If I was titling these chapters this would have to be "Elizabeth cannot for the life of her catch a break" so buckle up for more angst. I think there'll just be one more chapter after this. We shall see.

…..

They're well into Elizabeth's approved leave, now. It's been six nights of holding her as she dozes off, rubbing soft circles over her back, giving hushed monologues about what they'll do the next day, whatever new game Stevie will invent, a synopsis of the latest chapter of his book as her breathing gradually evens and slows, sometimes over the course of hours.

She can't sleep without him, now. And Henry hasn't tried to test that understanding, either, not since the first night, when her colleagues had left and she had shot up on a gasp not half an hour later, crying out for him in the haze of bad dreams.

Not since Isabel had revealed the way his wife had been across the world, traumatized, drugged, and repeatedly asking for him.

Elizabeth says jokingly when he mentions the difficulties sleeping with a concerned frown that it's because she missed him so much. Henry knows the truth: she can't sleep without his voice, his touch, because the silence allows for too much remembering and the bodily isolation reminds her too much of those thirty hours.

The hours that she still will not talk about.

He does not sleep until she does.

It isn't annoyance that he's feeling. He'd lull his wife to sleep every night for the rest of their lives without batting an eye in consternation if she needed him to, but he is incredibly concerned about her being wrought to this point.

The nightmares elevate him to another level of worry entirely.

Tonight he had read her to sleep. It had been boring and theological (oh, perfect, she'd said sincerely) and it had done the trick. It hurts her eyes and head too much to do any actual reading herself, and so she's heard more perspectives on Thomas Aquinas from his PhD coursework in the last week than ever before.

Elizabeth had lain down and he'd guided her head to just beside his hip, running his hand up and down, up and down the space between her shoulder blades as she'd crooked an arm across his lap and tangled her fingers in the hem of his tee shirt.

As he launched into "Treatise on Fortitude and Temperance," her form had relaxed more easily than usual. When his own eyes were beginning to blur, gritty with tiredness, Henry had discarded Summa Theologica and settled himself beside her, arm wrapped around her back even as he took care not to jostle the pillow beneath her serving to take some of the pressure off of her ribcage. A last kiss to her hair and he had been off into a much less disturbing dreamland than the one that would shortly lay claim to his wife.

…..

Her head is absolutely pounding. One touch of uncoordinated fingers revealed blood from her temple, but she had only been able to blink dazedly at her hand in front of her eyes.

She didn't know when-

A jolt of panic and a sharp inhale that sent pain radiating down her side.

Think.

The crash, and then it goes black. A knock on the door. Will is distraught. They're in a police precinct, and she's grasping the sleeve of his shirt like they're going to rip him away from her. She'll never again have a strawberry milkshake.

No, that's not right.

Where is she?

Calm down. Rely on your senses, Elizabeth.

Concrete walls. The scent of blood from her hand, from her head. Sand, everywhere. God, it's everywhere.

Voices approaching, men. She's never had a headache this severe, this debilitating.

She can't tell whether they're speaking Arabic or English. Either way, there's a little part of her that wishes she didn't understand it.

she's pretty, you'll see. a light haired american. this will be enjoyable.

Bile rises in her throat, but she swallows hard as she hears a grating door.

Don't show weakness, Elizabeth.

She's bracing herself on hands and knees, stumbling to her feet, grasping onto the wall for support.

She has to stay standing, has to-

Her head is so heavy; her vision is lurching every which way.

There are three men.

Shemaghs. Armed. Taliban?

Focus, Elizabeth.

"Who are you?"

She only knows that it was she who spoke because the movement of her jaw makes her eyes hurt. Her own words could have been Arabic, English, Farsi, even. Who's to say? They understand her.

"You know very well."

And she does, she does know, but it's just out of reach and oh God her head and then yes they're Taliban forces, because there's another voice outside, a familiar one, and this is not good.

The panic is back, and she forces it down and stays on her feet because now even more than before she cannot show vulnerability to be preyed upon.

Akim is in the room, now. Right in front of her, now.

"Hello, Elizabeth."

"What do you think you've accomplished, here?"

He laughs, and she can't quite suppress the shudder. It's a chilling sound, the sound of a murderer reveling in what he's done.

What he's going to do.

What's he going to do?

"Maybe I will teach the United States what will happen to any more agents they send to trick, detain, or question me," his eye sweeps suggestively over her, "especially such nice looking ones."

Then he's cupping her face in one hand, flicking a thumb over the wound on her temple and she jerks away, spitting out "don't touch me."

His face hardens, the scorn and perverted playfulness losing out to by the cold veneer, and he backhands her forcefully.

Elizabeth's vision blacks out. When her eyes are relaying information again she is on the ground, flat on her back. She can feel the burning sensation where her lip has split, the beginning of the trickle of blood.

Akim is looming over her and then he's straddling her legs. She fights, bucks beneath him, but he presses her hips into the ground so hard that she knows there will be marks left in the shape of his hands.

"Do you think fighting me is wise? You have no power here. None. In your lies and in your interrogation room, you had authority, Elizabeth, and I admit that you surprised me. No more surprises, now," and to her relief, once he's bound her hands together in front of her he rises, leaving her prone on the ground.

They're gone, then. She can't move, really, and though it hurts even to move her eyes Elizabeth forces them to flit over dismal surroundings.

Dimly lit, thankfully. Generally grimy. She rolls so that she's facing the entrance, can't be snuck up on, and stares at a spot in the ceiling to keep herself conscious.

She feels the desert heat fade to the desert cool of night, shivers a little, but apart from that she can't conceptualize how much time has passed. There are no windows.

Voices again.

Laughter.

The door.

Hands. All over her, digging in squeezing. They're disembodied, paying no mind as she fights tightening fingers. Bruising her, moving her, tying her own hands tighter.

Suddenly there's a body attached to one of the pairs, and it's him, Akim, a man whose trust she gained before capture, a man who she interrogated relentlessly for two weeks. A man she outsmarted, defeated in a battle of wills, humiliated. All blows to his ego too cumulative to not require retribution, apparently.

He's leering, now, reaching out to touch her hair, to fiddle with the collar of her shirt. She's standing, but when, how did she get to her feet? Elizabeth acts on instinct and jerks a knee upwards between his legs. She hears the cry and sees him hunch involuntarily before he shoves her backwards into the wall.

Her aching head is reeling from the motion and collision. She thinks idly and inappropriately, given her circumstances, that there's a law of physics in there somewhere. Once an academic, always an academic.

As Elizabeth tries to push herself back off the wall, for what purpose she has not yet ascertained, he slams her back against it, hands closing around her throat. Being strangled is an unpleasant sensation, to say the least. Her vision starts to blacken around the edges.

No academia will help her now. Perhaps to her detriment, though, Elizabeth has always been one to try to help herself.

Her bound hands come up, gathering momentum, finding purchase on her targets. She hears the crack of his nose breaking, feels the revolting sensation of her thumb invading his eye. The last thing she sees before her own eyes slip shut is the uncontrolled fury on his face, now bleeding entirely too close to her own.

No time has passed. Seconds, decades. Suddenly her hands are bound tight behind her, instead. Elizabeth finds a twisted sort of victory in that. It's short lived.

Akim is there, plunging a syringe into the muscle of her arm no matter how she tries to squirm out of the path of the needle. He's smiling. Elizabeth can feel her eyes going out of focus once more, now at the behest of the swimming feeling that can only mean a sedative washing through her.

And oh, God, she isn't going to remember anything done to her now when she wakes up. Wait. Is that really such a bad thing? Yes, yes, she would rather know. Rather have to remember than always wonder. As if she has a choice. There are no choices for her now. She's going to die here, alone but for her killer.

Better that than have her family nearby, of course. Henry and Stevie are safe. That's what matters.

But—

Elizabeth!

That's not possible. He can't be—

Elizabeth, babe?

And they must have Henry too and how is that possible? Afghanistan is a far cry from Virginia, but that's him and where is he and what are they doing to him because he sounds upset, frantic, even, and he's calling for her and her voice isn't working and she's tied and Henry—

Mama?

And she's screaming now, can feel her body shuddering with her helplessness because that's Stevie, her baby crying out for her and no child should be here, have to see this, the violence, the inhumanity. No child should have to see their parent die.

…..

Henry had woken because Elizabeth was screaming. Whining was more like it at first, but by the time he'd been fully alert sat up over her where she was writhing, it was full blown, gut wrenching screaming.

It was terrifying.

Stevie had thought so, too, when she had come stumbling in, rubbing tired and teary eyes that so closely matched her mother's shade of blue, whimpering "Daddy, what's wrong with Mama?"

He had never so blatantly regretted their habit of leaving the door cracked open since their daughter transitioned to her "big girl bed," unless they were otherwise engaged in activities, in case Stevie herself had a bad dream.

"She's having a bad dream, sweetie. I've got her. Go back to bed, please," his hands are hovering over his distressed wife, trying to settle on a course of action to settle her.

The screams stop and then start again, somehow more blood curdling.

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth, babe?"

She turns, faster, twisting herself further into the sheets tangled around her waist and then Henry remembers, begins trying to tug them off of her when-

"Mama?" Stevie's crying and oh how he wants their daughter to have no memory of this but her voice seems to have triggered something because Elizabeth flails, then, eyes opening as she throws herself partially upright.

He's just putting a careful hand on her shoulder to ground her, trying to reassure mother and daughter simultaneously when for the second time in too short a span Henry can't prevent Stevie from launching herself at her mother.

Stevie is caught, regardless of the wince as little knees find still tender bruising and injured ribs, held as she cries of fright even as Elizabeth's eyes where he's watching them over their child's shoulder remain glazed over, fixed on some point in the distance.

She's not here, not really. Maternal instinct, not awareness, has brought her arms up to hold their baby.

"Elizabeth?" he whispers anxiously, hand still lingering on her sweat damp back.

Her eyes meet his, finally, clouded by nightmares and trauma. "I'm okay," and though she's looking at him, her words are for Stevie, "Mama's fine, darling."

"You were yelling!"

Henry interjects to help. "Mama had a bad dream. Just like you do sometimes, sweetie. What do your mama and I do for you when you have one?"

"You get me a cup of water. And then you stay with me 'til I go back to sleep," she mumbles, face hidden in her mother's neck.

"That's right. So let's help Mama that way, huh? Will you go get her some water from the kitchen, please?"

Stevie's still much too short for the faucet and she'll have to use a chair, he knows. It'll be at least a ten minute problem solving excursion for their nearly four-year-old. Perfect.

She shifts on his wife, a little reluctant to leave her, apparently, but he helps her pull away with a soft "careful, bug." He means climbing off of Elizabeth and the bed and having free range of the kitchen, but Stevie doesn't quite leave their bedroom.

She looks him right in the eye, instead. "You're gonna stay with Mama, right?" and her tone says that anything aside from 'absolutely' would be the wrong answer.

She reminds Henry so much of Elizabeth.

"I'm going to stay right here with her, sweetie. Promise."

Stevie nods her approval.

The minute she's out the door, the patter of little feet down the hallway assuring them she's out of earshot, Elizabeth shudders.

"Oh my God," and her voice, only recently restored, breaks.

He scoots toward her, pulling her into his side and helping her to settle her head in his neck, her breaths shaky and uncertain against his skin, clammy form shivering against his side. He pulls the quilt up and around her.

"Can you turn the light on?"

He reaches for it immediately without letting her go, flooding the room with the warm light of his lamp.

"I'm right here. I've got you."

When she doesn't answer Henry gives her a minute, letting her fiddle with his fingers to calm herself down.

"That looked really bad, babe."

She shrugs against him. "How much did Stevie hear?"

"You didn't say anything. Just screamed."

He's hoping she'll give him some context for those heartbreaking screams, but she goes quiet again. Henry lets her maneuver his fingers some more. Moments later she jerks, almost dislodging his arm around her back. Elizabeth looks down at the back of her own hand in alarm and then back up at him.

"Did I hit you?" and the utter horror is saturating her tone.

"No, no, babe. Don't worry. You must have dreamt it."

"No, Henry!" and the distress is starting to infiltrate her voice again, "look!" and she's right, her knuckles are reddening over the way they were already wounded. "Tell me the truth."

"I am, babe, I promise. You didn't hit me, or Stevie. You must have bumped the headboard when you were waking up. You sort of… lost control of your limbs for a second there."

Elizabeth watches him for a minute and when she seems satisfied that he is being honest, she settles back against him.

"I scared her."

"Yes. She'll be okay." It's the truth in all its facets.

She sniffles, shivers again.

"Want to change your shirt? It's making you cold."

Another nod. He wonders if she's ever going to talk about this.

Henry doesn't think she knows how. When her parents died she had shoved aside the emotional effects, the grief and the trauma and the shock, and forced herself at fifteen to care for Will. There was no one to ask her to do otherwise, to process things healthily. As much as it hurts him, there's nothing much Henry can do for Elizabeth if she won't talk about this new experience, and when he's tried to broach the subject she's shut him down. Until such a time as she sees the sense in dealing with the fallout, he can do little but hold her when she wakes after the things she's pushed down have welled up in her subconscious. For now, all he can do is get her a fresh shirt.

When she's changed, thanked Stevie for her water glass and sent her back off to bed with reassurances of her wellbeing, he settles against her in bed.

Henry tells her an anecdote from a philosophy seminar he went to last week.

"So the speaker said 'Rene Descartes walked into a restaurant, and the waiter asked him if he was ready to order. Descartes responded 'I do not think I know what I want yet,' and promptly disappeared.'"

"S'funny."

"It was! You know, because it was supposed to be about—"

"Cogito, ergo sum."

"Right! But then this hand goes up and it's a grad student saying that he doesn't get it, and when the speaker tried to explain it to him he had absolutely no idea about 'I think, therefore I am.' And then later we go around, and the guy's a philosophy student!"

"Ridiculous."

"It was."

He talks a while longer, but soon Elizabeth's breathing evens out and he can tell she's gone back to sleep and he hopes by the grace of God that it can be peaceful this time.

Henry stays up, keeping watch over her to be sure, but their luck (or God's grace) doesn't hold out for them.