He wants to collapse in Linda's arms and cry for John Russell, for MaryAnn Russell, and for Tommy Russell—who's going to grow up without a father now—but he doesn't deserve Linda's comfort, because he failed.
So he side-steps her arms, puts his gun in the lockbox, and trudges up the stairs.
After peeking in on the boys and grabbing his flannel pajamas—and a chair from their bedroom—he locks himself in the bathroom.
He strips, wedges the chair under the door handle so no one can interrupt his shower, turns the water on.
I've been right where you are.
He'd never told that to anyone—even Linda doesn't know. He'd been there—not on the edge of a roof, but on the edge of taking his own life because he couldn't handle what Doc had called "all the ways post-traumatic stress disorder can manifest." Not that he has PTSD—or extreme vigilance, or any of that crap. Just…
I know about the nightmares, the fear, and the anger.
He also knows about what Doc called "survivor's guilt"—but who the hell in their right mind wouldn't have survivor's guilt when he's the only one who made it home?
He gets in the shower, curses when the icy stream hits him.
Every bone in his body wants to turn the water warm, to call for Linda, to move the chair so she can come in and comfort him—but he doesn't deserve her.
He failed.
He failed, and now a 28-year-old Army veteran is dead, a 27-year-old Army wife is now a 27-year-old Army widow, and an 8-year-old boy is now an orphan.
"I've been right where you are"—is a secret he plans to take to his grave. He has no intention of letting Linda or his dad or Erin or anyone ever know how dark it had been inside in his head when he first got back from Fallujah—how dark it still is, sometimes.
His knuckles are scraped, despite the thick gloves he'd been wearing, and he looks longingly at Linda's razor. But he promised her, once, years ago, on that one night that he gave her the tiniest glimpse inside his head, not to do that. He can't be a hypocrite now and do what he tells her not to do, now, can he?
He pummels the wall with his knuckles, cursing as it scrapes them more.
If he'd opened up more…if he'd told John a little more, if he'd f** explained what he f** meant by "I've been right where you are"—maybe John would have come down from that roof the right way.
But he'd been a coward, he'd failed, he hadn't even made a connection with the guy—something he's successfully done in the past—and John Russell is dead, and it's his fault.
He slides down the wall with a muffled sob, buries his face in his knees, and cries.
The water is falling on his head and getting his mouth, and he's going to choke and drown in his own f** bathtub, but maybe that's better. Maybe that would atone for…
A loud thud and banging, then a chair clattering on the floor, make him start. "Danny, babe, are you still in here?" Linda asks.
She sounds worried—panicky, almost, and then it hits him.
The chair…she thought he'd…
There are quicker ways than that if he'd wanted to…
He yelps when the water turns off and his head is pulled out from under the stream. "Danny, what are you doing?"
He shakes his head, tries to turn the water back off, but Linda has his wrists tight in her hand while she's stripping with the other. He doesn't have the energy to struggle—and he doesn't want to make her fall.
She climbs in next to him and turns the water on hot. It feels scalding, but it probably isn't—just feels that way, 'cause he's been in this ice shower for like 30 minutes…
"You know you're supposed to talk to me before you…try to turn yourself into a human popsicle," she says quietly, and slips her arms around him.
He doesn't relax into her arms like he normally would, just sits there, stiff. "Sorry," he whispers, but even he can barely hear his own voice over the ringing of failure in his ears.
Linda plugs the shower, and the tub starts filling.
"You realize you could have choked to death, Danny? Crying like that, with your head right under the faucet?"
He shrugs. "I failed."
"Danny, I don't know what happened tonight, but I know you, and I know you did everything in your power to bring Corporal Russell home to his family. It wasn't your fault—it isn't your fault."
He shakes his head, tries to swallow the lump in his throat.
He can't swallow.
He can hardly see her for the tears in his eyes, but he blinks them back furiously. If he cries now, he might not ever stop.
Linda pulls his head to her chest, and then her hands are rubbing the scars.
She starts singing "Danny Boy," and he loses the battle to hold back his tears.
By the time he's cried himself out, the water is cold. He shivers as she lets out the water. He wants to close his eyes and sleep for a year or ten, but that would require getting out of the tub, and he doesn't think he can move. He also really doesn't want the month of nightmares he's bound to have if he falls asleep
He's surprised when Linda pulls him to his feet.
She hands him his blue bath towel, and he makes a half-hearted effort to dry off and dress.
The chair is gone, but there are scuff marks on the floor and on the doorjamb.
He pulls his pajama top over his head—the long-sleeved one tonight, because he doesn't think he's ever going to be warm again—hisses as she cleans his knuckles.
"Come lie down, babe," Linda says, and he shakes his head.
"I…I'll sleep downstairs," he whispers.
"No, Danny. Not tonight. Not after what you saw. Let me hold you, please. Let me…be there, so I can wake you up before the nightmares get too bad. Let me remind you of all the reasons you're not gonna end up like Corporal Russell…"
He flinches at the name. Six hours ago, John Russell was alive.
He not going to sleep tonight—not after what he saw—but he lies down anyway, pulls the covers up. He's shaking, and it isn't cold—it's shock.
"Do you want a cup of hot cocoa?" Linda asks, standing and putting her house shoes on.
He shakes his head and grabs her arm. "Please…don't…please stay," he begs, feeling panicked.
He doesn't want to be alone; he's afraid of what might happen if he's alone.
She lies down, and he practically strangles her with a hug. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he says, and he's crying again, and he doesn't know if he's apologizing to her or to John or to Tommy or to MaryAnn or the twelve men who came home in caskets from Fallujah.
"I know, babe, I know. I'm here. We're okay. Jack's okay. we'll call in the morning and get you scheduled for your trauma debriefing, okay?"
He shakes his head, because everything is falling apart and one solitary trauma debriefing from "Amazing Grace" Meherin isn't gonna do a thing to hold back the wave that's threatening to drown him.
"Don't leave," he says again, hating himself for feeling so helpless.
"I'm right here, Danny. I'm not leaving. I'll be right here while, and until, and after, you deal with this."
When she starts singing one of the old lullabies she used to sing to the boys, he buries his head in her breast and cries himself to sleep in her arms.