Harold Lee was thinking of Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.

He didn't often speak of the-- um. Incident. When he did, he skated around it. Those he'd told parts of the story seemed to think it was funny, most of the time. Sure, some of it was. Harold had done some amazing crap along the way, and had come out the other side a different man, even if only temporarily. It had still been among the most humiliating, terrifying experiences of his life.

It was long past the time he should have told Scotty.

Harold had never found a reason or way to tell him.

Well, how do you drop that into a conversation? Harold didn't know. "And by the way love, just FYI: I was arrested, stripped of my rights, narrowly escaped mouth-rape, had to climb over a probably-dead guy to escape..."

Scotty had opened up, handed Harold the story that led him to and from that hospital in Aberdeen. It couldn't have been easy, and now Scotty's nightmare was laced with it, incorporating Harold into the imagery. It ticked over. Made Harold think that maybe he owed Scotty his own messed-up tale.

Niggling at him, the spark settling in his gut that he felt when he knew there was something he had to tell his fiance; one that wouldn't go away until he did. The incident itself was not so much what plagued Harold's mind; sure, he cringed to think on it, but it wasn't spiraling around his brain and taking over again. It was that his story, to Scotty, was incomplete. He should know.

Harold was used to ignoring it. He just-- didn't talk about it.

Two children, hiding in a closet, Scotty had said.

Time to speak up, Harold Lee.