A/N: While the husband is away the wife must write. This has taken much longer than I planned to finish. I was hoping for a shortish fic, and then it grew. And then I couldn't figure out how to end it; or if it should have a second part…

Thanks so much everyone for reading, reviewing, favoriting and alerting. CountryGirl83, Gaben, saides, Voetsek007, Whereinthewrld, WhiskeySkye. This one is very true, at least for me. I hope it rings true with you. Smudgie it's great to have you back, stay healthy! I've always wondered about Eliot's anger; and why he seems so angry. The Experimental Job cleared some of it up for me, brought some stuff into perspective.

Chapter 5: The Art of War

If you know the enemy and know yourself you need not fear the results of a hundred battles.

-Sun Tzu

Eliot didn't think of himself as a particularly violent person. He'd seen the effects of all kinds of violence and preferred to think of himself as a pacifist. A realistic pacifist; he knew that there would always be violence. And he recognized that some people were better able to deal with it than others. He was one of the people that could deal with it. The retrieval specialist knew how to use violence to his own ends, to deflect it for his own gains, and how to deal with the after effects.

He knew how to turn anger into something he could use. And today he could feel the anger bubbling under his skin. He just wanted to hit something, hit someone, preferably someone who would fight back. The job they were working was proving to be more difficult than anticipated; taking longer than anyone of them thought; and he hadn't been able to get away from the city for too long. He hadn't had a chance to walk alone in the forest, finish the bookcase he'd started a couple of months ago, change the oil in this truck, or winterize his garden. The close quarters, the spending almost every waking minute with the team, the tedium of this job were wearing on him.

The walls were closing in on him; the nightmares were coming more frequently. Eliot really needed to get out of the city. The nightmares were getting so intense that he was afraid his teammates could hear him through the building walls. And the lack of sleep was catching up to him; he was going to make a mistake soon. A mistake that could cause of them to get hurt. He was supposed to be impervious to harm, suffer none of the effects that most people did in his career field.

Nate said that they wouldn't him for a couple of days; they were playing a waiting game now. Nate had even quoted Sun Tzu "He who is prudent and lies in wait for an enemy who is not, will be victorious."

It gave the hitter a chance to escape to the country. "His country house" as Sonny, his neighbor and caretaker called it. Making out like he was some type of rich-ass yuppy. Right, … Eliot had seen enough yuppy's in his life; and played enough of them in cons. I'm about as far from a yuppy as you can get. Even the thought made him roll his eyes.

The drive up from Boston had been bad. Rush hour traffic had sucked. Boston had some of the worst rush hour traffic in the country, and Eliot felt that every FUCKING idiot in New England had been on the road today. The anger that he usually kept deeply controlled was bubbling up under his skin. The hitter smacked the steering wheel as yet another idiot cut his truck off; if he'd been driving his car they wouldn't have even tried!

After too long he turned the truck off at the top of his driveway. He felt the sense of peace that he associated with this haven wash over him, and closed his eyes for a second before he got out.

The frost was just setting on the grass; it was later than he'd thought. He'd have to thank Sonny before he left for starting a fire. It would take the chill of the house; she was an old house. And warming her bones up took quite a while.

Eliot made himself a cup of chamomile tea and settled into the routines of 'The Country House." He stretched and put the empty cup into the sink and settled into movements of Tai Chi. Pausing to feel the stillness in his bones he moved from the introduction into the first movement wild horses mane, then into stork cools wings, and brush knee, to lute player, and smoothly into grasp bird's tail left, diagonal single whip, hands like clouds, right foot, left foot, double dragon, and finishing with slanted palms flying. Slowly he moved through the movements again, and then a third time. Finishing the series by bowing and thanking the moon for allowing him the time. Thanking the ground for giving him peace. And thanking the master that taught him.

He'd gone through these movements so many times. Part of what calmed him was the total focus that the movements required. Each movement required complete focus; but, no thought. It was a concept that he'd had problems grasping when he'd first learned the movements. Eliot padded into the kitchen and looked at the cup in the sink; should he have another cup of tea? No, he decided; sleep would be better. Sleeping in his own bed. Sleep was good.

Shaking Eliot woke up in a cold sweat. The images that had been seared into his brain years ago were flashing in front of his eyes. Horrible images. Images of things that no man should see. There was a reason he only slept three or four hours a night. Reasons he hadn't told anyone; reasons that no one should know, or have ever seen. Reasons he would never forget.

Most nights weren't that bad. But, sometimes something triggered him. Well, at least that was the term the fancy head shrinker had used: Triggered. It was a term he'd come to hate. Especially on nights like this.

On nights like this sleep wasn't an option. Yoga, tai chi, herbal tea, exercise, the latest biography of Albert Einstein, … None of it would give him dreamless sleep. That doc had given him pills; but, they made him feel sluggish the next day. And if something happened during the night, he wouldn't wake up. Plus they had weird side-effects. So he didn't take them and dealt with the side-effects of mild sleep deprivation, irritability. Besides the irritability there was fact that his temper got shorter, and he really wanted to punch someone. Not necessarily a bad thing. Especially in his line of work.

One of the few things that would calm him down was cooking. Comfort food. What he made had changed over the years. Beef brisket, collard greens, baked beans, cassoulet, bolognese, … Tonight he opened the cabinets and decided on lasagna. Sonny and his wife loved his lasagna. It was too early to go to the grocery store and get the ricotta and mozzarella; but, he could make the noodles and the rich tomato sauce that would form two of the three types of layers.

Eliot carefully minced the onion and added it to the foaming butter and olive in his large sauté pan. When it had cooked for a minute or so, he added in a carrot and sweated it. As those were cooking he carefully minced the little bit of pancetta he'd found in the freezer. This wasn't a fancy sauce; but, the pancetta added a little bit of roundness to sauce. The carrot a little sweetness. He added the pancetta into the frying pan and breathed in the aroma starting to emerge. A couple grinds of fresh pepper. He bought his spices through the mail. Sophie had suggested the supplier. It still shocked him that she would know a good purveyor of spices; but, very few places could beat the freshness and selection that Penzey's had.

Eliot stirred the pan once; and added a cup of red wine. Again it wasn't a fancy wine like Sophie would like, this was a robust red wine. A table wine. The aromas were starting to come together. Turning the heat down a little he walked down to the basement to grab three bottles of the tomatoes he'd canned over the summer. There was nothing like homegrown tomatoes in a pomodoro sauce.

Coming back into the kitchen he could see the sun just starting to come up. Sunrise would be official in another hour or so. He gently stirred the wine mixture and added in the first bottle of tomatoes, and a bay leaf. Stirred it again, and added the second and third bottles of tomatoes. Elliot reached into the freezer and grabbed a bag of basil, oregano, and thyme stems; he tied them together and dropped them into the pot. They'd add a nice flavor without adding little specks to the sauce. The sauce would be ready in about four or five hours.

His dream came back to him as measured the semolina flour for the pasta and put it in a pile on the butcher block in the center of the room. Busy, need to stay busy. Concentrate. Carefully, he cracked the eggs into the little well he made in the flour. He could still see them. Hell, he'd probably always see them. Some days he wished he could forget; others he was glad he couldn't. Instead of closing his eyes he turned on the radio and looked over at his guitar in the corner. Maybe Bob would be up for a jam session tonight; he'd been in some rough places while he'd been in the Army. It was really nice knowing people that understood.

You got a fast car

Is it fast enough we can fly away?

We gotta make a decision

Leave tonight or live and die this way

Good song. Been covered a lot. He liked this guy singing it. He had a couple other songs playing. There was that upbeat one, the one about the bar. Eliot poured a drizzle of olive oil around the eggs and started gently whisking the eggs bringing the flour into the egg and oil mixture while singing along with the radio.

I know things will get better

You'll find work and I'll get promoted

We'll move out of the shelter

Buy a big house and live in the suburbs

The dough quickly tightened up and the hitter abandoned the fork in favor of his hands. Kneading the dough made some of the tension leave his body. He concentrated on the dough, and working the flour in. The song changed on the radio. This one wasn't a favorite of his; but, he still hummed along with it. The texture of the dough began to change becoming smoother under his hands. After a few more turns around the board Eliot carefully wrapped it in plastic wrap and put it aside.

He stirred the sauce and began to clean up, wiping down the butcher block and very carefully applying a thin layer of mineral oil to it. The mineral oil kept the old wood from drying out and cracking. It was food grade mineral oil; and didn't go rancid like olive oil could. He wiped down the stove and looked out the window. The sun wasn't up much. So he just stared. He was still twitchy, and angry.

Joe should be down at his dojo about now. He was usually there before the sun came up on weekends, warming up. He taught a couple of morning classes targeted towards adults. Maybe he'd be up for some sparring. There were usually a couple of black belts prepping for a tournament that Eliot could spar with. Yeah, it was a good idea. Eliot walked to the stove and stirred the sauce again; he turned the gas down really low. With the cover on it would be just fine for a few hours.

Thinking about what he needed while he was in town the hitter walked upstairs to get his gym bag. Mozzarella, ricotta, and cream. A couple years ago he'd discovered that topping lasagna with a Béchamel sauce made it even better.

With his bag in hand, Eliot walked back through the kitchen smelling the aromas of the sauce coming together. There was the sweetness of the onion and the carrot, and the tomato blending with the red wine. Should he get some sausage to put in with the red sauce? Fennel seed did have a really nice tang to it; and Sonny and Adele were meat and potatoes people.

Eliot started the truck and tossed his gym bag into the passenger seat. He had a plan for the day. Sparring with Joe, the grocery store, finishing the lasagna, and working on his bookcase. He also needed to replace the manifold in his car. Having a plan for the day made some more of tension leave his body. And he needed to make an appointment with Elambert, his massage therapist for early tomorrow morning. And then he'd go back into Boston.

The radio announcer was talking as Eliot headed into town. Hockey game tonight. The Bruins were playing. Huh. He'd pick up a six pack of beer. Actually he should pick up two; Sonny would stop over for a drink or two during the game.

Do you know why I remember these things? You don't know? 'cause I can't forget. So there's nothing you can do, no punishment you can hand out, that's worse than what I live with every day. So to answer your question, no. No I haven't counted. I don't need to.

E/N: This sauce is one that I make myself. It's very similar to ones made by Biba Caggiano in her classic cookbooks. And the pasta; it's her recipe. Personally, I like De Cecco – it's dried. Dried pasta is easy. But, sauce. It has to be homemade!