It's been a month since you got him back, yet it doesn't feel like Keegan Russ walked through that door yet, it feels like he's still far away, in the midst of gunfire and grime whilst you pray for his safe return.

The Federation seems to be dismantled, for now, their handprints of destruction marking many lives, including yours. The man that they had dropped off at your door is still your husband, still tall, and quiet, maybe more than usual. Still handsome, his buzzcut grown out and long enough to conceal some of his scars, still gentle—but avoidant. The first week was toughest, he hardly spoke, nor did he share any of his feats. You'd managed to coax a "they got a hold of me" from him, vague but frightening.

The steady warmth in his watchful blue gaze has been replaced by a strange withdrawal, not completely gone, just veiled, travelling perhaps. You two don't share a bed anymore, the torment of his mind makes sleep hard, but on the couch his suffering is reserved for him only. Touches are shorter, kisses are seldom, it feels as if he's wading through deep murky waters, not drowning just yet, and you can only watch.

There's a hope nonetheless, an ember, that flickers brighter when he slips under the covers on a particularly good night, when he hugs you in silence for too long just to indulge in your scent, the brush of lips against your temple that says, i'm still here. Every bruise, no matter how grotesque, begins to fade, colouring his complexion darker or disappearing for good, it's a sign that life can be good again, and it will go on. Because he's still here.