In the Quiet Whispers
(Gale/Madge)

They met in a psychiatrist's office. One of them the doctor, the other the patient. The boy's head was freshly shaved with light, puffy, red scars lacing his head where he allowed the razor to get to close to his scalp, he was dressed in a white t-shirt with some foreign logo in the left hand corner, and black jeans. He sat slumped over like the world was taking everything out of him, like the weight of the world was resting on his shoulders and his shoulders alone. His eyes were dark and cloudy, constantly somewhere else. He looked haunted and relieved at the same time. He was the patient.

She wore a crisp white pantsuit with a pair of freshly shined black pumps. Her expensive purse with designer labels sat next to her on her overly hard swirling chair. Her office was up high and had one wall of windows that let in the brilliant, warm, summer light in that blinded him. Her hair was pulled up in a professional ponytail and her nails were done white. Everything about her screamed professional and intelligent and rich. She was the doctor.

He thought everything about her and her world was too bright. She thought he was too dark. The sunlight blinded his eyes like he was looking directly into the brilliant sun outside, but it was probably normal considering he spent a lot of time in the dark nowadays. He could swear white was her favorite color because of her clothing choices, the wall color, even her purse patched. Everything was so white, so cheerful, when his entire world ever was so black and dark. Gale thought the room should be yellow or green, not because he liked either of those colors, but because they were warm colors, something that was supposed to enhance happy thoughts. Not white. Never white. White meant hope, and Gale didn't have any hope.

After a few minutes, Doctor Madge gets out a standard cardboard clipboard and with (of course) white papers with all his information on them. He doesn't understand why, but he always flinches at the sight of the papers. They told her everything about him from the way he thought to the way his body worked. Medical records and patient reports could tell you that he spent more time in the hospital than he does with his friends anymore. The records could tell you he was surly and rude to everyone. But Gale knew that wasn't who he is or was, but he doesn't bother explaining that to her. He doesn't know her, after all. And she won't know him. He doesn't plan on coming back.

He has been through countless doctors, so many of them that he couldn't count them on two hands anymore. Every single one of them said the same: "you have to talk, Gale", "It will help you, Gale", "I can't help you unless you talk." But he had no desire to be there, no desire to talk whatsoever. What he really needed – and hated to admit – was a hug, for someone to hold him and let him sob until he couldn't anymore. He wanted someone to tell him sweet, useless nothings that he could grab onto in his darkest moments. He wanted someone to call home.

She cleared her throat and tapped her purple pen to the clipboard, drawing attention that way without speaking a word. "Good morning, Gale."

"Good morning, Dr. Madge."

"How have you been?" Uh-oh, this is the trigger question. Every psychiatrist has one. This just happens to be hers. The one question that seems so nonchalant and unassuming, but was actually loaded with a million of other questions she was trying to dig out of him.

Gale paused for a moment to look up into her deep blue eyes that seem to go on forever, "I've been…" his throat constricted. He wanted to tell her everything about the nightmares, the horrors of being awake, the depression, the constant movie of war and guns and screaming, but he's scared. So scared, "I've been…good." He said slowly.

He knew he didn't get away with it the second her head tilted to the side and an annoyed expression crossed her usually smooth face, "Gale," she said.

He laughs evilly, "Dr. Madge." He said back.

She leaned forward and wrapped her silky hands in his callused ones. She looked him in the eyes, "Talk to me," she whispered, "Please, Gale, I can see the turmoil in your eyes, the pain, the exhaustion. I see it all, Gale. Stop torturing yourself." She squeezed his hands in her hands to convey the safety net she has created in the room, "Now, I know you've heard it a lot, but talking will help you. Just talk to me, Gale, about anything."

He doesn't talk. And he wouldn't for a while.

But he does go back.

…

The second time he goes back he almost feels refreshed, like a flower blooming in the spring. He couldn't state why he felt like he had a little spring to his step and a little joy in his life, but he did. And that joy carried into their session.

He was smiling, she noticed, smiling in a way that wasn't smiling, but she's worked with enough crazy (sorry, mental) patients since her time here and she knew that was a smile in and of itself. It was a smile of someone whose heart was broken and beaten down on, it was a smile that some would say didn't exist, but others would say was a triumph. This, she decided, was a triumph. He was smiling, something she got the idea of didn't happen nearly as often as it should.

She was also smiling, not in the fake, professional way, but a real smile. It filled her heart with joy when her patients were having a good day, the road to recovery was bright and clear, no obstacles in sight. Of course, she knew these moments didn't last long, she knew just at the edge of sight was a big, fat, mean obstacle that was going to knock him off his feet and sweep the air out of his lungs. But if she's learned anything since her time here, it was to take things a day at a time. Don't rush things, let them decided how fast recovery was going to come and how fast was too fast.

"How have you been, Gale?" she smiled sweetly at him, mentally coaxing him into a corner. Today was the day, she thought, the day he would let the burden fall on both their shoulders instead of just one.

Of course, it's Gale Hawthorne. And that…didn't…happen.

His smile slipped off his face and his bright eyes go from space gray to cloudy, stormy night in a millisecond. He cleared his throat, moves to the edge of his seat – something he doesn't when he's nervous or needs an escape. He tugged the ends of his hair, while his other hand fisted the hard cushion under his butt.

"Um…I-I…" he swallowed; he refuses to look at him. She's lost him, "I…I have to go." He said and hurriedly got up and shot out the door, never once looking back.

…

Their third session was the hardest session. She would replay the scenes in her head for days, agonizing over what went wrong.

She entered the emergency room quickly. When she found him he looked like death hit him with a semi-truck. His work suit was crumpled, his tie off centered. What once started as a crisp white shirt ended up being a coffee and blood stained shirt. His eyes were wild, his wrists and ankles shackled down, and he was screaming.

She was called in for an emergency session – or a.k.a. he won't summit himself into the hospital and his family lives districts away and you're the only person we could think to call. Please make him summit himself so we can start treatment.

"I hate you!" he roared, his eyes blazing with so much pain and desperation. He knew just as well as she knew why she was here. She understood. She wouldn't want to spend 72 mandatory hours in a psych ward, and with the looks of it he definitely would be staying longer. "I hate you so much, Madge!" he screamed and screamed crude things at her until the nurse standing by decided enough was enough and injected his ass with a sedative. She watched the heart monitors numbers slowly drop back to normal as his eyes, half lidded, gazed at her with intensity only she knew he could give her. His eyes no longer held any hatred. No, his drugged foggy mind was more lost than found.

"Madge…" he breathed.

"Doctor Madge." She corrected.

"Madge," she huffed out a sigh, but doesn't utter a word, "Come here." He beckoned her slowly, waving his hand with what little range of motion the restraints allowed. She leans over the railing of the bed and tilted her ear toward him, "Madge, please, don't let them touch me. I'll tell you everything, just don't let them touch me." his breathing picked up again, fear tinging the outside of his pupils, enlarging them.

"You can tell me tomorrow once you're all settled in," he shook his head violently, he was stupid, "Yes, Gale. You need to admit yourself, it's the only way."

"No!" he roared again, "No!" his breaths strained against his chest, "Madge, please, please, don't leave me." tears sprung to his eyes as he let his emotions get the better of him. But he was tired. So, so tired. He was done fighting, so done with war and fear and anxiety. He was done trying to find the light, just let the darkness consume him. But damn it all to hell before he allows himself to be put in a ward with a bunch of crazies and treated like a kindergartener.

"Go, or I'll do it myself." She whispered.

He went.

…

The next morning, they both found themselves at the far end of the hallway where there was a sofa and glass wall of sun tinted windows. Their knees knocked against each other's as they sat there in silence for a long time. He looked exhausted, more exhausted than she's ever seen him. He had a band around his wrist and paper clothing on.

"I guess I should start by telling you everything huh, I promised, didn't I?"

"Tell me what you want." She spoke with finality in her voice, "I've never pushed you before, and I will not start today." She almost growled out.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, "I killed an innocent child." He looked at her for reassurance or repulsion, he wasn't sure. He saw only reassurance. He started at the young woman, only a few years younger than him at the most, with curiosity that ran deep and…hope. She nodded for him to go on. He sniffles, closing his eyes, "I thought he had a bomb strapped to him and he didn't, Madge," he sucked in a startling breath, "he didn't. And I killed him. I took an innocent life."

"Why did you think he had a bomb, Gale?" she's asked softly, guiding him on, not accusing him.

"He had a bulky shirt on, one that looked unnatural from my position on a building 500 feet away. He held his arms in a certain way that screamed suicide bomber, but he was smiling and laughing next to the woman he was with. When she drew something out of her sleeve, it was a bomb and she detonated it, killing herself. I had asked intelligence for a green light a few seconds before it happened on the kid because she was walking normally. Intelligence couldn't see, told me it was all on me. Do what was right. When the woman fell completely he screamed and ran toward her, dropping to his knees in the dusty road, his hands went to his chest in pain, but I took it as a bomb and I fired, killing him. He didn't have a single weapon on him."

She squeezed his arm.

"I killed an innocent child and it's never left him. I took a life before it had even really begun. I was wrong and I can't stop hating myself for it. I should've known, I shouldn't have shot him."

He cried, and continued to tell her all the things that plagued him.

To say he didn't get out in 3 days was an understatement. No, it took months of therapy and learning to love himself again. Madge was there almost every day to talk to him and help him. Luckily his job offered to hold his position until he was better, even sending him flowers.

But that was years ago. Now, Gale Hawthorne stood strong. After he had gotten out he started an organization for Vets with burdens and allows everyone to catch up and talk things his out. He built up funds to building more mental hospitals and better research facilities to help those like him who felt like they couldn't breathe because of the past.

He had even asked Madge to marry him after two years of dating. And even if he hates to admit that she saved him all those years ago, he hates it even more to admit the woman in white saved him every day. But no, he doesn't regret it. And he won't regret it.

A/N: feel free to send me prompts and please get on my about writing Royal Engagement Part 7!