A/N: anything I know about ankle fractures, I learned from Google.
The next two weeks of no weight-bearing drag by.
It's hot and the A/C's broken and for how much he hates being cold, he also hates being hot—too much of a different reminder of Fallujah—and he sulks on the couch and stares at the muted TV screen while the boys run in and out and up and down the stairs.
He envies his sons right now.
His leg stinks, and Linda has already declared that she is not going to be in the room when they cut it off, because if it stinks this much on him, it will be ten million times worse when it comes off.
Simply because he's losing his mind with boredom, he calls Padre Donovan to tell him this, and is regaled with a tale of the raising of Lazarus, whose sister told Jesus, "Lord, he stinketh"—'cause apparently, you stank-eth if you'd been dead four days in a tomb in the desert in like 1st century A.D. He's had this cast on his leg for over five weeks.
Even he gags when the nurse or tech or whoever she is, cuts the cast off.
His leg has atrophied terribly—his calf is skinnier than it was when he was a kid—and he sees why he's still going to need physical therapy.
The tech starts washing his leg, and he grabs the washcloth from her. "I can do it, thanks," he snaps.
He scrubs his leg roughly, watching the dead skin flake off, and relishing the pain in his skin and leg.
Four x-rays and an hour of torture…whoops, "physical therapy"…later, he crutches out of the office with a "walking boot" on that should not be called "walking" because they're telling him how to put only 25 pounds of his weight on it. Like that's possible. He's "left-footed"—he hadn't known that was a thing, but apparently it means that he tends to put more of his weight on his left foot than his right. They'd had him practice with the boot and a scale until he was sweating bullets, and at least he can go home and soak his entire freaking body in the tub.
He limps over to the car and—for the third time that day—transfers himself into the car. The first two times had been with the obnoxiously cheerful PT, Melissa, who must have taken a class in sadistic torture of fracture patients. She's mean.
He closes his eyes.
The next thing he knows, Linda is rubbing his shoulder.
"Mmmm?"
"We're at McDonald's, babe. What do you want?"
"'M not hungry."
"You have to eat, Danny; you're burning a ton of calories trying to heal."
"Fries and a chocolate frosty," he says, and sighs when she orders two burgers anyway.
He finishes his shake and half the burger before he realizes they're at Target, not home. "Linda, I just want to sleep; why are you dragging me on a shopping trip?"
"Because you've torn three pairs of wide-bottomed pants trying to get them on over the cast, and I'm buying you some more pants and shorts, and other things you'll need while you have the boot on."
"Then I'm staying in the car," he grumbles.
"Danny, it's 100 degrees and I'm not burning all that gas leaving the car running. Besides, you need to practice walking—the doctor said you should practice at least once today—you can use the shopping cart as a walker…I mean, as support" she says quickly.
"No. Please just drive home, before I come over there and drive us home."
He supposes he's maybe allowed to drive? It's his left foot; he's not on narcotics; he'd be fine…right?
Linda shakes her head and starts the car.
He crutches his way inside, determined that he's going to find the scale and do the exercises now.
But the couch looks way more inviting, and he lowers himself on to it. Exercises and a bath can wait; he needs a nap.