For this story, especially when it's Fitz-centered I'm taking liberties. I'm not a doctor, and I'm not a therapist but I hope I stayed as close to reality as possible. This is kind of long, kind of deep, but I tried to make the ending worth it, the beginning of a path towards the light, you'll see what I mean, at least I hope. This chapter is making me nervous but hopefully you'll like it ( and I sound creepy but you get my point, right?)

Day one:

"Breathe in from your nose. Keep it in. Exhale slowly, from your mouth. Again, breathe in from your nose, slowly, keep it in. Exhale, slowly. You're safe; no one here wants to hurt you. Relax, and let it all out. Get the tension out of your muscles; let it all go. You're fine, you're safe, we're looking after you, you're safe; no one will be hurting you. Don't forget to breathe, and breathe correctly. Yes, that's it; you're doing great." The therapist says, a soft voice never fading, the voice soothing yet commanding, giving him a feeling of security as the baritone's wrapping him up like a cradled baby. He was put under his old friend's care. It was supposed to make it better, in a way it is.

He's sitting on a leather chair, looking straight forward, his lungs obeying the orders on their own, independently, like they're detached from the rest of his body. It feels oddly good; the feeling of actually breathing again, he can feel the cool air brushing against his nostrils, filling his lungs, reaching every inch of his veins, spreading through his body, fusing to his blood.

He feels alive, actually alive.

His senses are heightened. Reaching levels he hasn't felt like in forever. It feels good. Too good. And he's not supposed to be feeling this. Everybody's looking at him like he's some hero but truth is, he's not. It's the farthest from the truth. He feels like a coward, he feels like he failed but he's dignified as a hero. Wearing a crown he doesn't deserve and it's weighing on him. Crushing him. Bringing him deeper, further towards his cell until he can't see the light anymore. Darkness is sacred king. He should be glad to be alive, he should be counting every day he's blessed to be alive. Only, he doesn't feel this way. That's not how a man who's watched death in the eyes several times thinks, it's not how a man who's seen tortured, pleading eyes thinks. It's fear eating his bones, his soul- owning him, dictating his every movement; until it gets to his brain, proclaim itself sole owner of him. Deep down, he knows he's not supposed to be breathing; he's not supposed to be alive. He shouldn't have the luxury of living. He should have died.

It's like flashes hitting his brain- mercilessly, fighting for his undivided attention and it's a few seconds before they disappear, images of his friends dying before his own eyes, he should have done something, he should have never agreed to taking them there; they had gone a little over their prescribed borders, he should have seen the men coming, he should have known, he should have done something, react faster, yell at them to obey him. But he didn't. And now, one died on the spot, the other's body gave up weeks or months later. He's not sure, he can't tell. He had lost timing references. He wanted to survive. He needed to survive. And now, he's blaming his survival instincts.

Then, the torture stops, his vision focusing again- he's reading some honorary lines on a diploma. It comes back to him- where he is. How grateful he should be to be back. But will he ever be able to forgive himself?

"Whatever happened on the field, it wasn't your fault." The therapist says, as if reading his mind. As if he could see what his brain is displaying- secrets unveiled.

Of course it was. Had he acted differently, two lives would have been spared. It was his fault. There's no one else to blame but him.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he says- through clenched teeth, trying to keep himself in check, trying not to lose himself, his control,- for the first time during the entire session, looking at the man straight in the eyes, from above the glasses he's wearing. His head is dizzy, his focus is slipping away -fast, breathing uneven, eyes wide open and he tears them from him, like they're going to give him away. "No one knows. No one knows." He whispers, like a secret he's reminding himself of. A prayer on repeat. A weight on his conscience. Guilt.

"I don't," the therapist concedes, "but I'm here, so tell me. You're not doing anyone any favors staying like this. You can overcome this, you know you want to."

"I can't talk about it." He shouts. He didn't mean to; it's like losing control of his own doings, his body committing the ultimate treason. Giving him away. He looks around the room, searching, trying to find some comfort, seeking for something familiar, something to soothe the growing panic rising in his chest, feeding on his lungs, "I'm not ready to talk about it. That….What happened there…. It's just… I just… I don't have the words to talk about it. I can't. I don't want to talk about it," he shakes his head, trying to get rid of memories that are eating him alive.

The therapist looks at him for a while, undisturbed, his features keeping whatever he's thinking away from him and it's frustrating, he feels like he's under a microscope. Put under scrutiny. All the lights set on him. Finally, the older man makes his way to his desk, takes a plastic evidence bag from which he retrieves some papers, he puts them on the table, in front of him. "You know who they are?"

For a second, his eyes soften. Of course he knows who they are; she's so beautiful, so tender, so loving, and their son is the sweetest baby he's ever laid eyes on.

And he doesn't deserve them.

When he saw her enter that room, he couldn't even look at her. He did not deserve her. She had plagued his mind, weighed so much on it he wasn't sure neither what to do nor to say.

He could feel her, even from outside the door; he wanted to reach for her. Badly. Desperately. But he didn't know where they stood, was she with someone else? How long had he been away? Was it too late? As fucked up as he was, would she let him near Ryan one last time? If only to say goodbye to his son? He wouldn't harm him, he couldn't harm him…

When she entered the room, he kept his gaze on the table, still refusing to look her in the eyes and see some other man's effect on her. That, he couldn't stand. Emotional torture is the worse. But he could hear her calling for him- no, screaming his name until his ears begged him to do something. Anything. He needed to distance himself from her; he needed- no he had to be cold towards her, if he could make her believe he had changed, that things had spiraled down to the point of no return, that their love was shattered, that he didn't for one minute –one second think of her, that he didn't care, maybe it would make things easier for her, that he was so messed up he couldn't love her anymore, maybe it would make her feel a little better about herself. Assuage her guilt. Allow her to move on. Burry her feelings for him once and for all. He could bear a little more pain. For her, he would do anything. Give up anything. Even if it meant sinking further down his hellhole.

When he looked up, it was misplaced relief and guilt washing over him. He felt so guilty; he couldn't bear seeing her that way- so hurt, so pained, so heartbroken. Her eyes were as shattered as his soul was. She didn't look at him like she pitied him. No, she looked at him like deep down- where eyes can't reach, she could see him, truly see him like no one else could; and she was relieved, she was happy. Souls communicating. But things had changed, they weren't the perfect portrait of happiness they used to be, spots tarnished the frame, the picture, their lives, a reminder of what the situation truly looked like now. Love is bittersweet. When their eyes met, he didn't let his guard down, a little voice devilishly whispering to his subconscious, he looked as her eyes widened in shock before she quickly recovered. He still can't make sense of it. He could let her go, wasn't that what she wanted?

When she made her way towards him, slowly, carefully, he noticed the gigantic space between them, like they both were on two different universes, out of sync, letting the cold in, the obnoxious feeling gnawing on every available surface of his body. Imposing itself like a home. Only he doesn't want that, he had prayed over and over for a miracle, for a way back home, to see his family even if one more time before releasing his last breath. Before letting life go, switching his soul off.

Home. The house he had built from the ground up for them, he recalls the first time he's shown it to her, when he'd sworn that nothing would ever come between them, he had promised her he'd keep the stars shinning so bright and they'd look at them, even if there were oceans, seas and continents separating them, because one thought is worth a thousand words.

A shining diamond, like a fallen star catches his eyes, tugs at his heart. He could have recognized those rings amongst a million others. He had chosen them. A way of claiming her as his. His heart is beating fast, thundering against his chest, against his temples, against his digits, his brain working so fast, he stands up, makes his way towards her, eyes barely containing the nearly overspill of tears.

Livie…

But he doesn't utter a sound; it's more like a mental, desperate plea.

She had waited for him; she had believed in him, she had suffered for him. He keeps walking- something deep inside him pulling him to her like a magnet, forcing his legs to move - nearly striding towards her, he's split; deep down he's torn. Should he take her in his arms, should he kiss her, should he talk? He doesn't know… He doesn't even know what to say, where to begin. It feels like an invisible broken bridge is separating them. He can feel the nurse behind him standing up, probably awaiting for the opportunity to inject more of whatever she had already given him. He watches as she closes her eyes, and doesn't open them. If she afraid of him? The thought petrifies him. There are so many things he wants to do. He misses the feeling of her skin beneath his digits, the smoothness as he runs his fingers over her cheeks, lips, hips, every curve of her body.

His hand flies up almost on its own, resting on her cheek- a simple touch but it gives him so much, let so much hope in. Opens up a window towards tenderness he made sure to keep closed. She's the only one who could bring him to his knees. Tear him apart. Destroy him. She opens her eyes, and he's lost in her; it's pain choking his heart so hard he can hardly breathe. For the first time he can really see it- the twisting pain ravaging her eyes is bewildering. It's your fault. You did that to her. The words echo in his head like blasting music. She should have moved on, she should have found someone who can actually make her happy, erase any trace of pain he's caused. He should see her smile, watch as flickers of happiness ignite the living fire in her eyes, and make them look so alive it's mesmerizing. But all that's left is hollow sadness, and it had his fingerprints all over it. A dull, stabbing reminder of what's he's done. Then there's hope; small, actually barely visible but it's there, he can feel the strings pulling them closer, relaxing his mind, soothing his fears, taking away his burdens. His heart beating normally, once again, his veins thanking him for actually providing some happiness within his bloodstream as heat warms up his body. Color rushing back to his face. He wants to cry from sheer happiness, for the first time in years.

Then it's a touch, feathery light, and instead of his wife, all his can see is the lifeless body in front of him. He's back on the battlefield. It's fear freezing his bones, preventing any reaction, any movement. The setting is shaky, his ears are ringing, and he's lost. There's dust everywhere, tiny particles flying to his throat, making it a struggle to breathe, his tongue is so dry, his vision almost blurry as he sees the body flying to rest next to him, manly fingers brushing against his arm, lifeless eyes starring accusingly at him, wide-open and terrified. His heart starts up again, a frenzy moving his entire system. His lungs hardly breathing, his brain protesting against the lack of oxygen. It feels like he's been fooled into thinking he could be fine for more than a minute.

"No, no. Please, no." he couldn't take any more of the vivid dreams. It felt like the last lifeline keeping him to sanity was giving up on him, slowly ripping. Something hard hits the back of his head, knocking him unconscious.

"….Mr. Grant? Fitz? Are you still here?"

Just like that, just like pushing back a button, the setting changes once again. No, there's no battlefield just like there's no interrogation room and there's no wife. Like there's no release. The inner voice laughing hysterically, pointing fingers at him. His ears start functioning normally again, although it felt like they were never failing him. He shakes his head, like he's shaking the thoughts, clearing his mind. Fighting his way towards sanity.

"Yes, yes I'm here, I'm fine."

"You're not fine."

"There's nothing to talk about. I said I'm fine. Drop it," shouting again, beads of sweat forming on his forehead, eyes somewhat discreetly looking left and right, looking for the hidden trap.

The therapist looks at him quizzically, he knows not to push, he can only try so much to have him re-live what happened to him but he can't force his brain to remember things he's keeping buried, it would cause more harm than good. "Do you like to write?" the therapist asks suddenly.

He looks at the man like he's just spoken a foreign language; like he's spoken in a code he can't make sense of, "what?"

"If you're not ready to talk about it, you can try writing it down, as vivid as it comes to you, write about any and everything." When he laughs, the therapist continues, "It's more helpful than it can seem. Here take these, retracing memories back whether through talking or writing can help you more than you imagine, help you move on," he hands him a little notebook and a pen.

Day two:

He keeps staring at the blank page he hasn't touched since the day before. He takes the pen again, for the tenth time today. He wants to write, he knows he needs to but it would be giving life to memories, more like movies that are still battling for his attention. His eyes graze the wall in front of him, meeting the pictures he's put there, the pictures that saved him, that kept him sane.

Today, he's been able to talk to Henry, the therapist, mostly because he was bone tired. He couldn't close an eye without shaking, flying out of his bed. His mind needing, craving a release, seeking a listening ear. He was afraid of being judged, of people being disgusted at him. Henry didn't utter a word, only nodding periodically when he looked at him, seeking a reaction. He looks at the brown eyes fixing at him, although they're frozen in time, they seem like they're begging him. Begging him to get better, for them. For their family.

The burning memory of her driving him to the airport rises to the surface.

They had barely slept through the night. Instead, they had spent the entire night giving in the burning desire that had their bodies set on fire. Both needing the physical proximity. It was his last mission, last deployment, a few more months of distance, of uncertainty and fear, and they would be done. He would take in a teaching position at a college, teach his undying love for the law, and they would start trying for another baby. Ryan would be around half way to turning three. It would be the perfect timing. He enjoys the feeling of her body next to his, gripping him as tightly as she can, and he reciprocates the gesture, needing her as much as she does him. Relishing the heat radiating from her body. When she turns to kiss his Adam's apple, he tucks her head beneath his chin, kissing the crown of her head, his free arm making its way around her body, his fingers latching to her side as he presses her against his chest, against the heart she owns.

He feels a few droplets land on his skin and quickly dries her tears, "please, Livie, don't cry," he pleads and tightens the protective walls of his hands around her, reminder her that she'll be fine, they'll be fine.

"I promise I'm fine, we will be fine. I just expected your last deployment to actually be the last. You know with Ryan now…"

"They need me," he sighs, he loves his country so much he didn't think twice before enrolling in the Navy, he did it because he loved it, it was a noble cause, and he could help. He didn't have anyone else at the time, obviously things had changed, but he still wanted to go for it. One last time. "This is the last one, I promise. In six months, I'll be back; it will all just be a bad dream. It will be done and over with. I'll apply for a teaching position and we'll work on getting you pregnant again." He kisses her- a stamp to seal his promises. "I'll always come back to you." The soothing promise rocking her to sleep, fueling her dreams.

A few hours later, after they were done having lunch with their families, they're at the airport; he takes his son in his arms, kissing his forehead and chubby cheeks, inhaling his sweet scent one last time, brings him against his chest, it lingers for a moment before he reaches for his wife, holding his family one last time until he gets back. It's only six months.

"Please, please, be careful." She pleads. She's putting on a strong face, failing miserably in the process, furiously blinking as not to let any tears escape. There will be plenty occasions to give in to crying her heart out.

"Always. I'll see you in six months. Livie, I promise, I'll come back." He smiles at her, giving her all she needs to believe him. He'll be back. Time will fly by. He hopes.

"Ryan, say bye to daddy," she says as she turns her attention to the baby on her hip. The little boy reaches for his father, landing a loud wet kiss on his cheek, "Bye, daddy!" he smiles, displaying all his teeth. Oblivious to the situation. Innocence.

Livie, I promise, I'll come back.

He had promised her. He had promised them. He had failed and now he owes it to them, to his family to get his life back together.

He grasps the pen, opens the blank page that's been staring at him, almost accusingly, forcing him to do something, to act, be man enough –whatever that means - to lay his most painful thoughts on the soft surface. He closes his eyes tightly as yelling, gunfire and bombing goes off in the back of his mind, and it goes on, on repeat. Again and again. His grip tightens, to a point where he's almost breaking the pen and starts writing. Letting the demons out.

Day three:

It goes back again, again, again. Daytime spent with the therapist, at night, his brain replaying his memories, some are clear others are blurry and some he still can't access. Locked down, somewhere, probably for the better. He still looks at the pictures- daily, remembers her visits even if they don't need much talking. Her mere presence is the best medicine. He's doing it for a reason- he owes it to himself, to his family. A reminder that's actually music to his ears, a rope bringing him slowly but surely towards the blinking, barely but still there light.

He's back on his chair, talking is easier, way easier although he could do better, now that he somewhat opened up, more like a crack. It might be just words, but knowing that the facts are out there, in the open, for anyone to see, to read, to hear, it feels liberating in the daytime. Night is like a nightmare, a vengeance. It's still somewhat hard, the memories as vivid as if some events had just happened but with Henry, the therapist, they've been working on making him talk more, get him to open up, retracing the events that took place right after the bombing and the shootings, then they switch on to some recordings, videos of laughter and joy, happiness as bright as the sun.

At night, when he's tired enough to let his eyes closed, it comes back.

He's shaking. He's shocked. He can't move fast enough, in fact he can't move at all. A cloud of dust weighing over their heads. One man died on the spot, Tyron, pushing him out of the way, behind the security of a rock, hiding him, he was young and so promising. It all happened in mere seconds, too fast for his brain to register anything. They had been exchanging small talk, barely audible whispers really. It still gave them away. It's like treason. He feels like a traitor.

The other one, Michael, was near his age, an eternal solitary who gave his whole life away for his country. Patriotic. He can't remember how but the farthest his memory goes back to is almost a year later. He found himself in a village, unstable and constantly under attack. Every few days, when the inhabitants would come back soon after that soldiers would follow up, heavily armed, shooting without a care in the world. At one point it became unbearable. He was famished, injured from his multiple attempts at staying alive. One bullet claiming his leg as a home.

Ahmed. He remember the old man that saved his life, took him in like his own son, nursed him back to health. He had found him as his brain was giving up on him, nearly knocked out from heavy bleeding. He had woken up a few days later, under the shelter of a tent, a makeshift made protecting him. Ahmed had taught him tricks to survive, gave him weapons and fed him. God, the food was heaven on his tongue. Actual food, a mix of spicy flavors. Like any sent God-sent angel, he had died as well, one day as they were headed at a meeting point where they could exchange whatever they had against food. Ahmed knew where to access fresh water. He was to come back to his wife, Zahra, a sweet woman Ahmed sung praises about day and night. Because of him he would never see her again. Because of him, there was a widow and three orphans.

Then it's peach black.

He clutches his head with his arms, willing his head to focus, his face twisting in pain, he grunts, memory land resisting him, refusing to grant more access. He's tired. He can feel desperate, annoyed wetness gathering at his eyes, a headache forming.

"Don't force too much. The brain is an intelligent part of the body. It's only your third session. You're doing amazing. You've opened up so much; you're starting to talk about it much easier. I just need you to take it easy at night. Keep on writing but you need your rest; I'll give you these. They'll help you sleep when you need it. Peaceful rest if the key. Your brain, your body will be thanking you," Henry says, his features a lot more confident as he sees how many pages are swimming in ink.

Day four:

It's a movie on the flat screen. A baby standing on wobbly legs, hands stretched out as he's trying to find some equilibrium to support his chubby legs. It's a voice screaming, supporting the baby, the voice he fell madly in love with.

Instinctively, his fingers play with his band, the beginning of a smile forming on his lips.

"Come on baby, you can do it! Come to mommy," she's standing a few steps away from the baby, arms outstretched; an attempt to get Ryan to come to her.

The baby seemingly jumps up and down without his legs actually leaving the ground, clutching the nearby couch so hard his little hands turn white. He's smiling, grinning, babbling in a baby language, cheering with his mother.

"Come on Ryan, go to mommy," he says, still holding the camera, trying to get the clearest video despite the emotions playing, the excitement diffusing in his veins. "you can do it little man, go to mommy," he cheers.

The little brows frown, the baby focusing on getting his small body under control, getting his little feet under his command. He takes a tiny step forward, his parents' encouragements somewhat in the back of his mind, he's looking in front of him, seeing his mother's teary eyes, bright smile, the familiar cocoon completely open for him to step in between. Baby feet speed forward, nearly losing his balance as he lands against her bosom.

The baby is hugged, loud cheers showering him with attention and the bright smile showing the few tiny teeth.

Pride, joy, happiness. That's what life should about.

"I want to go home," he replies, looking the therapist straight in the eyes, "I want to be with my family." he's trying to reach to his friend, not the professional.

"And you will," a soft feminine voice speaks form the entrance, she breaks eye contact for a second, wordlessly asking if it's ok for her to come in, Henry nods and she steps in, closing the distance between them until she sits on the other end of the couch.

He's craving her proximity, her closeness, he wants her –no, needs her in his arms. And she's looking at him, like she's seeking, requesting permission. Needs are the same. The connection stronger. He can't resist her if he tried. As undeserving as he might still feel, his blood is boiling, urging his fingertips to reach for her. An open palm offered in the middle, between their bodies. She takes it, tightening her hold on him. Strengthening the once fading lifeline. The beginning of a shy sunray.

Olivia – day three- therapist office:

"How is he doing?" she asks, nervous. Days have been hectic, they seem like an eternity and she's ready to take him home, still believing he should be with his family; that familiarity is the best form of therapy.

"He's doing great, there are still a few issues but he's made an incredible progress." Henry responds, always the professional figure. "Tomorrow I'm planning on showing him some videos, coaxing his mind towards some happy memories, yesterday was particularly heavy on him."

"Is he ready to come home?"

"I feel like he'll ask for it. Actually I'm willing to take bets on it. Very soon if not tomorrow. He's writing more and more about you and your son. Smiling unconsciously when happy memories cross his mind. It's actually the only times he's genuinely happy. Come by at the end of the session. I'm sure he'll want to come home. His time here is definitely done."

She gets home and it's late, a habit that took place for the past few days. She relieves the babysitter, bidding her goodnight. She makes her way upstairs, to the little boy's room. He's sleeping soundly, completely oblivious to any problems. No cloud above his dreams. All she can see is her husband through her son's features. A carbon copy. She sits on the edge of the space-themed comforter, running the tips of her fingers gently, in soothing patterns though his hair, slowly waking him, "Baby, wake up."

Sleepy blue eyes fix her, confused, "mommy?"

"Hi, baby. Come here," she opens her arms for him, bringing him, cradling him like she used to do when he was younger and it was his bedtime, she runs her hands gently on his back, a source of comfort, "do you remember what mommy told you about daddy?" he takes a moment to remember, digging in his memories then nods somewhat sadly, "Daddy is back, honey."

He looks at her, wide eyes staring at her. Hope shining in his eyes. A smile spreading, lifting his cheeks. He looks at his bedroom door expectantly, as if he's waiting for his father to show up and take him in his arms. So overdue moment.

"He's not at home right now," she clarifies and he pouts, she'd give anything to have her husband home at that exact moment but it's only hours ticking this time around. Soon, very soon. It will be over. As long as he's back home, they can take anything, together they're invincible. Bulletproof. Heartache-proof. Sadness-proof. "I promise tomorrow night he'll be here."

The smile appearing is the best gift she could ask for.

"Mommy, can I come with you?"

She wants to say yes, because she can't refuse him anything. Not anymore. "You'll have to stay with grandma, but before you'll know it, daddy is going to be here. With us."

The ride home is somewhat awkward, but not exactly. Fingers are intertwined, refusing to let go of each other, holding tight. A dream finally come true. A gift straight from the heavens. When they get home, the toddler is spread out sleeping in the back seat, they found him fast asleep at her parents' place and didn't have the heart to wake him. She wants to wake him, but he refuses, he carries his son inside, taking him upstairs to tuck him in. When he reaches the top of the stairs, he kisses the toddler's forehead. She smiles at the sight. A taste of normalcy. Of what things used to be. She knows that in no time, love will overcome anything.

She's already done with her night routine, walks to the bedroom, expecting him to already be in bed but he's nowhere to be found. She takes a clean pajama set and lays in on the bed for him. She knows exactly where to find him.

She opens Ryan's room, and he's there, as predicted, sitting on the rocking chair they used to lull him to sleep in, where she used to nurse him in as a baby. He's looking after him, watching him sleep, make sure he doesn't miss any more of his life. Any more milestone than he's already missed.

She makes her way slowly, gently as not to startle him, when she's sure he can feel her, she lays a hand on his shoulder, some support. He's not alone, he won't be anymore. She's there, and she's never letting go of him. He squeezes her hand, bringing the knuckles to his lips, laying gentle pecks on each one.

"Let's go to bed."

He nods, mostly because the day sucked the energy out of him.

They get into bed, at first each one at an opposite side, and it feels so wrong. So unlike the. Gently, they move towards the center, it looks like a rehearsed choreography. They're lying on their backs, hands grazing each other, then holding tight. A bond never to be broken again. He maneuvers his hand underneath her body, until his finger emerge on the opposite side, brings her so that she's tucked to his side, her head following the natural movement until it lands on his chest. Almost in a shy manner, the exit always a possibility, a useless possibility, for her to take her distances, he tightens his hold, her body molding perfectly against his. Pieces of a puzzle coming together again. Perfect, unmoved, un-shattered fit.

It's a sigh released in sync.

Familiar scents.

It smells like love. Like home. Home sweet home.

"I missed you, so much." The voice graces his ears like they're his favorite lyrics.

"I missed you too." My saving grace.

They cling to each other as they succumb to sleep.

Deep, real sleep. For the first time in forever.