"Now he's a broken guy who's screwed up in the head."
He hadn't meant it, he really hadn't; but…
For all he had told Doc a year ago that he didn't let his family know half of what went on with him, Linda knows. She can tell…that's why she had yelled at him yesterday: "I see you! I see you, Danny, I see what's going on with you!"
He finishes changing into his pajamas, throws his clothes on the floor, and sits on the bench at the end of their bed. Screwed up in the head…screwed up in the head…
He startles when Linda says "Danny?!" He hadn't heard her come in the room. It sounds like she's been calling his name for a while.
"Yeah? Sorry…"
"It's okay. What's going on? You've been a million miles away ever since you got home," she says and sits down next to him.
That's her code-phrase…when she tells him he's a million miles away, he knows he needs to be honest with her.
He sighs, looks up at the clock. How the hell is it midnight? He's been home almost an hour? He knew he'd left work late—he'd wanted to just spend the night at work, keep going through phone records and papers and notes until they got some clue as to where Russell might have taken Tommy; but Sarge had ordered him to go home.
He'd only given in when Sarge had threatened to take him off the case. That would waste valuable time and resources, and…well, he would hate to be the one to tell Mrs. Russell that her little boy was dead because Gormley had put a detective with no stakes in the case, on the case.
He shakes his head, wishing for a six-pack to numb himself.
"I called Russell a name today…no, we haven't found him, I was talking to his best friend. Said he was 'broken,' said he was 'screwed up in the head.'"
The truth is, Russell's depressed and suicidal, but admitting it about Russell means admitting it about himself, so he gives her a half-truth instead: "So am I. Screwed up in the head, I mean," he whispers.
"What did you say?" Linda asks fiercely.
"You heard me. I snapped at Jack, I've been, what did you say, 'on a slow boil' since this case started; I know you're pissed at me."
She hugs him so hard it hurts. "I'm pissed for you, not at you. Because you're hurting and you keep shutting me out. You're not sleeping, you're not eating…and with that attitude, thinking that you're screwed up in the head too…I'm afraid you're going to eat your gun."
"I'm not suicidal, Linda," he whispers, deliberately not telling her that Russell is.
"You're not screwed up in the head, either; you haven't hurt me or the boys—and I know you won't. Why won't you just tell me what happened over there that scares you so much?"
"Because it hurts too much to talk about, and…you don't need to see…that kind of…"
He trails off when she kisses him hard. "It's not going to make me think less of you, Danny. It'll just…make me more grateful you came home, more understanding of why you get so angry at work, why you shut me out, why you get all broody. I know it was bad. But it's over. You're safe now. You're home. You can talk to me."
He kisses her fiercely and unties her robe.
Later, when they're dozing in a post-sex haze, he says quietly, "It hurts too much to talk about Fallujah, and…I…I'm afraid you'll look at me differently, or…pity me, or…leave."
"I'm not going anywhere, Danny," she whispers, and he falls asleep to dream of Fallujah and twelve of his brothers staring accusingly at him.