Fandom: Homeland
Title: "Watching"
Characters: Nick Brody
Description: It's in those moments that she watches.
Word Count: 844
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Homeland is a Showtime production developed by Howard Gordon and Alex Gansa, based on the Israeli series Prisoners of War created by Gideon Raff. The characters and all other creative elements derived from the source material belong exclusively to the show's rightful owners. No copyright infringement is intended and no financial gain is sought by this fan fiction.
Spoilers: Episode 1 – "Pilot"

He has a meeting later tonight with some people from the press, but for now he's watching TV. Staring at it, really. His body is taught, his gaze is fixed straight ahead, his arms are folded at his sides… he's motionless except for his eyes. As deep as they are sharp, they dart around out of sync with the talking images flashing across the screen.

It's in these moments that she watches. She's always watching, really… observing and worrying. She realizes that eight years is a long time and there is so much she doesn't know… that she will never know. She can't fathom what horrors he experienced, what images plague his mind… what memories haunt him. But she knows that he's thinking about them and reliving them: untold acts of brutality. Torture and madness. Violence and war. Human cruelty at its purist. If she looks closely enough, she can just make out the faintest movement of his lips. He's talking to himself, working out the details of what they said and what he said. What he should have said.

It touches something in her to see her man there, that way. Sure, he swears he's here 100 percent, that's he's left it all over there and that now he's home. But she knows better.

After a while she draws closer. He jumps at the sound of his name.

"Sorry," she apologizes, "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"No," he says, shaking his head; he quickly wipes the sweat from his brow. "What is it?"

"Did you want a beer?" she asks.

He sighs gently, lets slip a gentle smile.

"No… no thank you," he answers.

"Lemonade?" she offers. He thinks a moment.

"That would be nice," he says. She smiles and nods and turns towards the kitchen, but then stops. She has to seize this moment.

"This may sound like a weird question, but… where were you a week ago today?" she asks. "What was your life like?"

After a long pause, he turns to her, his face calm and warm; he smiles brightly and places a hand on hers that is resting on the couch. "I'm fine," he answers. "Don't worry about me."

She must content herself with that answer for now. She accepts it with a nervous nod and a broken smile, and then walks off to fetch the lemonade. But in her mind, she can't help but wonder what horrors he's protecting them from.

He has a meeting to go to at 19:00, where the military's spin machine is going to review the key talking points for his interview tomorrow with Anderson Cooper. In the meantime, he's watching TV. Staring at it, really. His body is taught, his gaze fixed straight ahead, his arms folded at his sides… motionless except for his eyes. Even in the gritty receiver, she manages to see they dart around, fully ignoring the images flashing across the screen.

It's in these moments that she watches. She's always watching, really, observing and surveying. Eight years is an eternity in POW years, and there is so much she doesn't know… that she has to know. She can't fathom what horrors he's committed, what treachery plague his mind… what atrocities haunt him. But she knows that he's thinking about them, reliving them: untold acts of brutality. Torture and madness. Violence and war. Human cruelty at its purist. If she looks closely enough, she can just make out the faintest movement of his lips. He's talking to himself, working out the details of his story, rehearsing his lies… composing what he will say.

What he should have said.

It agitates something in her to see that man there, that way. Oh, he insists that he's a patriot, that he knows where the lines are drawn: that the enemy territory is over there and in the past, and that he here now, in the homeland.

But she knows better.

After a while she watches as his wife draws closer. He visibly jumps at the sound of his name.

"Sorry," she apologizes, "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"No," he says, shaking his head and quickly wipes the sweat from his brow. "What was it?"

"Did you want a beer?" she asks.

A moment passes before he answers.

"No… no thank you."

"Lemonade?" she offers, and then a pause.

"That would be nice," he says. She smiles and nods and turns towards the kitchen, but then stops.

"This may sound like a weird question, but… where were you a week ago today?" she asks. "What was your life like?"

He closes his eyes and sets his jaw. But when he turns to her, his face is tranquil and calculated; he smiles brightly and places a hand on hers that is resting on the couch. "I'm fine," he answers. "Don't worry about me."

His wife answers with a nod and smile, and then walks off to fetch the lemonade. But from here, sitting behind the monitors miles and miles away, she can't help but wonder what horrors he's hiding from them.

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