Author's Note 1: An ever so slight time jump, because we are all ready for a certain something to happen!

Warnings: descriptions of injuries (not graphic) discussed, and PTSD is hinted at in a couple of areas.

Chapter 16 Miles to Go

Five words. Five words seemed to change Roger's world. He would once again face it with very little to show for the time that had gone by. Well, things were different this time around. He had entered the war with two goodish sorts of legs, and now he had one. Something else was different, however. During all that time before he had always felt lost with no direction, no home. Now he had a destination. Perhaps it wasn't a permanent one-perhaps it would last all of an hour, but his mind couldn't seem to land on much outside of this hoped for meeting and thus, in his mind, he felt more sure of where he was going than he ever had before.

Five words. The first five words that gave him such soaring hope were: 'I want to meet you'. All the words around her letter seemed to assure him that she was sincere. She had said something about excitement and the temptations for unladylike squeals again at meeting her dear friend, as if meeting him was something that would make her happy. He had hesitated at such feelings. Perhaps they were genuine feelings. He had been a soldier, after all, perhaps despite what he had told her, she had imagined some sort of heroic, strong man. He took a good look in the little mirror in the bathroom that day, taking in every harsh feature that graced his face. She would see him and be disappointed. Could she have ever imagined such a sharp, bony thing, such as he? He walked away from the mirror, his prosthetic tagging along like an unwanted guest whose company he had come to accept as a new normal. He had a harder time that day, every read through of her letter led him to imagine her disappointment when they finally did meet. It was not a good day, but he trudged along anyway, determined to have the meeting despite whatever disaster would meet him. He would see her, that would have to be good enough for him (And so he continued to tell himself again and again).

Then there were the other five words. The five words he had longed to hear since coming to the facility. On a humid day in May, he heard the words: Here are your discharge papers. Roger stared at them for a good ten minutes in disbelief, even though it had been hinted that this was coming. He had been a star patient, he had been told, more determined than many younger men they had seen, another had told him. Whatever he had done, he was just glad he had done it. Walking was still rather uncomfortable if he did so for long lengths of time, and he still sighed in relief as he took the prosthetic off for the day, but he could do all the physical things that were asked of him. He would never look quite normal when he walked, and sitting down was a slower process than before but he could do both and so that was that.

When he first came, it had been hinted that he might have combat fatigue, but since they felt that all he needed was rest, and since he had gotten more rest than more combat soldiers would get on the front lines, and had been showing great 'progress' in that area, he was discharged without further treatment for that particular thing. Perhaps he still had nightmares, but they didn't cause him to wake up screaming like they did some of the others, and perhaps he did nearly jump out of his skin a time or two when a metal tray was bumped and rattled, but he was doing better than most with this, so he didn't think that it was really noticed.

He blinked in the sunlight pouring through the train station. It was strange to be doing something that he wanted to do. There was no superior officer to give him orders, no doctor or nurse to tell him how long he had to do this or that, he was the master of his own steps for the first time in years, and he almost didn't know what to do with the freedom-almost. Right at this moment, his mission was clear. He was going to see Belle. His papers told the ticket lady that his travel was essential, his uniform confirmed the notes on the paper and his cane explained why he was by himself instead of with a group of soldiers heading off to go fight. There were no questions or confused looks from those who worked there, his ticket was stamped and he stepped (or hobbled, or limped, or whatever the correct adjective was-for it was still a very unnatural sort of mobility) onto the train with lingering butterflies over thoughts of where this journey would end.

Hours on the train helped quell any butterflies he had, it would seem. The area where the sock and prosthetic met, itched with the warmth that permeated the car. He sat straight, the tension in his prosthetic having been set on the correct one, yet comfort was not something that could be boasted. Part of him longed to take the thing off and try to bear through the long hours more comfortably, but he would not draw undue attention to himself or frighten the youngest passengers on the car-nor could even do it on his own in a railcar anyway. They had taught him how to take it off, himself, but he would always be at his bed, not having to worry about going anywhere. The process of taking it on and off could never be done publicly, as it meant his pants must be off. There was nothing for it but to keep his prosthetic on for the whole of each train trip-the sweat, the itch, and the discomfort would have to be endured. He was aware of this in theory before he bought the ticket, but as hour number three came and went, he was beginning to realize just what it meant.

A transfer was made on the edge of Texas to go to Chicago, before transferring for his last leg towards the east coast. It was still the middle of the day when he transferred to Chicago and the beginning of his real test of endurance began.

The test officially began by him going down the steps to exit the train. A step was a more appropriate word. It was a simple wooden stool slapped down in front of the door as a way to be helped down. There was no rail for him to hold, he was not a girl with high heels to be gallantly helped down. He was a man-just a broken one and he prayed with every ounce of his being that he make the step without capsizing. He had practiced stepping up and stepping down from many different ledges as part of his therapy, yet putting such things into real world practice seemed to tempt disaster. He succeeded and carried on as if he had not just gained some hurdle, grinning inwardly.

He glanced at the time-an hour's wait, and went to the newspaper stand to get a paper to entertain him on the long trek. A lunch was bought and quickly eaten before he was to get on the next train. It was at this station, walking from the little newspaper stand to his seat to wait that he got his first whispered comment.

'Hey momma, why does that man walk so funny?' It was a small boy of four or five. He had wispy blonde hair and freckles that could be seen from a mile away. There was no malice in the boy's face, but the mother pulled on the boy's arm and shushed him promptly. She gave the boy no explanation, only darted her eyes towards Roger a time or two and looked away quickly as if embarrassed-either to look at him or (or possibly both) over what her son had said. Roger looked down at the hand on the cane, careful to watch his steps, wishing he could make the way he walked less 'funny'. He thought he had gotten his gait to where it looked just like any man who would walk with a limp-perhaps not. Perhaps he had been fooling himself that he could ever enter into the world and be able to walk in it as anyone else did.

Now he was hyper aware of every look or stare. He wasn't angry, he was just embarrassed. He had always hated attention to himself and it seemed that he was now a target for every off handed look.

He would not be the only one with such an injury, unfortunately. The war was taking the arms and legs of many a man, and he assumed there would be many like him as time went on. It didn't make the right here, right now feel any better, though.

The step up seemed easier than the step down, and he was once again uncomfortably situated on the seat and surrounded by strangers, some beside and some facing him. This time he seemed to be the interloper in a traveling family group. The eldest among them, a man seemingly over seventy who was also sporting a cane not unlike his own (That he had this in common with the elderly was not something that he wanted to think about at the moment), seemed to be in a very chatty mood.

'Where ya headed, young soldier?'

Roger almost smiled at being proclaimed young, and took a second to process his words as his Texas drawl was very strong.

'The East Coast, sir.' The man's bushy eyebrows went up at his own accent and the lady and the children around him (all upper teens, he would imagine, the boy among the party too young to fight) all seemed to perk up at the sound of his voice.

'You ain't from around here-What country would that be then, if you don't mind me askin'?'

His tone was kind, and though Roger wouldn't mind being left alone, he decided that it would be an even longer trip if he was actually rude, so he tried to answer with the same sort of friendly tone.

'I am from Scotland, sir.'

'But you're wearing an Army uniform.' The boy piped up, now thoroughly curious.

Roger gave a small smile. 'Aye, I am. Some years back I became a US citizen.'

'And you just came back from the great war? Where were you stationed? Why are you here now? Were you wounded-I'm guessing from the cane you were wounded.'

'Henry!' The older girl, probably seventeen or eighteen, shrieked and nudged her younger brother with her elbow, shaking her head and looking as if she were ready for the seat to go ahead and swallow her whole.

'I'm sorry sir-my brother shouldn't pry.' She spoke with flaming cheeks.

'You don't got to answer that if ya don't wanna.' The older man put in.

Roger's chest hurt with nerves. The war, the injury, all that pain and loss passed suddenly through his mind and he rubbed his head as if the thoughts could be erased by such a motion.

'It's alright.' He attempted, seeing natural curiosity for what it was and being very much reminded of another curious young man who he would never get to chat with again. His eyes were almost such a color as Cassidy's and perhaps that's what made him have a sudden urge to answer him.

'I-I don't mind answering. I was in Europe-Italy for a good chunk of it, and then lost my leg from a German's tank. Thus my little tour of Europe was cut short and why I had to come to Texas.' He tried to give another small smile though even giving that vague answer felt exhausting.

The older girl's hazel eyes seemed to be even more curious now than her brother. You could tell that there were now a million questions she was dying to ask but thought herself too 'grown' and 'mature' to ask them. Her eyes looked sorry for him-it was that look of pity that he knew was coming from Belle and he cringed away from it, shifting only slightly in his seat-any more and he would make himself even more uncomfortable.

'Wars a terrible thing.' The older man sighed. 'I was too old already to fight in the last one, but I had a son that did-horrible thing, a horrible thing. Never truly recovered, I don't think-never was the same young man who went off to war.' The old man's eyes were glazed over, staring at the back of Roger's seat. The lady beside him shifted uncomfortably and rung her hands together. 'My husband.' she whispered as a way of explanation towards Roger. A moment's observation of the atmosphere of the family around him told the story. The man never recovered, and the man was now dead and gone. Whether he merely wilted away or took his own life was not a question he would ever ask, but he did wonder it all the same.

'So where are you going now, if I may ask, sir?' The girl asked, her attempts to keep the conversation with him going seemed to be her goal as well as shifting the tension that had built up in the little area where they sat.

'A little town in Maine.'

'What's in Maine?' The boy blurted, his face wrinkling in a way that said 'why would anyone do that?' Another nudge in his side by his older sister sent him wriggling in his seat.

This was another conversation he did not want to have.

'A friend.' He simply said and the rest of the family, even if the boy did not, seemed to sense that he wished for a little quiet. Henry was quieted, and the clacking of the wheels eventually sent most of them into slumber. Roger looked out the window for a while, too many worries and thoughts he had already thought he had given too much attention already, were now pulled out and thought through once more.

The family left at one of the stops and thankfully the next neighbors were a little less curious.

Hour after almost unbearable hour passed in this way. He knew he ought to try to sleep, but the feeling of the prosthetic rubbing against the nub of his leg was too much for him. His back now ached from sitting up straight for so long, and his newspaper had now been read through, every article given every second of time and contemplation possible. Yet, the hours continued on.

Author's Note 2:

History Stuff:

Train travel in the us for passengers was dying out by the 1940s, it would almost be a thing of the past by the 1950s, and it wouldn't be until Amtrak began in the 1970s that interest would come back for train travel (though still not as popular as travel by bus or plane. However, I felt like Roger would have taken this route, due to how far he needed to go, and him being a former military man. Because he was one, he would have been given a special paper to allow him 'unnecessary' travel that was limited by the government to save on fuel and needed space for soldiers to go from one place to another before being going overseas to fight.

I looked up transfer areas and rail maps to get an idea on where he would have gone and stopped. I've visited a train museum that has a replica station and passenger rail car from this era that I based this on, however, I know little else outside of my research and visit, and there's a good chance (as always) that I got something wrong here. And just like usual, I ask for your forgiveness for any errors, and you are welcome to let me know anything that might could be fixed
.
It is stated that the older man's son fought in WW1 and suffered from PTSD. PTSD became more well known when men came back from this ww1, (called Battle Fatigue) but the therapy used was in its infant stages and people still didn't understand everything about it.

Story stuff:
The boy and girl here are Henry and Emma and based upon their characters in OUAT, however, they are obviously brother and sister here. I mostly just used them as fluff, lol! (also wanted to get how Roger is learning how to interact with the outside world, also explore how he would react to a reminder of Cassidy and his curiosity. This is character building, but not super essential to the overall plot :) )

I apologize for no letters and no Belle POV, but this 'felt right'. I also apologize for the later upload (I've been doing an upload every other day), but I've been insanely busy.
Next chapter should have them meeting-as long as the story doesn't get away from me too much! lol no more than 2 chapters, either way!

Thank you for reading, and I would love to hear what you think about this chapter/story!

Chicago was an insanely busy place, people crawling around the station like ants in a nest that had been stirred by a boy's stick. He had decided to rent a room for the night and try to rest, his leg giving him great pain against the prosthetic. He had asked for a cab and found himself in a small hotel room and sighing as he finally pulled the fiend off his leg and put it to the side of the bed along with his cane. It was an ugly thing, the leftover bit of leg. It had scars around it where the explosion had marred it. The skin looked as if it had been pulled tight against the nub and pleated and wrinkled around an incision that at least had been healed even if it still was not pleasant to look at. He walked funny, he talked funny, and he looked funny. He was a sideshow freak, really-why would Belle want anything to do with someone like him, anyway? He gave a depreciating sigh and rolled over in scratchy sheets and tried to get some sleep before starting his last trek (the longest one, he might add-how was he to bear such a thing when his leg was screaming at him this night?) to Maine and facing both his greatest joy and fear on the morrow.