He's glad Doc's office building has an elevator.
He's sweating by the time he's situated on the couch, his leg propped up on a chair.
Doc, bless him, has busied himself making hot cocoa and then searching for something in his filing cabinet, giving him privacy to get settled without feeling like his every move is being watched.
"Thanks," he says, and takes the cocoa.
"You're welcome. How're you holding up?"
"Peachy," he snaps. "I felt up to going to Mass and family dinner yesterday, only, I haven't really been paying attention to the calendar, and it didn't realize what day yesterday was until I looked at the program. You'll be happy to know I cried in the freaking middle of Mass."
"Why would I be happy to know that?"
"Because you're always on me about my emotions, and how I feel, and…"
"I want you to realize that there's nothing wrong with showing emotion; that does not mean I'm 'happy' to hear that you cried. What prompted the tears?"
He pulls his phone out of his pocket, looks up the lyrics to the song, and holds it out to Doc, who stands up, walks over to him, reads it and hands it back.
"Why do you think you cried when they sang that verse?"
"How the hell should I know, Doc? You're supposed to figure that out!"
"My job is just to help you figure out how you're feeling, not tell you how you're feeling—and I think you do know, Danny."
He sets his mug down before he can give in to the temptation to throw it at Doc. "I…attended the funerals for the guys in my unit from New York, and that verse…was sung at…every funeral. I hate it. It should give me the warm patriotic fuzzies, but…all it does is make me cry."
"'It should give [you] the warm patriotic fuzzies'? Why do you think that, Danny?"
Uh-oh. He said one of those words Doc hates—or, rather, likes to question him about and make him go deeper, figuring out why he thinks that.
He picks his mug up again, shifts the pillow behind his back. "I…don't know. Forget I said anything."
"You know I can't do that, Danny. Why do you think that song—particularly the verse about the Marines—should give you 'warm, patriotic fuzzies'?"
He lifts his bad leg—walking boot and all—and kicks the table angrily. The cocoa sloshes in his mug but thankfully doesn't spill.
A lance of pain travels from his ankle to his brain, and he squeezes his eyes shut and prays he'll pass out.
He doesn't.
There's a firm hand on his knee, keeping him from kicking anything.
He opens his eyes. Doc is kneeling between the couch and the table, a hand still on his knee. He tries to pull away. Doc's never touched him like this before, and it's freaking him out a little. He's trapped. "Let me go!"
"I can't let you hurt yourself, Danny."
"Let me go!" He grabs one of his crutches, which is leaning against the couch. There's no way he can hit Doc at this angle, but maybe he can…scare him off.
Doc lifts his hand but doesn't move from his kneeling position on the floor. "Danny, you're safe here. Whatever memory that verse triggered—is in the past; it can't hurt you anymore. You can tell me."
He sets his mug down, shivers. He's freezing—never mind that it's 80-some degrees outside. "Do… do you still have…that…space heater? I…I…feel like an ice-cube."
Doc nods and gets up, walks over to a closet and gets it out, plugs it in and sets it as close to Danny as possible. "Is that better?"
He nods, closes his eyes, says through chattering teeth, "They…played that song in Fallujah."
A gunshot rings out above the deafening music. "Eternal Father, grant, we pray, / To all Marines, both night and day."
He flinches, and prays the man with the whip doesn't notice. That's the sixth gunshot. If they keep going in order from youngest to oldest, he'll be the third from the last man they kill—which means he has to watch all but two of his buddies get killed.
Warm air is blowing on him. There's no warm air here—it's freezing because it's winter, and the sadistic men who are torturing them have been blasting the air conditioning.
Why does he feel warm air?
A gentle voice says: "Danny, you're safe. Open your eyes."
That sounds like…Doc…what's Doc doing in Fallujah?
He opens his eyes. Doc is sitting on a chair next to him. "That's it, good job, Danny. Do you know where you are?"
"Your…your office. New York."
Doc holds out the mug to him but he shakes his head. If he drinks any more cocoa right now, after that whopper of a flashback, he's going to puke.
"Can you tell me about your flashback?"
"No…please don't make me. It's something I hadn't remembered…"
"Okay. We don't have to talk about it. Can you write it down for me?"
"I'll try," he whispers, and sits up more while Doc goes to his desk and gets a legal pad and a pen. "Is…is Linda still in the waiting room?"
"I think so," Doc says, handing him the pen and paper.
"Can you get her, please? Can she sit with me while I…write this out?"
"Of course. Will you be okay here for a minute alone?"
No, he definitely will not be, but he nods anyway because he needs Linda. Desperately.