A/N: Hey fellas! Sorry it's been three weeks, I've been a) sleeping a lot, b) reading the Outlander books, and c) mulling over this chapter. This has been quite personal, and PTSD is what broke my parents marriage. Theres a lot of that in here and it's taken a bit to put it to good use. Anyway, I hope it's a good read and I hope it makes sense. As always, I appreciate the lovely comments. Let me know what you think.


Henry sat alone at the small breakfast table, glass of scotch in hand, and small, rectangular card in the other. It was a dizzying ultimatum. He wondered if Elizabeth would be as disgusted as he was with himself. A hypocrite, in more ways than she meant, than she knew. He couldn't stand the irony.

He hadn't spoken to Matthew Harrington since 1993, but the man recognised Henry's voice immediately. So much had changed, and yet their voices seemingly the same naive, hopefulness to them. Matt hadn't been as lucky as Henry. He'd lost everything, including his marriage to the dwindling depths of his mind. Henry asked questions and answered few, but the other soldier had an intuition known to very few. The next day, the small card arrived in the mail. He knew what Henry was asking without having to.

Fortunate in a way that his wife was not, he was able to move freely without entourage and so the long drive was not an unwelcome opportunity to clear his mind. It wasn't that he lacked faith in the process, he could see himself how it'd benefited Elizabeth after Iran, but despite every progressive and emotionally intelligent view he held, part of him felt weak. He couldn't visit Doctor Sherman alone. Not that he doubted her ability or professionalism, but he needed to do this independent of the rest. This was his.

What would come of it? What idea could possibly be explored that he'd not already in painstaking depth? He would do this for her. He did not believe that she would actually leave him, but the message was clear and pierced him to the core - you're hurting us.

Casey Hardy. He hadn't given much thought to meeting another therapist, to having to drag through the securely hidden parts of his psyche to yet another new face. Matthew had noted in the letter that she was very experienced with military veterans. Veteran was not a word that Henry liked to use. To him, it referred to something he felt unworthy of. He was, after all, mostly isolated from direct combat. He wasn't even sure that his issues were related to his service as a marine.

The feeling was familiar as he sat outside the office. Bouncing his knees, he took a deep breath through his hands which covered his face. The waiting room was smaller than Doctor Sherman's, and the decoration plain and outdated, not that it bothered him. It felt local, and cozy. Hidden.

"Mister McCord?" The voice cut through Henry's thoughts and he jumped a little, looking up to meet kind, knowing eyes. He stood suddenly extending his hand. Casey was a man, and he took Henry's hand and shook it gently. "Casey Hardy." The man was tall with mousy-brown hair, and flecks of grey around his temples. He didn't appear much older than Henry, but his features sang wisdom, if ever there was a characterisation for such things. His accent was faint, but definitely there. Gaelic? He wondered, but as the man continued he further recognised it as Irish.

"Henry. Good to meet you." He didn't know why he'd expected a woman. If he thought about it, it was likely an old stereotype - the idea that men where emotionally closed off, but women were able to draw things from others. Not that it made a difference to him, though. Maybe the stereotype was accurate. After exchanged pleasantries, they sat in the therapists office. It was again plain, but comfortable.

"You're not from here, Henry? I hope the drive treated you well."

"No, Washington." Henry cleared his throat. "Georgetown. My wife is Elizabeth McCord." Casey nodded politely. Of course, he already knew this. Henry continued. "Given your… experience and specialty, I'm sure you know why I'm…"

Nodding again, he spoke quietly. "Possibly, yes."

It was difficult for Henry to divulge to a new person, and he was constantly torn between what information of his past was relevant and what he was willing to share. But as they time moved, he found Casey easy to engage. The mans questions were clearly directional, but not invasively so, and he was clearly familiar with the formula. Strangely, the thought comforted Henry. It eluded to the idea that there was nothing he could say to startle the man - nothing that he hadn't already heard. After several minutes of short, establishing conversation, Casey clearly sought to dig a little deeper. They spoke about Henry's transition between careers and how he'd ended up in government work. Speaking only briefly about his time as a marine, he was afraid that a connection would be made, or some form of connecting evidence that confirmed his fears.

How could something like that be so toxic and after so many years past? There was no doubt that he was proud, and found his served time very fulfilling, but there was also no denying the collateral damage that inevitably came with war - beyond that of opposition forces. As though his fond memory of the past would be tainted by the infectious reality of the present. Through the serpentine of conversation, he found himself telling someone something that he'd not spoken to another soul, for those that were present need not the discussion. The dehiscence of an old wound left him raw and vulnerable.

The journey home was tougher than he'd imagined. Thoughts of things that could've been said - that should have been said. His mind reeled, peeling each topic of conversation back by each layer. Never a self-doubting man, Henry had never worried over his reception by others. It wasn't that he cared what this therapist thought of him, but it was important to Henry for the man to know that he was proud of his past. There was very little that he would change if given the opportunity. And and fraction of the very little that he would change was still very much repairable.

It was late by the time he'd arrived home, well after dinner time. What should he tell Elizabeth? He decided that the truth was a good start. He knew she'd not've waited for him, and considering how he'd treated her lately, he'd not blame her. Approaching their bedroom, he noticed the faint glow emanating from under the door indicating that she was awake. She was reading something, a heavy script of sorts, likely work. With her glasses perched low on her nose, she glanced up at his presence.

"Where have you been?" She asked quietly, looking back down at her text, conscious not to show too much concern.

Discarding his shoes and jeans, he climbed onto his side of the bed, shuffling close so that their shoulders touched. A small, subconscious display of intimacy that was not lost on her. He was silent for several minutes, and she decided that he wasn't going to talk to her, refocusing on her work and letting the hardened features of her face return.

"I saw a therapist today."

She stopped as the words registered in her brain. Slowly removing her glasses, she turned to look at him, a questioning glint in her eyes. "You saw Doctor Sherman?" Not completely understanding.

"No. I.. I saw someone new." Taking the thread of he cotton sheet between his fingertips, he fidgeted whilst avoiding her eyes. Clearing his throat, he continued, filling in the details which he knew she was waiting for. "I spoke to an old friend on the phone, and, well, he helped me out."

"Oh." She breathed, after staring for a moment.

Nodding slowly, he swallowed thickly. Several minutes passed before he spoke again, and when he did, it was but a quiet murmur. "We weren't just in the air, you know." Elizabeth shifted slightly, turning her body so she could see his face under the dim glow of the bedside lamp. He rubbed his forehead, wondering how to continue with only details that were absolutely necessary. "The Amiriyah shelter had taken a hit. Me and a couple other guys were down to take a look around. We thought there was… military activity taking place, the Iraqis,"

"The air-raid shelter?" She pressed quietly.

"Yes."

"I'd seen…bodies before, obviously, you know." His throat worked hard again, and he swiped the moisture forming on his brow. His heart raced as he tried to let his wife into a dark corner of his mind,

Reaching out tentatively, she slipped her hand into his, stroking the back of his with her thumb. His eyes flickered, unable to focus on one spot as he reeled, but hers were steady and she waited patiently.

When he spoke again, his voice was tight and raspy, each word sounding like a struggle. "There was this woman, a mother. She was holding a boy in her arms." Elizabeth's heard thumped against her chest. Instinctively, she knew where this was going. She saw it in his face, and it squeezed her chest tight. "He had burns all up his arms, his chest and on his face. He was obviously…" His hand quivered around hers, and she crawled in closer, giving him the comfort of her body. "It was't the boy, it was the way… the way she screamed," Henry choked back his tears, the emotions still very raw having been exposed in great detail already. Elizabeth was unable to stop hers, and single tear slid down her cheek, watching her husband crumble in the memory of what he'd seen.

Releasing his hand, she threaded it though his hair and pulled him against her chest. He didn't have the strength to resist her, not that he wanted to. She could never completely understand, but knew it was important that she stay emotionally available to him. Stroking his hair softly, she waited for his breathing to steady. He returned her embrace finally, slipping his arms around her slim form and sinking deeper into her chest.

"Thank you." She whispered, and he needn't ask what for.