After a dinner in which the boys had been uncharacteristically quiet—proof that his brokenness is messing up their childhoods—he sticks his plate in the fridge and hobbles upstairs.
He hopes Linda hasn't noticed how little he'd eaten. He'd eaten the broccoli, and moved the chicken and rice bake around his plate so it looked like he'd eaten more than he had…
He stops at the top of the stairs, curses when he feels how hard he's breathing and how fast his heart is thumping.
He crutches (is that a word? hobbles?) into the room, puts the crutches against the wall, and grabs his pajamas from the pillow.
Video game noises are loud downstairs, and he hopes the boys never ask for Call of Duty or any other first-person shooter games. The one time he'd picked them up at a friend's house and found them engrossed in one of those games, he'd snapped at the kid's mom for letting his sons play the game—and that had been the last time his sons had played with that kid.
He changes into his pajamas even though it's not even 6 p.m., gets his off-duty weapon out of the safe, and sits down on his side of the bed.
He takes the walking boot off, pumps his ankle on the floor till the pain is the only thing he can think about, and unloads his weapon.
He's almost finished cleaning it when he realizes he forgot to set the timer on his phone—it's something he does regularly, to stay sharp: he times how fast he can clean and re-load his weapon.
But his phone isn't there—because it's in the pocket of his shorts, which are in a crumpled heap on the floor by the bathroom door.
Stupid him, the crutches are just out of reach, on the far side of his dresser.
He pushes himself to his feet, goes to grab the headboard, and curses when he knocks the lamp off his nightstand.
Good thing their floor is carpeted…
He's not normally this uncoordinated, and he falls back onto the bed with a groan as he lands directly on top of his (unloaded) gun.
The door slams open. "Danny!"
He groans. "'M fine, Linda."
"Did you fall? What happened? Are you okay?"
He shakes his head. "Just…knocked the lamp over. I'm fine."
Cold hands feel his forehead, touch his wrist. "You're sweating, babe. Come here." She pulls him up so he's sitting on the edge of the bed. "Danny, look at me."
He shakes his head.
"Danny, honey, what happened? Why are you lying on top of your gun?"
"I was cleaning it," he mumbles.
"How did you fall?"
"Forgot my phone in my pants pocket, and I over-balanced and tripped. I'm fine."
"You suddenly needed to clean your gun—which you haven't used in six weeks—after telling me that you blame yourself for a fellow-cop's death? Come on, Danny."
He's too exhausted to argue with her that he isn't suicidal. He forces his eyes open. "Please, Linda, not now. I just need sleep."
"Babe, it's not even 7 yet, and you hardly ate anything."
He shakes his head. "I'll eat breakfast, I promise. Can you…hold me?"
"After I clean up over here."
She puts the lamp back on the table and straightens the shade, plugs it in, mutters something about how glad she is their room is carpeted.
Almost twenty years of marriage, it's probably normal they think and say the same stuff sometimes, but it still weirds him out.
He lies down, watches as she puts his gun and ammo back in the lockbox, puts his cleaning supplies in the box on the bottom of the closet, gets his phone and handkerchief out of his pocket and puts his clothes in the hamper.
He should be helping, not sitting here like a…useless cop-killing…cripple.
He jumps when she sits down next to him so close she's almost on top of him. "Stop it, Danny."
"Stop what? I didn't say anything!"
"Stop thinking so loud I can hear you."
He wants to pull her down on top of him and make love to her until he can't remember his own name, but his ankle isn't up to all that…excitement.
He starts to roll over—maybe he'll fall asleep and all of this, from the broken ankle to the dead cop—will just be a bad nightmare, but she lies down and pulls him into a hug. "Talk to me, babe."
He sighs. "You just told me to stop thinking so loud!"
"What I meant was…you're lying there, beating yourself up so loudly I can hear you. Officer Bradley's death wasn't your fault."
"How do you know that?" he asks, exhausted.
"Because I know you, Danny. You would never…do anything to put a fellow cop's life in danger—not knowingly. It was an accident, babe. It wasn't your fault."
"Just like my buddies' deaths in Fallujah weren't my fault?" he asks bitterly.
"Yes, Danny. You need to…stop punishing yourself, or that ankle isn't gonna heal."
He'd gotten the freaking cast off that morning, so his ankle's healing just fine, thank you very much, but telling her that…would probably mean a fight, and right now, after what felt like way too many nights alone on the couch (it had only been ten days, but it felt it had been every one of the past six weeks), he just wants to fall asleep in her arms.
He turns, kisses her. "Can we talk about something other than my ankle, and Fallujah, and Officer Bradley? Please?"
"Of course. What do you want to talk about?"
"Well, I have plans for once I get the boot off and throw away these crutches…"
"Yeah? 'Cause I have plans, too…for right now."
He groans.
"Roll on to your side, babe, and let me work out those knots the crutches are giving you."
He does as he's told, groaning as she massages out first one knot, then another.
He's hurting pretty good, though crazy relaxed, by the time she's done, and he doesn't even fight the ice-packs she slips under his shoulders and his ankle.
"Thanks for taking care of your stupid, crippled husband," he whispers.
"You're not stupid, and you're not crippled, and I love you, Danny," she whispers back, and kisses him.
"Love you more," he says, shifting so the ice-pack isn't under his shoulder anymore, and praying he falls asleep quickly.
FINISHED 6/2/2021, 11;34 p.m.