Chapter 6

Amy knows that everyone says New York is the most wonderful at this time of the year, with the tree and the skating rink and the general sense of holiday cheer and the bustle, but London during the holidays is truly magical.

Snow covers the rooftops and dusts the streets as mothers and children bundle up to do Christmas shopping and businessmen unwind from long days in cheery pubs. There are trees and wreaths and garlands almost everywhere, and the spirit, from what she can see, is infectious. Even Ian seems happier now that he's back in his hometown.

On the drive from Heathrow, Amy's face is pressed against the window nearly the whole time as she takes in sights like the Parliament building and Big Ben, the London Eye, St. Paul's, Westminster Abbey, and so much more.

"You don't have to keep doing that," Ian says wryly as she lets out yet another gasp when they pass by Trafalgar Square, Admiral Nelson standing at attention in the middle surrounded by four lions.

"I'm sorry," Amy says giddily, "But this all so new for me!"

"Haven't you been to London before?" Ian asks. "And travelled half the world for that matter?"

Amy turns to face him. "Yes well, the last time I came here, I was too busy trying to decipher Shakespeare and not get blown up by you and about twenty other semi-murderous people."

He opens his mouth to retort, but nothing comes out, and he promptly snaps it shut.

Ian's home is a well-appointed townhouse in a charmingly-appointed part of Belgravia (and Amy's watched enough period dramas to know that Belgravia is in an excellently appointed part of London- full of important people and embassies and whatnot), and the first thing Amy sees as they enter the house is a large knocker on the door with a rather gaudy coat of arms embossed on it. It has a badger head of sorts, surrounded by leaves (olive branches?) and some obscure Latin text, with what looks to be a rat stuffed in its mouth. She's pretty sure this is not an accurate description at all, but to be fair, she can't otherwise tell what it is.

"I didn't know the Kabras had a coat of arms," Amy says, struggling to say so with a straight face.

"The house was sold to my father by the Duke of something-or-the-other- don't mock me," he says defensively as Amy bursts into laughter.

"I'm sorry," she chortles, "but this whole place is pretentious enough as it is, and then there's a coat of arms at the door- next you're going to tell me you actively enjoy caviar or only believe in loose-leaf tea like Lapsang Souchong or something-"

"-I do actually," Ian mutters as he unlocks the door to let her in.

Amy's laughter echoes throughout the house.

His house is not entirely what she expects. The ridiculous knocker and posh address should have been some giveaway, but she honestly thought he would have an apartment that's all chrome and glass and steel- a real bachelor's pad, but that's definitely not the case.

It's not, well, fussy, but it's spacious and airy, and yet warm and comfortable all while being tastefully decorated in a manner that would suggest he had hired someone, except Amy had seen his gallery, and knew that this was all him.

Her room is on the second floor, and the room is is mostly white, with splashes of color- an impressionist painting, a lamp, a folding screen. She puts her suitcase in the corner and decides to freshen up from her trip before going down.

"What do you fancy for dinner?" Ian asks as she makes her way down the stairs, "Italian? Thai?" He's perusing through what appears to be a large amount of takeout menus

"I never pictured you to be the takeout type," Amy says, sitting next to him.

"I'm a Londoner in my twenties. Of course I'm the take-away type," he replies wryly, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"I just figured you had a chef or only dined in Michelin-star restaurants or something," Amy shrugs.

"Well you just keep learning more about me, don't you?" He says, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"In that case, Thai sounds good."

The food, once it arrives, is consumed unceremoniously on the couch, as they talk about what Amy wants to do while she's in London.

She's gone into the kitchen to throw away the takeout containers when the call comes. She's honestly about to go back in, but stops short when she hears a panicked and slightly harassed note in Ian's voice, and what more, he's addressing the person on the other line in rapid French.

Once she's sure she hears an "au revoir", she hesitantly walks back in, to see Ian standing in the middle of the room, staring at the phone in his hand.

"You speak French?"

It's the only thing she can think to say, without asking the obvious question right off the bat.

Ian looks up. "I'm an Englishman. Of course I speak French," he deadpans.

She chooses to ignore the obvious irony in the statement and goes in for the kill.

"Why were you right now?"

"Erm-" He looks cautiously at her for a moment before decided to go ahead, "- some issues in our Paris stronghold."

"Oh." A pause, then- "Is that where Therese works from?"

"I- yes," he replies, almost reluctantly, looking as though he really wants this conversation to end.

"You never told me," Amy says, walking closer to him, "what did she whisper to you- at the party- when she asked you if I knew about something?"

He looks at her with something akin to mild astonishment. "You want to talk about this now," he states rather than asks.

"Yeah."

"Threats to the branch," he says.

"That's normal… isn't it?" Despite her casual questioning, somewhere inside of her, she feels the old fear returning- the familiar whispers of Grace, Irina, William, Evan echoing in her mind once more, but it's quieter. Perhaps the demons are subsiding within her, maybe due to Ian's renewed presence in her life, or maybe she's become desensitized to it after all these years… but perhaps she's finally ready to face it again.

"Not if it's coming from another branch," Ian replies to her previous question. Amy frowns.

"What do you mean?"

Something hardens in his eyes momentarily, and he's looking at her with something akin to frustration, but it's gone in a moment, as though it never happened, and wasn't a slip of his emotions.

"I can't say much more," he tells her apologetically. "You don't have code-word clearance. That's why I couldn't tell you-"

-Of course," Amy says quickly. "No problem."

Maybe it's for the best, she thinks as they clear up the living room, and shortly after, head up to their respective beds.

But the entire time, the final question lingers in her thoughts: Why did Therese Gauthier think Ian had told her information that needed code-word clearance, when she definitely didn't have it?

The rest of the week goes by in a blur, and Amy is having more fun and learning more about Ian than ever before, but one thing stands out more than the rest: During the time spend in London, she realizes that this is Ian in his natural habitat- relaxed and far more carefree.

She's always thought he lived a glamorous life, but as it turns out, his jobs (art dealer and branch leader) are the only glamorous things in his life- for all intents and purposes, he's a pretty normal guy. Of course, normality for him is a bit more opulent and gilded than for most people, including herself, but that doesn't stop him from hailing a cab, or ordering takeout every so often.

He humors her by taking her to typical tourist attractions like the London Eye ("I've never actually been inside this death trap, you know"), Buckingham Palace ("Which I have been inside on several occasions"), and on one particularly cold day, Madame Tussauds ("Don't you have one of these in New York?" "Yeah, but it's more fun here." "Dear God.").

Sure, she may be indulging her inner child, but to be fair, the last time she came here, she was a child and was dealing with far more "adult" issues (i.e. not getting killed), so she cheerfully takes Ian's whining in stride before she drags him off to the next tourist trap.

Christmas morning dawns clear and crisp, and Amy is greeted with a fresh blanket of snow enveloping everything outside when she wakes up. They had spent much of the previous evening (and well into the night) partying, but for once, a few hours of good sleep has dispelled any lingering traces of a hangover.

She decides that a day like this is not worth spending in bed a moment longer, and figures she might as well treat Ian to a proper American breakfast and favorite Christmas tradition of hers.

With that thought, Amy goes downstairs.

Ian stumbles into the kitchen thirty minutes later, freshly dressed and shaved, but somehow still looking the worse for wear.

"Merry Christmas Ian!" Amy practically sings as she stirs pancake batter.

"Yes, Happy Christmas to you too," Ian mutters, his eyes then falling on the bowl she's stirring.

"You didn't tell me you could cook," he says accusingly, as if she's been holding out on him.

"I can't," she replies matter-of-factly, "But I can make pancakes."

"Brilliant," is all he says before puttering about the kitchen making himself tea with a surprising lack of grace.

It's only after two cups of tea (loose leaf, highly caffeinated, and inordinately expensive, from what Amy can gather) that he regains his usual (somewhat) good humor.

"What are those?" He asks, eying her fuzzy socks decorated with a reindeer head and pom poms.

"Christmas socks!" She replies cheerfully, ladeling a large spoonful of batter onto the cast-iron skillet.

"You know," he comments, "I've found you to be a quite reasonable person on most days, but something tells me that you're one of those people who sickeningly adore Christmas."

"What gave it away?" She deadpans.

"The socks, mostly."

She throws her head back in laughter, and then realizes that she's about to burn the pancakes on the stove, employs some colorful swears she's picked up in New York, and then rushes to save them.

The whole time, a fond smile lingers on Ian's lips.

Afterwards, when they've consumed as many pancakes as Amy could make (Ian practically moaning in appreciation at the first bite), they're sitting around in the lounge, too full and lazy to do anything but talk.

It's then that Amy remembers once more that it's Christmas, and that she's forgotten one very important part. So she jumps up and races upstairs, Ian calling "what are you doing?" after her.

She doesn't answer, instead coming downstairs with a painstakingly-wrapped box that she hands to Ian.

"I got you something," she tells him, and he looks at her, bemused.

"Amy, you didn't have to-"

"It's nothing," Amy says, waving her hand, "Besides, I thought you might appreciate the story behind it."

He unwraps it meticulously, and then opens the box to reveal a miniature portrait of a woman. She's quite striking, with golden hair and brilliant blue eyes, but what makes it unique is that she is clearly garbed in a traditional Indian sari as well as jewelry, even including an elaborate nose ring common to the region.

"It's exquisite," Ian murmurs looking at her, and then at the portrait, holding it to the light, already starting to examine it with a keen eye. "Late eighteenth century, English-style painting, although the painter had clearly been to India, and the woman…? He trailed off, looking questionly at Amy.

"You're right about all of it," Amy says, and then explains,"In her final years, Grace had started a genealogy project of sorts to map our entire family tree, and along the way, she collected a lot of artifacts, and I thought you might appreciate this one."

"I still don't get it," Ian says.

"Her name was Elizabeth Fitzharding, and her father was a member of the Lucian branch, and served under Lord Cornwallis in India. She grew up there, and fell in love with a local man, and married him."

At Ian's curious look, she finishes with a smile, "The man's name was Rajendra Singh Kabra.

Understanding finally dawns across his face. "That would make her…" He trails off in wonderment, looking down at the old painting again.

"Your ancestor," Amy finishes for him, "and the matriarch of the Kabra branch of the Lucians."

"This… this is honestly the best gift I've ever gotten," he says, and she realizes that he's touched. "Thank you."

It's then that Amy notes that they're quite close to each other, having leaned in so to examine the painting better, and when she looks up, it's at the same time as him, and suddenly, they're mere inches from each other, so close that-

"-Which reminds me," Ian says, clearing his throat slightly, and stepping away from Amy to go to a closet, and withdraw two items: a wreath, and an ornately wrapped package.

"I know I seem like a bit of a Christmas Scrooge," he tells her honestly, "but this is for you." He gives her package.

"Thank you," Amy says with a grin, knowing better than to argue with him, or tell him that he "shouldn't have". When Ian puts his mind to something, it's very hard to dissuade him from it, something she's learned from past experience, and then all over again in recent months.

"Well, open it," Ian says impatiently, and only then does Amy realize that she's been caught up in her thoughts once more. So she obliges, and tears the paper away to reveal a book- a very old book. Her curiosity is immediately piqued as she opens it to the title page, and she reads the title, and then the date of publication-

"No," Amy breathes, and Ian doesn't quite know how to take the sheer stunned look of disbelief she has on her face.

"This-this is-" she can hardly stop herself from stammering, "-an original…?" She looks up at him questioningly, as though for a final confirmation.

"Yes…" he ventures cautiously.

"Oh my god, this is amazing," she gushes, tracing her hand down the spine of a first edition copy of Elizabeth Gaskell's "North and South".

She then looks up at him. "How did you know…?" She trails off, unable to articulate her sheer amazement.

"Simple deduction, really," Ian says, with no little smugness.

"Don't brag. How long did it take?"

"Weeks," he admits. "I knew you liked the classics, especially early feminist works, but we both know how you feel about Brontë-" Amy rolls her eyes, "- Wollstonecraft is too preachy for your taste,and Austen, as good as every female who considers herself to be even somewhat of a literature buff would rush to assure me, is a bit frivolous to you, but throw in an economic subplot and some nonsense about the plight of the workers-" Ian can't help say the last bit with a touch of disdain, and she giggles, because even after all these years, he's such a snob, "- and you have a book that Amy Cahill likes."

"Not likes," she amends quickly, "loves." She looks up at him and says warmly, "Seriously though, thank you Ian. I mean it." She punctuates her remark with a quick kiss on his cheek, noting that a light blush on his features afterwards.

It's then that her eyes fall on the wreath behind him.

"What's the wreath for, then?" Amy says, pointing to the lovely arrangement of winter flowers and holly sitting on the counter.

Ian looks at the wreath, and then back at her, and she notes that his expression has darkened considerably, and it's as though the temperature of the room has fallen by twenty degrees.

For a moment, she wonders what such an innocuous question could have done to offend him, but then-

"Natalie," Amy breathes with realization and embarrassment for not having figured it out sooner. After all, where else would Ian go with a floral wreath on Christmas day?

"Yes," he says, his voice a little hoarse. He hastily clears his throat. "I visit every Christmas."

When she doesn't immediately reply, he hastens to continue. "I mean, of course I go other times, but Christmas is-"

"-Ian, I want to come too," she bursts out.

He looks at her with sharp disbelief. "You do?"

Amy shifts uncomfortably. "Well, I've visited everyone else's grave, but I never came back to Natalies'," she admits guiltily.

"So you're coming, then?" He checks once more, and she nods hesitantly.

"I mean- if you're okay wi-"

"Of course," he says rushedly.

An hour later, they're in the car, and London quickly passes by as the venture further into the countryside.

The drive is spent in silence, until -

"She would have been near twenty-one, you know," Ian says abruptly, "Natalie."

Amy looks up at him.

"Sometimes it feels as though everything we did to fight the Vespers, to rescue the hostages, it was all for nothing," he continues on, tragedy infused in every word, tragic because of the pain he must feel every day for having lost, from what Amy had gathered, the person he was more close to than anyone else in the world.

"It wasn't for nothing, and Natalie was so brave, Ian… so strong, until the very end." Amy knows what she's saying is a futile attempt at consolation, because given a choice between his sister being brave, and being alive, she knew Ian would choose the latter every single time.

But Ian's expression becomes less stormy, and almost thoughtful at her words.

"She had the sort of strength my mother never had- the will and ability to do good. I don't even think I have it."

"You do, Ian. Don't sell yourself short."

"It's hard not to after a lifetime of questioning it thanks to my parents," he laughs bitterly. "I think I have enough mummy issues alone to send a shrink into therapy."

"I have a feeling the same could apply to any of us," she says quietly. He turns to look sharply at her.

"Therapy?"

"You never thought about it?"

"I never knew who to turn to," he admits. "I could hardly bring myself to open up to Cara at times, let alone a therapist." He pauses before asking, "Did you?"

"Yes." She admits the fact without any shame. In truth, it had taken her a long time to reconcile herself with the fact that therapy was necessary after years running around and saving the world, and then somehow being put in charge of it. Sometimes, she still wakes up filled with terror after nightmare, memories of times gone by, and prays to God that the blood will wash off her hands and body, and that the scars etched in her mind will magically disappear, but it never happens.

Healing is a gradual process, or so she was told by her first therapist, a former active Cahill agent who knew what people like Amy went through, and was selected for her understanding and discretion. It may have been a gradual process, but, Amy had wondered at the time, did it ever get completely better?

No, she realizes now. But any part she can play in offering Ian comfort is something she will do gladly.

So she grasps his hand and caresses it in a soothing motion, and he lets out a breath he's been holding in. "Ian," she says, "What we went through… it didn't just make us saviors or survivors- it made us victims. There is nothing to be ashamed of."

He doesn't reply, but he doesn't let go of her hand either.

The car begins to slow as they exit a span of trees, and that's when Amy sees it: the Kabra Mansion looms ahead in all its harsh beauty. It looks like almost any other great house, except cold, austere, and wholly abandoned.

"Do you use the mansion?" She asks, and Ian doesn't even look at it before answering.

"It's been kept in a functional state. There are far too many documents and other objects in there for me to do anything short of torching it-" his eyes darken as he adds, "-especially considering what it came to symbolize when my parents were branch leaders."

Amy lets out a soft oh. Though she'd never personally set foot in the Kabra Mansion, she'd heard stories about what went on in the house, especially underground in its numerous bunkers that were used for purposes so questionable, it made a CIA black site sound like a carnival in comparison.

For Ian, and even Natalie for that matter, to have to grow up in such an environment… she shudders at its implications, and Ian says no more for the time being.

Amy's eyes are stinging with tears as they exit the car, out into the freezing cold. Though not much north from London, she can already feel the difference in weather. Snow is piled on every surface, and is accumulating fast, the wind is practically howling through the trees.

The house is in the distance now, and it looks like they're about to go into the woods. They walk deeper and deeper, until Amy's almost sure they've lost their way, or might encounter a wild animal, but suddenly, ahead is a small clearing, with what looks to be a lake frozen over, and a single headstone.

"She loved this place," Ian says, not looking at her, but instead around the little clearing he's brought them to. "She always hated anything vaguely natural, but this place was her exception- her only solace."

From the family and her parents, is what remains unspoken, but Amy knows anyway. It's strange- being a part of the most powerful family in the world was guaranteed to give you power, and yet, look at all the lives it had destroyed.

Once upon a time, there had been a fourteen year-old that had lived and breathed, who had hopes and desires and fears like anyone else, but she never got to fully experience what life had to offer, by virtue of her birth.

Amy has never felt so bitter towards her own family at the moment.

They near the middle of the clearing, where a tombstone lies, reading "Natalie Kabra, 1997-2010, "I shall not be triumphed over."

"Cleopatra," Ian says quietly.

"What?"

"The quote," he explains. "It was by Cleopatra. They were millennia apart, but Natalie admired her so much."

"It fits her." Amy can say no more, not when confronted with a tragic reminder of her- their- family's past, and she was struck by just how unfair it all was- especially to a loving older brother who would never see his little sister again, because she had gone too soon.

"I think she would have liked you, you know," Ian murmurs, kneeling in front of the grave, tenderly brushing snow off the headstone.

"She used to refer to me and Dan as peasants," Amy says almost fondly, and at that, a ghost of a smile appears on Ian's face.

"I used to as well," he reminds her, a bitter expression taking hold of his features, "but I changed. I grew- that's the thing isn't it? I grew."

"And she never got the chance to."

"No," he says softly, looking at the the grave. "She didn't."

And with that, Ian lays the wreath gently in front of the tombstone, and murmurs, "Happy Christmas Natalie."

Amy's eyes are stinging with tears as they leave, but this time, it's not from the cold.

When they come back from the mansion, the mood has risen slightly, though Amy is careful to give Ian a wide enough berth. She'd seen lots of people die over the years, some before her own eyes, and had been to countless funerals in her short life, but this… doing this with Ian made it seem far more personal.

But by the time they're back, they're in mostly companionable silence. Ian sets up the fireplace and she curls up with a book she's supposed to read for her final semester of college. All is quiet except the occasional rustle of papers- briefings that Ian is looking through- and the merry crackling of the fire.

"We never got to the second dance, you know."

Amy's eyes snap up from the page she's currently engrossed in.

"What?"

"At the gallery opening," Ian clarifies, "we only had one dance together."

"Were you planning to ask?"

"You looked far too lovely for me not to," he says, his lips twitching.

Amy smiles, pleased. She silently thanks Sonia for her invaluable advice again before speaking. "Why lovely?" Ian looks at her curiously, and she explains, "When you talk about me… it's always been lovely hasn't it?"

"I think it just stuck since the first time," he says, and there it is again, Amy can't help but think: Korea- the constant references and hints. Sometimes, she wonders if all the tension between them has been building since that moment, because though they may have been fourteen, a moment like that… the adrenaline, the heat, the sheer innocence and sweetness of the brief brush of his lips against hers, and the whispered word that would haunt her for eternity… you don't forget about a moment like that.

A moment later, Ian asks, "I don't suppose you'd like that dance now?"

Amy looks back up at him, suddenly realizing that he's serious, but feels the need to warn him beforehand.

"Full disclosure, the only reason I managed to not trip over myself was because I was bordering on tipsy," she admits, and Ian chuckles.

"That," Ian says amusedly, standing up, "can be remedied." He strides to the what she can only assume is the liquor cabinet and comes back with a bottle of honey-colored liquid, and two glasses. He tops off both of them and hands one to Amy.

"Scotch, single-malt. Drink up," he says, and Amy raises her brows at him, but doesn't refuse it.

Ian meanwhile goes over to the closet and pulls out something that looks remarkably like…

"You have a gramophone?" Amy asks delightedly from her perch near the fireplace, swirling her drink before taking a tentative sip. Immediately, warmth spreads across her body, even more so now that there's a fireplace.

"An heirloom of sorts," Ian says, adjusting the mainspring. "I personally think everything sounds better on vinyl."

Amy rolls her eyes playfully, emboldened by the scotch. "You would, you elitist hipster."

He makes a mock-offended noise. "I resent that."

"But you know you are."

"Elitist I very well may be," he says, standing up, "But hardly a hipster. Can you imagine me with a beard and those ridiculous glasses?"

The music starts to play, and he extends a hand, and she steps forward, taking it.

"Don't you already have glasses?" Amy says once she's in his arms. The music begins with soft chords building up to a dramatic crescendo, and then a czardas starts, almost intimately slow.

"Yes, but practical ones- not those oversized frames purely designed to make you look more intelligent than you are."

"And God forbid Ian Kabra ever be so mainstream as to wear those."

"Quite," Ian agrees looking so smug, Amy wants to kiss that look off his face.

Oh God, she wants to kiss him.

Sure, she's wanted to do it before, but those were mere thoughts- wistful at best. Now however, the admittance doesn't frighten her like it would have a couple months ago.

Make this leap, a voice whispers in her head.

But for the record," Amy murmurs, "I think you'd look good with some scruff." The hand on his shoulder reaches up and caresses his smooth cheek.

It's her touch that's the catalyst.

Somewhere, the music suddenly stops.

"Amy." His word comes out as a whisper, and she knows what's going to happen before it does.

The first kiss is slow, tentative, his hands still on her waist while one of hers is cupping his cheek, and the whole time, all she can think is this is it.

When she pulls away from him, he has an unbearably tender look in his eye.

"I can guess what you're thinking," she breathes. One hand comes up and the pads of his fingers brush against her cheek, his touch feather-light, as if he's surprised he can even touch her.

"Can you?" His eyes flick almost imperceptibly downwards for a moment, before he meets her gaze once more.

"Korea."

"No. That's the past. This-" his thumb traces across her lower lip, "-this is now."

This is it.

"Then what were you thinking?" She inquires.

"How lovely you look tonight,"- "flatterer," Amy mutters- "and then a far more pressing question."

Her interest is piqued. "Oh?"

"Whether that charming blush of yours goes all the way down." His hand now meanders down the curve of her jaw, the hollow of her throat, lower and lower as his lips descend on hers once more-

When they finally break for air, they're on the sofa and he's practically on top of her, and they've lost any semblance of dignity they possessed, but dignity is the hardly the first thing on her mind, not when he's holding her like that, kissing her like that, and all with the promise more… so much more.

He tucks a rogue tendril behind her ear, and peers down at her, his gaze warm and contemplative. "Are you sure you want this?" He asks.

"Considering I'm the one who made the first move," Amy says teasingly, "I think I should be asking you that."

He laughs lowly, pressing another kiss on her heated skin. The longing ache within her only intensifies. She kisses him again, this time long and heady and when she pulls away, she's sure neither of them can think straight.

"Then yes," he says, leaning his forehead against hers, "A thousand times- yes."

In that moment she sees the sun in his eyes, reflecting the smile on her lips.

Author's Note

And they finally kissed! I had that scene written and edited like two months ago, and my issue was writing the rest of the chapter :)

Oh and btw, the song that they dance to in the end, I imagine it to be the beginning bit of Monti's Czardas. There is a really excellent version played by Jennifer Jeon that I encourage you all to check out.

My thoughts on writing intimate scenes… On one hand, most romantic relationships have a sexual component to them. But on the other hand, unless it is rated M, it should be kept tasteful (a big pet peeve of mine is the use of the word "tongue" lol), and it is very important to me to incorporate ideas like clear and active consent and frank talks, if need be, in the most natural way possible.

If you guys want to read more on this, check out my collection of essays "Feminism, Romance, and 39 Clues".

Also I wanted there to be a discussion on the mental health implications of being put in the position that Amy, Ian, and the rest of the younger Cahill generation were put in, because it seems ridiculous to think that they would have escaped with only wounds that run skin deep. These kids saw people die for them as fourteen year olds, were put practically in charge of a branch by the time they were sixteen or seventeen, saved the world trice over, and so much more. I think a part of the reason Amy left the Cahills as a 20 year-old in my story was because she couldn't handle the stress and pressure, and I think it is very admirable that she realized she needed help and got herself a therapist. Ian, who probably has always suppressed his feelings to a certain extent, still would have thought that therapy was a sign of weakness (like many in our society still unfortunately do), and didn't realize that it could help until Amy told him.