A/N: Tag: Chapter 58 of "Drowning"
Also, I've never been fishing, or gone on vacation in a cabin, so take all descriptions with a grain of salt.
The boys are running around the house throwing their clean laundry at each other instead of packing—which is annoying, but not too much of a problem, because they don't leave for two more days.
Linda starts the dishwasher and goes into the living room.
Danny is sitting on the couch, staring at the TV, which he'd muted after a report came on about conflict in the Middle East. There's still footage of bombs and missiles on the screen, and she picks up the remote, turns it off, and sits down next to him.
"Danny, please don't torment yourself watching this."
He blinks, looks at her. "Hadn't realized what they were talking about."
That's a lie—she can see the glassy, pained look he always gets when he's thinking about Fallujah. She rubs his back gently. "You haven't…joined any of the conversations about vacation. Do you not want to go to the beach this year?"
She really wants to ask—Why are you acting like you don't care about anything?—but she doesn't.
Yes, Danny's alive.
Yes, he is not actively suicidal.
But he's still depressed, even if he is going to work and doing (some) summer things with the boys and making an effort to sit with her and watch a movie or read a book with her.
He picks up the remote and turns the TV back on—where they're now showing old footage of Iraq, judging by the time-stamp in the corner. "The boys don't need to hear this discussion."
"They don't need to hear or see the news, either, Danny—and you don't either." She turns off the TV, takes the batteries out of the remote and pockets them, then goes upstairs to corner the boys.
They're wrestling on Jack's floor, and she winces. "Jack, Sean, you're going to break something—either in this house, or in your bodies. Go outside; I think I saw Michael Keenan playing basketball by himself."
When the boys are outside, she sits down next to Danny, who hasn't moved from the couch.
She holds his hands so he can't hide from her. "Why don't you want to go to the beach with your family this year?"
He sighs, shakes his head. "You're gonna think I'm batty."
"No, Danny, I won't. Just tell me."
"Promise you won't laugh?" he says, and that question, coming from her husband of almost-20 years, breaks her heart.
"I promise, Danny," she says, looking him in the eye.
"I…I told you about Doc's drowning analogy. I f-g hate analogies, but it's the most accurate…word for…what I've been doing for months. And I was near the pier when I crashed the car, and…it just feels like being near the beach would be a constant reminder of…how…pathetic I am."
He trails off with a shuddering breath. He's shaking, and she lets go of his hands and reaches for his face so he can't look away. "You are not pathetic, Danny; you're in pain. You're strong and courageous and I am so proud of you—for recognizing that going to the beach might trigger you, for telling me, for not just trying to 'suck it up' and go."
He ducks his head—he's never taken compliments well. "The boys should still go. Maybe we can find something else to do. Didn't Pops say his friend Mrs. Ginty has a cabin in the mountains? We could go there for a week."
She kisses him gently. "That sounds like a great idea, babe. Let me go call Henry."
That Saturday finds the four of them at Irene Ginty's cabin. The boys had refused to go on vacation without their parents—finally admitting they were afraid Danny would be dead when they came home.
The mountain air is cool and brisk—a nice change from the sweltering heat of Staten Island.
Danny is more relaxed than she's seen him since January 12—which isn't saying much—and agrees to take the boys to the lake to fish. "Only if you come too," he says quietly, and she kisses him, then finishes unpacking their suitcase.
The boys run ahead of them, their fishing rods bouncing on their shoulders—she's probably going to have to untangle the mess of lines before anyone does any fishing—and she slips her hand into his. "You sure you're okay?"
He sighs. "I can't spend the rest of my life avoiding large bodies of water because of a creepily accurate analogy my shrink made. I'll be okay. Lake isn't that deep," he adds quietly.
She squeezes his hand. "You need to take a break, we'll walk around that path over there. The boys will be fine."
He nods and untangles the boys' lines and rods while Sean digs around for worms.
When the boys have gotten a rhythm down, he walks down the shore a little, picks up a handful of pebbles, throws one into the lake.
It sinks with a splash, and she doesn't like the expression on his face as he watches the ripples until they've faded, then throws another.
She glances at the boys, then follows Danny. "Talk to me, babe."
"I…I'm sorry. I told you I wanted you to come, and then I…" He shakes his head in disgust and she reaches for his hand, takes a few pebbles.
"Maybe instead of those pebbles being you drowning, they're…your demons drowning."
"Huh?"
She throws the largest pebble as far as she can. "Take that, suicidal thoughts that are telling my Danny he's worthless!" she whispers fiercely.
He's looking at her like she's finally lost her marbles, too—she can feel his eyes on her—but she picks another pebble and throws it. "And you too, damn depression! Go drown in the freaking lake!"
Five pebbles later, she's gotten a legit chuckle out of Danny, and he smiles—the kind of smile that meets his eyes—when Jack yells he's caught a fish.
Sean whoops as he holds his own catch up, and Danny pulls her into a bone-crushing hug. "Thank you. I love you. Now let's go see if you can out-fish our sons, while I help them clean their catch."
He hums under his breath as they walk back to the boys—she hasn't heard him hum since last Christmas, almost eight months ago—and she relaxes just a bit. Pebbles and fish guts, therapy and meds…maybe Danny is going to be okay, after all.