A/N: I own neither Glee nor its characters. And, despite possible appearances to the contrary, it is a Finchel story. Really.

He told his family he would not be coming home to Lima in an email to his mother:

Dear Mom,

I know everyone is aware I'm getting out of the Army this week. I accomplished what I set out to do, and have redeemed the family name: they told me yesterday that I have been awarded the Silver Star. I hope now that Dad can rest easier. But something has happened to me, Mom. As proud as I am of doing this, I think the price for what I did is more than I can pay right now, if that makes any sense. I'm going to need some time by myself to get it all figured out, physically and mentally.

The physical injuries are fairly minor, but will take a few weeks to fully recover. As for the mental issues, don't worry—it isn't PTSD. The fact is, so much happened, almost all at once, that I need some time for it to "integrate", as an Army doctor put it. The problem is, I don't think I can do it at home or with my family. I can't really explain why, and I have no idea how long it will take, but I will need to be on my own for a while.

I will send you emails from time to time, letting you know I'm safe. Just know I will return when everything makes more sense. Please give my love to Burt and Kurt.

Love,

Finn

He had saved almost every penny of his pay and the large signing bonus. With the money he bought a used Ford Explorer, camping equipment and some clothes, and set off west, to his new life. It would start in Sheridan, Wyoming.

XXXXXXX

Sheridan was a medium-sized town, nestled in the Bighorn Mountains. Finn chose it for the mountains—an Army psychiatrist he spoke to told him he needed to spend time in them where he wasn't in danger of being shot. Sheridan also had a VA hospital. He found a tiny apartment and a job as a mechanic, and then visited the hospital for therapy to treat some muscle weakness in his right leg. That last patrol had nearly messed him up badly; he was grateful he got out of it in reasonably good shape.

He thought about Eddie and the other two NATO soldiers that didn't make it out that day, covering him as he moved his badly wounded sergeant and two comrades to safety under fire. Finn was told that Eddie was being considered, posthumously, for the Victoria Cross, which made him glad. He wished he could give his Silver Star to all three of them. They deserved it far more than him.

He liked hanging around after therapy with the other vets, especially the older ones. They all understood how he felt, that he needed some time to disengage from the stress and horror of the last four years, before fully entering society again. Here, in this quiet, spectacularly beautiful setting, he could get fixed up physically, and then get his mind together.

There was a bar on the corner near his apartment, "Red's", that served a nice microbrewed ale. Finn and the guys from the shop often went there after work. The owner was a Vietnam Marine vet (named "Red"), and he and Finn became close. They talked about the public perception of veterans. Red, for one, appreciated the increased level of respect compared to when he served, but both he and Finn despised the often openly ingratiating "thank you for your service" they received from people who didn't think twice about voting for cutting funding for veteran's services. They commiserated about the long periods of boredom punctuated with intense moments of absolute terror. And, every Friday night, they toasted each other's survival, and drank to those who didn't come back. Finn's buddies soon learned that neither he nor Red was a font of war stories; the two vets would deliberately tell only the most boring and banal ones until everyone got the message.

There were the nightmares, though. They were easing off in frequency, thank goodness, so he was sleeping better. The psychiatrist told him that he was basically healthy, that nightmares were to be expected, and that he really needed to ease himself back into the world.

That meant, among other things, taking it easy with dating. After the mutually-agreed-upon, "official" breakup with Rachel two years ago, Finn did try dating fellow servicewomen, but it was too soon. Now, he felt ready, and went on a few friendly, almost platonic, dates with a pretty nurse at the VA hospital, Anne Nelson. Nothing serious came of them; however, his confidence was returning, and he felt more comfortable being close with women other than Rachel.

Finn was also beginning to think the breakup was more and more justified. In the beginning the two of them had exchanged letters and phone calls, and thought it might work out. But as months became years, and each exchange grew sadder and sadder about being apart, they gave up, if only just to end the agony. Kurt once told him she was seeing a classmate, but Finn decided he didn't want to hear any more about it. Eventually, even the dreams about her grew less frequent, too.

Two months passed. His hair was longer, he'd grown a dark, closely-cropped beard, and had adopted the male uniform of the town: plaid flannel shirts, jeans, and hiking boots. The leg healed completely, which meant he could start hiking in the mountains. And so he did. It wasn't easy at first. One day, Finn was sitting on a stump by the trail when three backpackers passed him. One wore a black, cable-necked sweater, and, for a split second, Finn thought he was Eddie. There was an instantaneous, irrational flush of joy and hope, only to be snuffed out by his rational side, battering him with the heartbreaking truth: Eddie, Trevor, and Bill were gone. The crushing realization left him weeping by himself alongside the trail, unnoticed by the backpackers, oblivious to what they had done, no matter how inadvertently, to a perfect stranger.

Overall, however, it did get easier. After a few weeks, the fragrant quiet of the mountains began to weave its magic. Birdcalls were no longer surreptitious signals used by the enemy, trees no longer concealed snipers, and trails didn't have to be checked for IED's anymore. With the lessening of the anxiety came a newfound sense of confidence. He tried dating again. Women were attracted, not only to his good looks, but also to his quiet, gentle manner. Yet, for some reason, they sensed he had something hidden, something with which they instinctively knew they would have to compete, and against which, they also knew, they could not win. Finn wasn't consciously aware of the problem; all he knew was, the dates didn't work out for one reason or another.

One day, at Red's recommendation, Finn drove to the Medicine Wheel, ten-thousand feet up, in the Bighorns. It was an eighty-foot in diameter, wheel-like arrangement of stones, sacred to the Native Americans in the area. He stood quietly at the fence, among the humble prayer offerings of tobacco left by visitors, listening only to the wind. He had expected to feel a kind of peace, which is why he thought Red recommended he visit. Instead, at the top of this bare ridge, with a view for miles, a profound restlessness came over him. As much as he liked Sheridan, Finn suddenly knew that this was not his place. If the integration were to continue, it seemed, he would have to move on.

He told Red what happened.

"I wasn't expecting to be told I didn't belong here," he said, sipping a beer. Red shrugged.

"What makes you think you do belong here, man?" asked Red. "After all, you chose this place pretty much because it fit the prescription of an Army psychiatrist!" He gave a low rumbling chuckle at his joke. Finn laughed with him.

"Yeah, I kinda walked into that one," he said.

"Look. I know you've been feeling more…yourself, since coming here." Red was serious now. "But maybe to be complete, you need to be somewhere else. I mean, the dating hasn't worked out very well, now has it?"

"No," Finn admitted readily. "I'm not sure why, though."

"You aren't still hung up on that Rachel girl, are you?"

Finn was honest. "I don't think so, Red. I don't think she could give me what I need right now."

"And that is?"

"Something like you said your wife, Sandy, gave you when you met."

Red nodded slowly, then shook his head. "Finn, buddy, Sandy was an Army nurse in Nam, who lived here in Sheridan when I arrived 43 years ago. It was pure luck we met up. A woman who can relate to you at that level is rare. Besides, didn't you date that Army nurse?"

"Anne. Yes. But she's never been overseas."

Red drew another beer and placed it in front of Finn.

"It may be a mistake," he said, "to have such specific expectations."

Finn shrugged. "Maybe, but I can't help my feelings."

Red clapped his shoulder. "You're right, man. But do me a favor. At least stay the winter."

Finn did more than that. He worked at the garage well into the spring, to build up his cash reserves, then left Sheridan and drove north, into Montana. He'd always wanted to visit Glacier National Park, and entered it at the start of the Memorial Day Weekend. Not a wise move: all the campsites were taken, so he spent the morning in the park, then pushed across the nearby border into Canada, where the holiday wasn't being observed. By late afternoon he found himself alone at the Belly River campground near Waterton Lakes National Park.

It was idyllic. The campground was situated among trees, which gave way to a grassy expanse, leading to the banks of the Belly River itself. To the west, the Canadian Rockies seemed to spring up from the ground like a giant, snow-covered wall. He knew that the famous Waterton Lakes were over there, somewhere. Big, jolly bumblebees buzzed lazily among the dandelions, and each site had a neatly stacked cord of firewood. The trash containers were bear-proof; the evening air, soft and clear.

Still, the Rockies, etched against the evening sky, and the quiet rush of the river gave him little peace. As he sat in his camp chair, nursing a beer, Finn realized a change in scenery wasn't going to cut it, that he needed something else to help him along. The only thing he knew for sure was, it wasn't Rachel, which disturbed him greatly, because there was a time he was equally as sure she was the answer to everything in his life. He went to sleep that night, and, as if in mockery, she came to him in a dream, singing on a stage, to the accolades of all. And he was sitting, where he once thought he always belonged, in the very front row.