Love Marches On

by Initial A

My duty is not to stand behind him with pom-poms. I am the marble pillar of strength, with no one to lean on. I am the one to pick up the pieces when the government tosses him back to me. I am a military wife. Challenge Destiny's week 12: Valor. 2nd place

Title: Love Marches On

By: InitialA

Rating: M

Genre: Angst/Romance/Tragedy

Universe: AU

Word Count: 600

Summary: My duty is not to stand behind him with pom-poms. I am the marble pillar of strength, with no one to lean on. I am the one to pick up the pieces when the government tosses him back to me. I am a military wife.

Warnings: Various kinds of abuse. The ugly truth. It's never easy and it's not always pleasant, but it's there. This was not easy for me to write.

Author's Note: I've been through this backwards and forwards. It's the darker side of courage. It's not always happy and ends well. I know. I lived it, or at least part of it. Please brace yourselves; this has been stretched for dramatic purposes, but it has happened. This is in dedication to all the military servicemen and women I know and don't know, and to their wives, husbands, and significant others who have to pick up the pieces when it's over.

I don't remember exactly when I started smoking. I think it was somewhere during the second deployment, when three months went by without a word. I cried myself to sleep at night, threw up from anxiety during the day, and never went anywhere without a phone. When Kouga came to tell me he was alive and coming home, I think I screamed loudly enough to be heard all the way at the Pentagon. I didn't even notice the shadow in Kouga's eyes as I danced around the living room; he didn't have the heart to tell me the rest of the story.

He took me to the VA three weeks later. I stared in numbed silence at the man beneath the tubes and the bandages: my husband. He would heal more quickly than expected, the doctors told me, and would even regain his sight in another week or so thanks to his demon blood, but it would be a long road to full recovery. I'd seen enough of my friends' husbands return in good health, but with shadows in their eyes, to know what he was talking about. I think I shook a little at that realization, but I steeled myself. If my husband could risk himself to save two squads of men from an IED and still crawl back to life, I could handle PTSD.

It wasn't bad the first few months. InuYasha was awarded several honors, including the Purple Heart, for his duties overseas and for his bravery for saving the men he served with. He went to therapy and in time, his health returned. We celebrated that night by going to dinner and dancing. We'd sat back down to have another glass of wine when one of the bus boys dropped a loaded tray of dishes. InuYasha's reaction was instantaneous: he flew to the floor, pulling me down with him and tipping the table over as a shield. I tried snapping him out of it as he screamed "Surrender! Surrender or I'll shoot!" in Arabic, but his eyes were faraway; he was pale, sweating, and breathing hard.

It took twenty minutes to calm him down enough to leave. He ended up locking himself in the bathroom that night, and I could hear frightened sobbing through the door. I could do nothing but sit on the other side of the door and cry my own tears for him.

He refused to see the psychiatrist. Six months after he'd returned, I found him passed out on our couch, empty beer bottles everywhere. Once his unit was dismissed for the day, he hit the bottle. Hard. Three months later, I was staying with Kouga's family, with bruises on my neck and a scar at my side: delusional, InuYasha had thought me enemy spy. We'd fought, and after a few well-placed punches I escaped with minimal damage.

For now, I'm still staying at the Ookami's. InuYasha placed himself in alcohol rehabilitation after that, and is under orders to see a shrink three times a week. I'm driving him home today, the first I've seen him since he started; his license was revoked. I throw the butt in the street and watch him as he realizes it's me standing at the curb. "Kagome?"

"Hey," I reply, my hands shaking in their pockets.

"I'm…"

I know he can't say what he wants to yet. It's ok. I'm not sure I'm ready to accept it. I love him, but he'll need to fix it. I let him kiss me softly on the forehead. We'll get through this eventually. We just need time and courage.

((I had to prune this to fit the word limit, so I'm sorry if it seems choppy. Also, this touches on some very tough subjects. Several of them I personally experienced after my ex-boyfriend returned from the war, though some of them not to the extent that was described here, so please be warned that harsh words will be countered with my own. This was not easy for me to write at all, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. Semper Fi and God bless.))