The Benadryl knocks him out, but he wakes up groggy, feeling like he could sleep for a year.
Through the fog, he realizes someone's kissing the scars on his back. He tries to roll over to make them stop, but his body is too heavy and drugged and tired, so he tries to swat them away.
His hand comes in contact with something soft and warm and round, and now part of him is definitely awake.
He rolls over to see Linda almost sitting on top of him. "You're not wearing a shirt," he says groggily.
"Nope," she smirks. "Thought this would be a fun way to wake you up."
He yawns. "Don't know how awake I am. Think the Benadryl drugged me."
He's fully awake by the time Linda has finished making out with him, and he makes love to her slowly.
"Why aren't the boys crying or trying to climb out of their cribs?" he asks once they're in the shower together.
"O, Erin called, offered to take them to breakfast and to whatever's going on in the city today, so they'll be gone all day—until someone gets hurt and they come home crying."
He nods, wonders how much of that was to give the boys a good time, and how much was to keep them out of the way in case he freaked out.
"What are we gonna do today?" he yawns.
"Well, after breakfast, I was going to the farmer's market, and then I thought we'd get lunch. Once the boys are asleep tonight, we have plans."
"Plans? Don't tell me we're going to some stupid cook-out, Linda. I told you I don't wanna see anyone in case I freak out."
She kisses his nose. "Nope, no cook-outs. Just you and me."
The day goes decently; the boys beg to spend the night with Frank, so it's just him and Linda again that night.
He cleans off the grill, goes inside where Linda is struggling to open the basement door with a casserole dish in her hands.
He opens the door, snags a strawberry—she's made strawberry shortcake. "What's going on?"
She kisses him. "We're having a no-fireworks 4th of July party. You, me, this shortcake, and root beer. Maybe we'll make our own fireworks," she says huskily, batting her eyelashes at him.
He (playfully) tries to grab the dish out of her hands. "Stop teasing me, Linda."
She yelps when he swats her backside. He realizes she isn't wearing any underwear, and he's about ready to pick her up—dish and all—and carry her down to the air mattress, when the house shakes.
The ground shakes. "Grenade!" he yells, and he and Jonesy and Matt dive for cover.
Someone's talking to him. "Danny? Danny?"
Why is he hearing Linda's voice in this hellhole? He must be losing his marbles.
The sand and dust and smoke clear, and he's sitting on the floor at the top of the stairs to the basement. Linda's talking quietly to him, and she's crying.
"Did I hurt you? What happened?"
"No, I…I'm fine. It's just…when you hit the ground, I tripped, and…now there's strawberry shortcake all over the stairs, and dessert's ruined, and…"
He isn't sure why she's crying—it's not her fault dessert is ruined. It's his, because he freaked out.
He picks up a strawberry, pops it into his mouth. Tastes fine to him.
He kisses her. "I'll help you make another one."
She cries harder. "That was the last of the strawberries."
"Most of it's still in the pan, and at least it wasn't a glass pan," he offers, hoping to help.
He snags another strawberry, pops it in her mouth. "I'm sorry I startled you," he says—because she can't say anything back right now—and goes and gets paper towels to start cleaning up the mess.
He's pumping up the air mattress when obnoxiously loud music starts playing. He groans. "Linda, not those campy songs you like."
She comes downstairs wearing that little purple thing. "Campy songs? I just hear loud music. You can't hear the fireworks right now, can you?"
He sighs, kisses her. "No…"
"So my plan is working."
"What plan?" he asks warily.
"This plan," she says, and goes for his zipper.
It's after midnight when they go to bed. The fireworks stopped at 11, though knowing his neighbors, someone will set some off at 2 a.m. He shoulda let Linda put that blasted sign in their yard.
She's asleep next to him on the (not very comfortable) air mattress. He isn't really sure why they're sleeping down here, other than she had some theory about not being able to hear fireworks because the basement is underground. He'd pretended to fall asleep, so she would too, because if she knew he was sitting here trying not to cry, she'd be awake in five seconds.
It's been seven months to the day since everything went to hell in Fallujah. November had been the worst month for the Marines stationed there—and the month in which his unit had been captured.
He takes a shaky breath. Dammit, now he's going to cry.
He bites his lip, hard, curses when he realizes he hasn't taken any of his pills. As much as he hates them, he needs the anti-anxiety one now, or he's gonna have another panic attack.
He slowly gets up off the air mattress, puts the sheet over Linda's breast, and tiptoes up the stairs.
He dry-swallows the anti-depressant.
He's trying to get the lid off the anti-anxiety med bottle when it slips out of his hand, and the teeny-tiny pills go flying across their master bathroom.
He has to pick them up before Linda comes in and thinks he was trying to commit suicide-by-pill.
But they're freaking scattered everywhere, every single one of them yelling you're a failure and weak and pathetic and you need chemicals to function, and he sinks to the ground with a sob.
He startles when The Star-Spangled Banner starts blasting, backs up toward the wall.
Torture by loud music was a technique used by the men that captured him—only it wasn't patriotic music.
He covers his ears with his hands, scoots in between the tub and the toilet.
He should have woken Linda up before he came up here, he thinks, pulling his knees to his chest.
Then maybe he wouldn't be sitting here crying for no reason.
Or he would be, and she'd see, and she'd…