Linda wakes up from a nightmare and reaches for Danny.
He isn't there. The cold sheets say he's been up for a while.
She sits up and gasps in pain.
What the hell…?
O, that's right. She has two bullet holes and an actual freaking bullet lodged somewhere near her spine.
She presses her hand to the one incision she can reach, curses when the movement pulls her stitches, making her wince.
She needs Danny.
She tries to yell for him but all that comes out is a whisper that sends a fiery-hot knife of pain through her side and ribs and chest.
She pants until the pain eases up.
Now she understands why Danny's always such a grump when he's been shot.
"Danny!" she stage-whispers again.
Dammit, she's going to have to find him.
She stands, sways, steadies herself on the bed. Why is she dizzy? Blood loss, dehydration, low blood sugar…? No, her bandage—the one she can reach—is dry, so she's not actively bleeding. She's been drinking water and eating (sorta), so it's not the other two…
She shuffles toward the door, stops when she sees the light from under the bathroom door.
She groans in pain as she shoves the door open.
Danny's sitting on the floor sniffling—a telltale sign he'd been crying.
There's no way in hell she can sit down next to him without passing out from pain.
"Danny, what's wrong?"
"I had a nightmare you died," he sniffled, and then looks up at her, his eyes widening.
He jumps to his feet, puts a hand on her good side, steadying her. "What's wrong? What are you doing out of bed? Did I wake you?"
She shrugs, bites her lip when that sends another stab through her torso. No more shrugging or nodding or freaking moving around for another month—good luck with that, Linda! she thinks. "I need to lie down…now," she pants.
She stiff-arms him when he goes to pick her up—it'll hurt too much—takes baby steps all the way back to their bed 'till she's positioned just right, then sits down and lets him swing her legs up. "I'm moving like a freaking 95-year-old," she whines.
Danny throws the warm, soggy ice packs onto the floor. "No, you're moving like you've been shot. Let me go get you some more ice packs."
She shakes her head, grabs her hand with her "good" arm (the arm that doesn't hurt to move). "Don't leave. Can you hold me like you were earlier?"
She takes the pain pill he hands her, relaxes when he's spooning her. As long as she doesn't move, this is actually semi-comfortable. She's not putting any weight on either incision, and the instant-cold pack Danny had grabbed from her first-aid kit in her nightstand, is helping.
"Did I wake you?" Danny asks again.
"No. I had a nightmare, and…I was hurting."
"What was your nightmare about?"
"I died, and you and the boys had to figure out how to go on, and I was watching from…somewhere, Heaven, I guess, but it hurt my heart so much to see you and the boys grieving, I woke myself up crying. Then you…you weren't there, and I sat up too fast and forgot about being shot, and then…it just hurt."
Danny kisses her head. "I'm sorry I wasn't here. I…had a nightmare myself. My version of your nightmare, it was horrible."
"You were crying," she says quietly.
Danny tenses. "I had a nightmare you died, Linda! Of course I was crying!"
His arm tightens around her, and she catches her breath with a hiss.
Breath…what breath…she can't…he's hugging her so tightly she can't take a breath, and the pain is like daggers, and…
She inches her left arm over until she can reach Danny's, and pinches his arm.
He yelps and lets go of her. "Ouch! What'd I do?"
She breathes….in through her nose for four seconds, hold for four seconds, out through her mouth for four seconds, hold for four seconds…until she can talk. "You…hugged too tight."
He instantly pulls away from her and scoots back. She can't see him, but she knows he's practically falling off the bed. "I…I'm sorry, Linda. Why didn't you…?"
"Because…I…couldn't…breathe enough to talk. That's why…I pinched you."
"I…I'm sorry, Linda. I didn't realize… What can I do to help?"
She closes her eyes against the pain, praying she doesn't throw up. That had hurt earlier, it'll hurt worse now. "Can you…go get some ice-packs? I think all our regular ones are melted, so put some crushed ice in a big Ziplock bag and wrap it in a towel and bring three of them."
Danny jumps out of bed.
She lies there, breathing and counting…who knew breathing techniques from labor could help when you'd been shot?...until he's back.
He gently arranges the ice-bags where she tells him. "I…I'll sleep on the couch," he says helplessly.
She shakes her head carefully. "No, Danny. I need you here, please. I don't feel safe without you. Just…hold me gently?"
He lies down again, inching toward her, asks before every move if it's okay, and soon she's breathing in his warmth and hoping she doesn't freeze to death from the ice-packs.
Being shot sucks…but having Danny as her caregiver and husband most definitely does not suck.
She just wishes she could make the guilt that's oozing off him go away.