Disclaimer - I do not own Homeland. That pleasure belongs to Showtime. No copyright infringement or money making scheme intended. This is purely for reading enjoyment.

A/N Missing scene for The Good Soldier. I may do a second one. We'll see. This one takes place after Brody has flattened Mike and leading up to him calling Carrie. Caution for swearing.

He'd been driving for a while trying to cool off, but it wasn't working. He was still wound tighter than the string of a bow. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, until his knuckles turned white. He had to get off the road before he caused a fucking accident. He pulled into a parking lot.

He couldn't go home and frankly he didn't want to. Go home to the stares that said we should have told you, but you're out of order in equal measure. Go home to see her comforting him and cleaning him up. Go home for more confirmation he didn't fit or belong anymore. Brody hit the steering wheel in frustration, setting off the horn and just about jumping out of his skin, his heart beat sky rocketing. His skin which he wasn't comfortable in anymore, which felt like it belonged to a different man as though it had been forced on him. He looked up to see people passing the car, staring at him. He stared back until they looked away. He was fed up with the fucking staring. Maybe he should run through the streets of D.C. naked and let everyone have a right good fucking look at their war hero.

Brody gripped steering wheel yet tighter again,closing his eyes for relief and finding none. Tom, always there at the front of his mind speaking to him and taunting him.

"Well, you wanted to live brother...so here you are."

Brody banged his head off the head rest, trying to make it stop. But it didn't stop, just like he hadn't stopped. He could hear Tom laughing in his head with a reassurance that it wouldn't ever stop.

He forced his eyes open, realising as he did so, that his breathing was heavy. Looking out the window, his eyes fell on the bar. He needed something to take the edge off and a drink would do to start with. He loosened his grip on the steering wheel.

"Fuck", Christ that hurt. Brody looked at his right hand, swollen and a mess. Jesus.

His eyes darted aroud upon entering the bar, looking for escape routes. He could feel them dancing around in his sockets. No one paid him any attention. Surprised, but grateful, he headed straight for the bar and ordered bourbon. That ought to do the trick.

"You want ice for that?", the bar man asked.

Brody looked at him trying to gauge if he were serious, "who the fuck taks ice in bourbon?", he questions, wondering how fucking stupid did people get while he was in his hole.

The bar man laughed, "not for your bourbon, man. You're hand. You want ice for that? Looks pretty swollen."

Brody looks at him feeling stupid, surprised at the kindness. Gathering himself, he replies, "ye, that might be a good idea. Thanks."

The bar man returns with an ice pack for Brody's hand.

"You ok, man?", he asks, looking at Brody's hand again.

Brody quite often found himself snapping at folk these days, but the man's genuine concern halted any thoughts of doing that to him.

"Ye. Well, no, but ye...", Christ form a sentence, Sergeant Brody. He shook his head trying to clear his mind and spoke again, "my best friend's face collided with my fist", he says matter of factly.

"Ah, it's like that", the bar man says. "Well, I hope his face hurts more", he finishes as he moves to serve another customer.

"So the fuck do I", Brody adds malevolently, to the bar man's retreating back.

His hand is numb and he doesn't care. Nursing his drink and feeling sorry for himself, he realises is not getting him anywhere. He needed to do something.

"CIA"

Brody whips his head up and looks for the owner of the voice. He finds the TV where the news reader is talking about Langley. Langley!

"Mother fucking shit."

He has a polygraph tomorrow. He can't take a fucking polygraph in this state. In the end, he hadn't passed Hamid that razor blade, but he'd been paranoid ever since leaving that someone had noticed something.

"Shit on a fucking stick."

He'd only need to hear the words razor blade and he'd fall apart. He downed his Bourbon, shouting for another one as he did so. He needed to get it called off. How the fuck was he supposed to do that? He ran his not messed up hand over his face, feeling a smile creep over his lips, as his hand passed them, as though wiping away the doubt and worry. He smiled. Carie Mathison, Miss CIA. He had her number and he had been looking for an excuse, bad idea though it was, to see her. She was far too interested in him for a start, but he didn't want to marry her, he just wanted to take the edge off. He was certain that she would come even if she smelled bullshit. In fact, he was certain the more bullshit she smelled, the faster she would get here. He fished his phone out of his pocket and called her.