"What do you want for breakfast?" Linda asks when he crutches into the kitchen.
Danny shrugs, pulls a chair out and very carefully sits down, puts his leg up. "Doesn't matter."
She pours two cups of coffee and walks over to him, sets them down and sits down facing him. "Yeah, babe, it does. You need to eat. And maybe if you tell me what you're hungry for, you'll actually eat."
He shrugs. "I needed to lose some weight anyway."
"Not like this. Not from six weeks of pain and not having an appetite."
"Hot dogs?" he says, thinking of the hundred or so he had shipped to Fallujah, and shuddering at the memory of that hellhole.
"No, Danny, breakfast food," Linda says, sounding exasperated even though her eyes are twinkling. "Something with protein in it to help you heal."
He shrugs, winces. Crutches are darn hard on the shoulders. "Hot dogs have protein."
"Hot dogs are made of all sorts of stuff…you don't even wanna read the ingredient list, babe. Now, what breakfast food do you want?"
"Eggs, I guess," he sighs, and takes a sip of coffee, pushes the mug away.
"You haven't been eating the eggs I've been giving you."
He shakes his head. "I don't know, Linda. I'm…honestly not that hungry. I'm just…in pain, and frustrated that it's been six weeks and I'm still on the stupid crutches, and, I'm…really mad at myself for…letting a simple broken bone stir up all this Fallujah crap."
He blinks back tears. Stupid pain meds making him emotional—except, he isn't taking them like he's supposed to be.
He jumps when her hand covers his. "Danny, do you remember when you told me that the thought of losing me scared the hell out of you?"
He nods, not sure what this has to do with anything. "Yeah. Yeah, I…what's this gotta do with…with me not eating?"
She squeezes his hand. "Everything. Because you're not taking care of yourself. You're not eating, you're…you're doing everything you can to thwart the healing process, subconsciously or not. I am …scared stiff that…that you're gonna eat your gun because you can't handle the memories of Fallujah and because you're blaming yourself for Officer Bradley's death. Or…that you're gonna die because you're not eating and you're not taking care of yourself, and you're gonna get an infection in that ankle, and…the thought of you losing you to a broken ankle because of your demons…scares the hell out of me."
He takes a shuddery breath. "I…I'm sorry, Linda. I'm sorry I…I let this get to me that bad."
She shakes her head, kisses him. "That's not what I meant, Danny. You can't…control…your PTSD. What you can…control, what you need .to…control…is how you're reacting to it. Taking better care of yourself, taking your pain meds before the pain's too bad, talking to me instead of bottling everything up, doing the exercises you're supposed to be doing, talking to Doc instead of…whatever it is you're doing."
"Control how I'm reacting to it? Have you been talking to Doc?"
She bites her lip. "I…called him last night. Because…finding you lying on top of your gun…I was really, really scared for your safety, Danny. So I called Doc and asked for some pointers on how to get you to open up a bit. He didn't violate confidentiality or anything, just…suggested some things.
"So that whole…thing about being scared of losing me is just Doc talking? Sounds like something he'd tell you to say…" Danny curses vehemently.
Linda shakes her head, tears in her blue eyes. "No! No, Danny, that's not…that's not Doc talking. I am scared to death of losing you—either on the job, or…right now, because you really don't seem to care if you…live or die, and…"
Danny pushes himself to his feet, and Linda bites back a sob. He's going to run—well, hobble—like he always does when the conversation gets too emotional. She's surprised when he doesn't leave, just takes two steps toward her chair and pulls her into a tight hug.
She clings to his waist, tears flowing uncontrollably.
"I'm sorry, Linda," Danny whispers above her head. "I…I'm sorry I scared you. I'm sorry I'm being such a b $+ rd and being a bad patient and clamming up tighter than a…a clam. I…you know I stink at talking about feelings and crap, but I'll try…to talk to you more. And I'll do my exercises, and try to eat."
"Not just try to eat, Danny—I need you to tell me what you're hungry for, tell me what you think you can eat, so that you'll actually eat it."
"Chicken noodle soup for dinner?" he asks hopefully.
"It's the middle of summer, but yes, I'll make that if that's what you think you want for dinner." She gently pulls away from his embrace, guides him back into the chair, and lifts his leg up. His ankle's swollen, and she frowns. "You need to ice this, babe, while I make breakfast," she says, as the boys run downstairs yelling about Sean stealing Jack's hockey puck or something.
She sighs, and takes ice out of the freezer and eggs out of the fridge.
It's gonna be another long summer day.