The kiss is firm, and her fingers tug at his hair as he slides his tongue into her mouth, slow, silkily, and there's a soft moan that makes him light headed. He slips a hand under her shirt, fingers tracing over ageing bruises, leaving a trail of goosebumps as his knuckles scrape against the underside of her breast. He slides his mouth to her neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses along her jaw, there's another soft moan and it sends a lightening streak of heat straight to his crotch.

He wants to ask, as her body arches into him, if they're really going to do this; throw caution to the wind and give in to the very thing they've spent so long fighting, if they're going to choose each other over the first real love of their life – the army. He wants to ask, but he doesn't, because he doesn't want to risk putting doubts into her head, doesn't want to refuel her need to protect him, doesn't want to remind her of what they're doing and where this is heading.

He's selfish like that.

She's touching him, then, jolting him back to the moment as she lifts the hem of his shirt and slides her hands up over his bare skin. He trembles at her touch in an entirely good way. He moves on instinct, and years of practise, and sheds his clothes swiftly and silently. He hears the soft swish of her top being thrown on the floor, and the mattress shifts as she carefully kicks herself free of her cotton pyjama bottoms and underwear. Then she's lying back down and pulling him on top of her.

He works his way in between her legs, mindful of the bandaged one, and lowers himself down, low enough to cover her bare chest with his. Her body is warm, and her hardened nipples brush against him, and when he looks down at her – at her flushed cheeks and sultry eyes – it's almost more than he can take.

He's uncomfortably hard.

He kisses her slowly, memorizing every last detail about her lips, her mouth, and her hands are all over, leaving trails of ice cold fire as her nails skim over his neck, his shoulders, his back. Over his ribs, his stomach. He pulls back, and she holds his gaze as her hand brushes against his cock. He sucks in a quick breath, hissing.

"Fuck, Molly."

"It's okay, I'm covered," she whispers into the darkness between them, and it takes a second for his hazy brain to catch on. In all honesty, he hadn't even considered protection, which is stupid, because he made that mistake eight years ago, and he ended up with a son and a wedding ring.

He leans back down and kisses her fiercely.

They're already breathing hard when he first slides into her.

She wraps her good leg around his hip, and he shoves a pillow under her pelvis so he can get a good angle without hurting her injured leg, and when he pushes into her slowly, she lets out a quiet moan. He pauses inside of her, letting her body adjust to him, before pulling back out and doing it all over again.

"Is this okay?" he whispers, and her grip on his shoulders tightens as she nods. He closes his eyes, concentrating on his breathing, on the contracting of his muscles as he tries to keep control of his body with each measured thrust. He's doing something right, her decides, because she's holding on to his shoulders as if her life depends on it, and the heel of her foot is pressing into his arse cheek.

She lets him take the lead, have all of the control, and for a long while, he rocks into her slowly, pressing deep, enjoying the low moans that escape her lips each time. Her breathing quickens, and she watches him above her with a spark in her eyes that sets his whole body alight. He's always had a good enough stamina, but when she tilts her head back, and moans "Oh God, don't stop," his body trembles and the air leaves his lungs in one big rush.

"Fuck, Molly, I'm gonna come."

She slides a hand up over his shoulders, cupping the back of his neck to bring his mouth down to hers. "So am I," she breathes against his lips, and Holy Fuck, it's completely beyond him, then. He tries to keep at the same pace, but he knows he's pressing deeper, driving faster, and she wraps her arms around him, pressing her mouth into his shoulder as she rocks her pelvis with his, meeting each thrust with a loud moan.

He's already coming by the time she catches up, teeth sinking into his shoulder as her body trembles and twitches beneath him. He can hear his own, low groans as the waves of euphoria hit him, one by one, wiping out the world around him. He loses everything but the haze of pleasure for a few long moments, but he keeps rocking his hips lazily, feeling each aftershock like a bullet, until she tightens her leg on his hip, stopping him.

He moves off of her, keeping himself propped on his elbows as he lies on his stomach on the bed beside her, and he rests his head against her temple as he pants it out. Her fingers stroke the bite mark on his shoulder. It wasn't hard enough to break skin, but it'll probably bruise, and he kind of likes it that she's marked him as her own.

His eyes rake over her face; her sleepy eyes, her warm, pink cheeks, the messy hair. He doesn't think he's ever seen her look so beautiful, so unrestrained. It steals his breath away.

He leans over to her, and brushes his lips over hers, barely touching, before whispering, "I love you." Because there's nothing else for him to say.

She smiles and nods. "I love you, too."

[]

He drives back to Bath the next day, because he needs to see Sam, and he's made a promise to Rebecca.

After breakfast, she starts to clear the table, and Sam heads for the living room where his favourite cartoon is playing on the television. He gets up and follows after his ex wife, plate and mug in hand.

"Thank you," he says, handing the dishes to her so she can put them into the dishwasher. "I know this must be hard -"

"Look, I'm not going to ask, Charles, because I don't want to know, and I'm pretty sure you'd just lie to me, anyway," she says, glaring at him. She looks fed up, so he doesn't try to protest. "We have a son. A very intelligent, son, who's already started asking questions. We need to tell him. Today."

"I know," he agrees. "We will. I will."

"And I can't raise him alone. I'll still need your help, so don't think this is your Get-Out-Of-Jail card, because you still have responsibilities here."

It's his turn to glare. "I love, Sam, Becks. I'd never walk out on him."

"I know you do," she softens. "You're a good dad. When you're here." That hurts, but it's something he's been expecting her to throw at him for a while. To be honest, it's a surprise it's taken her this long. He kind of respects her for that.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, because she's right. He spent too many months running away from his family instead of taking on their problems head on.

"I'm not going to be the bad guy, here, Charles. And we're not going to put our lives on hold for you any more. You need to tell him, so we can move on."

He nods, and he can feel the hot burn of tears behind his eyes, but they don't quite materialise. She walks away, and he realises as he watches her turn climb the staircase, that she's been struggling alongside him, because of course she never planned for it all to turn out this way. For all he knows, maybe she had plans. Life plans, family plans. Maybe all of her dreams just went up in smoke the second she signed those divorce papers.

Maybe he's the biggest mistake of her life and she's kicking herself for it.

He takes a breath and heads into the living room. He watches cartoons with his son for the rest of the day, because it's easier that way.

[]

The sky is overcast, with the type of clouds that blanket the sky in thick, grey layers, refusing to let through much sunlight. There's a bite to the air, and even with the heater blowing, his fingers feel numb as they grip the steering wheel.

He glances at Dawes as he drives, and it's the first time he's seen her in the uniform for almost two weeks, and she looks stoic and focused and distracted all at the same time, as she stares out of the windscreen.

He doesn't know what it is - maybe it's because he's finally told Sam about the divorce, or maybe it's because they're heading back to Ketterick to see their section for the first time since Afghanistan and report back for duty, or maybe it's because he's made the decision to resign his commission, but when he's approaching the junction to exit the motorway, he turns off his signal, and presses on the accelerator.

"You off your nut?" Dawes asks, looking up at him when she feels the change of speed.

"Let's just keep driving," he says calmly, glancing at her surprised face. "We have to report back, I know. But let's just pretend we don't."

"You've lost it," Molly scoffs, but there's excitement twinkling in her eye, and her mouth is tugging at the corners.

"C'mon, Dawes. Let's just see what it feels like to have nowhere to be." He's trying to watch her and watch the road at the same time.

"It's only six months," she says. "Stop being a muppet."

She's right, of course. He's handing in his notice today, so all he has to do is ride a desk at a recruitment centre for six months, and then he'll be back on civi-street, and they'll free to be together. He sighs, his foot easing on the pedal, but when he goes to move his hand for the indicator, she reaches over and catches his hand in hers. She swallows.

"We'll turn off at the next one," she says. "Just this once."

He smiles, and nods.

And they just keep driving.