Doc, however, does not think stopping therapy is a good idea.
They finally compromise on every other week—more talk therapy, less of that stupid EMDR Doc had begun to try—and Doc leaves, and Danny slowly crutches up the stairs, putting absolutely no weight on his left foot, Linda supporting him with the gait belt.
He lies down, grateful that Linda has put his lockbox somewhere he doesn't even know where it is. "Aren't you coming to bed?" he frowns, trying to wriggle out of his jeans.
"The boys will be home any minute. Once I get them settled, I'll be up," she says, and kisses him.
He's too drained from everything to even think about a shower—not that he'd try a shower without her here—and he changes into his pajamas, takes the pills she hands him with a swallow of water. "I'm sorry."
"Shhh. We'll talk more in a bit," she says, as the boys ring the doorbell.
Once he's heard all about practice, and the game they have scheduled Friday night, Linda gets the boys off to bed, and Danny relaxes when she crawls under the covers next to him. "I'm sorry," he says at the exact same time she says the same words.
They both stop.
She looks at him, chewing her lip nervously, and he swallows hard. "You first."
"I'm sorry if I…pushed you too fast and too hard. I just want you to be back to your old self, and sometimes…"
"What old self?" he interrupts. "The guy I was before Fallujah?"
"No—although I wish…for your sake, I wish you could be that guy again. Without all the trauma and PTSD and anger. But…you've come so far since working with Doc. I want…who you were a year ago, before you broke your ankle, before I got shot, before you spiraled into this…sad, irritable version of yourself who doesn't want to get better."
"I just…want to forget. Do something for five minutes that doesn't involve my ankle, or…my PTSD, or therapy."
"How 'bout a bath?"
"Do you think…I can get in there without putting the boot back on? If…you help me?"
"I don't think it's a good idea to risk walking without the boot—or the crutches. Not after the number of times you've re-injured it lately. And as swollen as it is…I want you to keep it out of the water, on the edge of the tub."
He tenses. The last time he'd had it on the edge of the tub…she'd gotten mad and left. If that happens again…
She kisses him. "I'm not going anywhere, Danny."
He nods, but makes no move to get up. "If you help me, I think I can make it."
"Of course."
He tries to fight down the feeling that he's being pitied and looked down upon as she helps him with his socks and the brace and the boot.
She squeezes his knee gently. "Hey. Look at me, Danny."
He shakes his head, afraid he's going to see anger or pity in her eyes.
"I don't…pity you, Danny. I offered to help because I think the bath will relax you. And I think….and I'm sorry if this sounds like I'm telling you how you feel, but I think you need to relax—physically, mentally, emotionally…"
He nods, hating the tears in his eyes but loving that they're back on the same page, where she can tell what he's thinking (like not wanting her to pity him) without him having to put it into words. "Yeah. You're…you're right."
"Say that again," she smirks.
"You're right," he whispers, relaxing just a smidge when she kisses him. If she's teasing him…maybe they'll be okay…?
He has to admit, despite the logistics of getting into the tub and then out again without damaging any other bones/joints/whatever, he's feeling more relaxed after their long soak.
Linda's snuggled against his chest, and he kisses the top of her head. "Thank you."
"For what?" she asks sleepily.
"For not leaving. For letting me take a break from physical therapy and therapy-therapy. For…loving me."
"For better or worse," she whispers around a yawn, and ten seconds later she's asleep.
He holds her gently, and hopes that having her in his arms will keep the nightmares away.