A/N: These next few chapters have been very challenging to write. To be clear to everyone, I am not a therapist. I don't claim to know how to treat PTSD. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

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He had let down his guard. He could see that now. After a string of successes with the sleep clinic, his mother, and then Cristina, he had gotten just a little bit complacent. Now, sitting here with Dr. Wyatt, unsure of himself, his skin crawling with anxiety, he realized that he had been a fool to think that any of this was going to be easier than he'd originally feared. In fact, he was pretty fucking sure it was going to be harder, much harder, than anything he'd conjured up in his own head. His hands gripped the arms of the chair so hard his knuckles turned white, while his mind raced in frantic circles. The urge to get up and walk out was very strong.

Finally, she spoke. "This is uncomfortable for you."

Great powers of observation you have there, Dr. Wyatt. "Extremely."

"Have you ever seen a therapist before?"

"No."

She just looked at him, as if waiting for him to speak, and he had no idea what to say. He had never been good at small talk in social situations, preferring a deep conversation over inane pleasantries when given the choice. It was even harder to know what to do in a place like this, where he was on someone else's turf and he didn't know the rules. He shifted in his chair. Random observations struck him as he searched his brain for something, anything that might be appropriate. He noticed that she was indeed a redhead as Derek had described, and realized with dismay that she reminded him of his Aunt Claire, his mother's sister, a rather severe woman who talked over people as if her opinion was the only one that mattered. He wondered if he could get past the resemblance or if he'd have to switch therapists. The second option was beginning to look pretty good right about now.

The long pauses were frustrating him. Is this some kind of test? "Am I supposed to be talking? Because I don't know what to say. I don't know how this works."

"How about you start with what brought you here."

"Ok, um... I heard about you from Derek Shepherd..."

She smiled. "How is Derek?"

How is Derek? What kind of question is that? Owen knew Meredith had seen her professionally, but that Wyatt's code of ethics prohibited her from mentioning she even knew her. He considered giving her more information than she'd asked for, satisfying her little fishing expedition with a tidbit on both of them. Perhaps this would be perceived as a peace offering and she would go easy on him. "He's fine. He just got engaged to Meredith Grey."

"Oh, that's nice. I'm happy for him." He was pleased to notice that neither her voice nor her facial expression betrayed anything about her relationship with Meredith. At least he could count on her discretion. That added a level of safety and put one check mark in the plus column of the chart he was already compiling in his head. At the top of that column it said, "Stay put" and at the top of the other, "Bolt for the door."

"So you heard about me from Derek..." she prodded.

"Yes. He... I... believe I have PTSD."

"And what leads you to believe that?"

It came out in a rush of words. "I'm a veteran. I served in Iraq, 4 tours as a trauma surgeon. My entire unit was killed in an ambush on my last tour. I was the only survivor..."

She didn't seem fazed. "Anything else?"

"Well, I had a night terror and strangled my...my girlfriend in her sleep," he continued as quickly as he could. Just say it. Then you'll be done. "She's ok, but it scared us both really badly and broke us up. I've been to the sleep clinic already, and started medication. You can get the records of the sleep study if you want to see them."

She jotted down a note on a Post It and waited for him to continue. When he didn't, she asked, "Any other consults or test results I should know about?"

"An MRI. You can ask Shepherd about it."

She wrote it down. "I'll need you to sign some release forms on your way out." Owen nodded. On your way out gave him something to look forward to.

The silence stretched out again, seemingly for hours, though Owen knew it couldn't be more than a few minutes. Why doesn't she ask me a question, already? He missed the long, comfortable silences he used to share with Cristina, just sitting together and not needing to say anything. These pauses, though, were laden with unasked questions that he was simultaneously impatient to get out of the way and afraid to hear.

Finally she broke the silence herself. "How does it feel for you to talk about these things - your unit being killed? Strangling your girlfriend?"

Owen let out a choked laugh, glancing at her quickly and then away. He stared over her shoulder, at the far wall, which he noticed was a different color than the rest of the room. "Oh, I'm not talking about them. Listing them for you is not the same as talking about them."

She looked at him intently. "And what would happen if you talked about them?"

This was it, the million dollar question. It was what he'd been afraid of all along, that crushing sense of hopelessness and despair that enveloped him whenever he allowed his mind to wander into this loaded terrain. Somehow, without even knowing him, she had managed to stick a knife in his heart in less than 10 minutes. He had to admire that. He registered an almost detached surprise as his emotional reaction began to build. What would happen if he talked about them? He had never tried, except for that one time when he'd first gotten back and found himself explaining to Cristina what had happened to him in Iraq, and that other time in Cristina's shower that he could barely remember. Both had been something short of really talking about them, the first one supplying only the most general details, the second lubricated with so much alcohol he didn't count it as a conscious act. As he tried to answer the question now, the words stuck in his throat and no sound came out. He felt very vulnerable, as if his position had just been exposed to enemy fire and things were exploding all around him.

Bolt for the door, Owen. Just get up and go. You don't have to do this. His hands moved from their death grip on the armrests to cover his face, and he blinked hard to stem the flood of tears that shimmered in the background, tears he had been holding back for what seemed an eternity. He tried to collect himself, forcing himself to stay put in spite of the urge to run. It would do no good to fall apart now; besides, he had committed to Cristina that he would follow through with therapy. Like it or not, he had to be here.

The question repeated itself in his head with a sinister echo: And what would happen if you talked about them?

He lifted his head and looked at her with stricken eyes, and the words came out in an anxious whisper. "I don't know."

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About half way through the session, Owen realized that Dr. Wyatt was equal if not superior to some of the better surgeons he'd had the privilege of working with over the years. Armed only with words and what must be some kind of x-ray vision, she had managed to uncover every hot button he had, delicately probing with a light touch to ascertain the depth of the injury and then letting go. By the time she was done with him, he felt like a huge bundle of exposed nerve endings, and he had a greater understanding of the nuanced skill it took to do this type of work. Like a surgeon, she went in and uncovered the injured parts, but unlike a surgeon, she closed him back up without fixing any of them, leaving him to stew on his own until their next session. "Today was just exploratory," she explained. "When our work gets more focused, you should get some kind of closure by the end of each session. We've stirred the pot a bit today, and we didn't really put the lid back on, but I don't want you to worry about that. I did it on purpose. Things will probably bubble up for you before you see me next, so I want you to pick up a notebook or journal for yourself on the way home and keep it nearby at all times. Bring it with you when you come."

"Why?"

"Because what happens between our meetings is just as important as what happens during them... You'll do a lot of this work on your own, not because you want to, but because you won't be able to help it. Things will come out in your dreams, or you'll realize something important during the day. Write them down. We'll talk about them in here."

It was then that Owen realized that he was definitely coming back to see her. He had been holding off on that decision, waiting to see how things progressed. During these last ten minutes he had begun to trust her enough to decide that continuing with her would be easier and more productive than finding someone else. She was smart, capable, and very direct - all qualities he could appreciate. Something about her tough exterior made him feel safe, as if she had already seen and done it all, and nothing he could bring here would scare her off. He was objective enough to understand that the fact that he found therapy to be a miserable experience was not her fault. He doubted it would be any more palatable with anyone else. Besides, they had covered a lot of ground during this session, and he was loathe to have to go through the preliminaries again with another therapist.

As their time drew to a close, she moved away from the more emotional material they had been working on and asked him about his goals. He considered for a moment before replying. "I just want to go back to feeling like myself again. Right now things are... out of control. I mean, I can work, but that's the only thing that feels somewhat normal. The sleep terrors...I have to make those stop. And the jumpiness... those times I just freeze up... all that needs to stop. I realize I'll never be the same as I was before... before all this happened, but I'd at least like to recognize the guy I see in the mirror again."

She nodded. "Anything else?"

"Yeah," his laugh was bitter, "I want my girlfriend back."

Her reaction could have been condescending, and he was grateful that it wasn't. "I'm sure you realize that's up to her. I can work with you to fix your issues, but her decisions are hers. I don't want you going into this with unrealistic expectations."

"Believe me, I know. Nobody tells Cristina Yang what to do."

Wyatt gave him a quick look that he couldn't interpret but said nothing. She knows her, Owen thought, and realized he'd never told Cristina the name of the therapist he was seeing. He hoped he got the chance to find out if there was an interesting story here.

"Um... would you mind telling me what to expect next time? I'm not so good with surprises these days."

Wyatt nodded. "No problem. One of the best ways I can describe it is to compare it to mucking through a swamp. You've known the swamp was there for a while, known it contained dark and dangerous things under the surface, but you've been too afraid to get near it. Unfortunately, when you leave those swamp creatures alone, they venture out of their own accord and attack you when you least expect it. And that's where you are right now - the night terrors, the jumpiness, the freezing, probably some flashbacks too... It's a very frightening place to be, because it's totally reactive. You just wait anxiously for something to happen and then scramble to adjust. And the anxiety about something happening gets to be as bad as the anxiety when it happens... Have I got it right so far?"

Remarkably right, he thought. She was good. "Yeah, you do."

"So, Dr. Hunt, we have to drain the swamp, and then take a good look at what's been hiding under the surface."

He found himself breaking into a cold sweat at those words. He already had a pretty good idea what was lurking down there, and it wasn't anything he wanted to see. "That sounds really, really awful."

She smiled. "I'm sure when you describe a surgery to people you're about to operate on, they have the same reaction."

Owen couldn't help but chuckle at that comparison. "Maybe that's why I like trauma so much. Plenty of emergencies where we just head straight for the OR. Cuts out a lot of difficult conversation."

She nodded. "Even so, you and I, we're not so different. We both slice people open, only with therapy I don't have the luxury of calling in an anesthesiologist to put you out for the painful parts. I wish I could, but unfortunately you need to participate for this to be effective..."

Surgery without anesthesia. That sounded about right.

"... but as you work through the issues," she continued, "it does get easier. You'll start to make progress, and that will give you more incentive to deal with what comes up. I won't kid you. It's a painful and often tedious process. You're likely to feel worse before you feel better. You should adjust your expectations accordingly."

"Terrific."

She gave him a small smile. She could tell already that she was going to enjoy working with him. "One more thing... I'd like you to consider joining one of the support groups over at the VA. Being with other veterans who've had similar experiences has been shown to be very helpful for people in your situation."

Oh, shit. No more. Please. "Yeah...uh...I don't know if I'm ready for that right now. Can I think about it?"

"That's fine. We'll talk about it again another time. As for our schedule, I recommend 3 times a week to start with. Can you handle that, Dr. Hunt?"

"I suppose..."

"Good. Make some appointments with my receptionist on your way out... and sign those release forms for the MRI and the sleep study."

Owen nodded and stood up. That was it, then. He was officially in therapy. "I think you should probably start calling me Owen... Dr Hunt sounds awkward since I'm actually the patient."

She got up and walked him to the door. "Ok... Owen. I'll see you in a couple of days."