He should get up and help Linda clean up the kitchen—considering he made 90% of the mess—but he's too exhausted. Getting up early, making pancakes and bacon…it had been too much, and his ankle's killing him.

He tenses when she kisses the top of his head. "I'm proud of you."

"Don't start," he begs. He can't handle another argument like the ones they've been having all week.

"Will you just let me talk, Danny? Because I don't think you've been hearing me."

"O…okay," he says warily.

She starts massaging his shoulders, and he groans. He'd never known crutches could be such hell on one's back and shoulders and arms.

"What I said last night…I didn't mean it to come out that way, like I was proud of you because you're trying to get better and be happy. I know you can't just…snap your fingers and…not have PTSD anymore. I know that, Danny!"

"Good. Because it's not like I *** asked for any of this!" he snaps, and jerks away from her touch, too angry to tolerate it any more.

"Danny, babe…that's not what I meant—not at all."

"Then what did you mean?"

"This whole week, you've been…reaching out for help, using the crutches, asking for help when you need it, asking to take a bath with me because you know it'll calm you down even if you still think baths are girly. That's why I'm proud of you. You're talking to me, you're not shutting down."

He yawns. He's exhausted from a week of nightmare-ridden nights. He had thought (hoped) the time off from therapy would mean fewer nightmares and memories. Apparently, he had thought wrong.

"I'm proud of you because you didn't fight Nate or Doc on the breaks from PT and therapy. I'm proud of you because you made breakfast for me and the boys this morning."

He shrugs, tenses as her hands come back to rest on his shoulders. "I just did that 'cause I woke up early."

She kisses him. "You made a fruit salad, even if you forgot to cut up the strawberries. That was sweet, babe—thank you."

"You're welcome," he whispers.

He hasn't seen Doc since Monday, and he's looking forward to not seeing him for nine more days. It's sort of been nice, not having to talk about the things he wishes he couldn't remember.

But not having therapy means Linda is his only sounding-board right now. Which is probably part of why they've had so many heated…talks…all week. "I'm sorry for…snapping without taking the time to really listen to what you were saying."

Every conversation he'd shut down all week…that was what she'd been trying to tell him: That she was proud of him. And he'd snapped, or shut her down, because he had thought she was trying to imply that he could just decide to be happy and that would solve everything.

"Apology accepted," Linda says, and hands him his crutches.

"What are we doing?" he asks, confused.

"I have to take the boys to practice; thought you'd want to come along."

He's tired of being the fourth wheel, tired of being seen by their sons' parents and friends as the helpless cripple, but he nods and begins the still-laborious process of standing up. Running errands with his beautiful wife does sound a lot more appealing than sitting at home thinking about his screwed-up ankle and his screwed-up (whoops, hurting) head…

They go out for coffee and then sit in a park people-watching while the boys are at practice.

He has to admit, it's kind of nice being out in the fresh air, outside of the four walls of his house for a while. Without a schedule and a routine and the physical ability to do much around the house, he gets stuck in his head.

And his head these days is, frankly, a scary place to be.

He reaches over to squeeze Linda's hand, and she looks at him. "Yeah?"

He shakes his head. "Just…thank you. For being here. For giving me the tough love I needed. For not yelling at me for being too weak to get better."

She kisses him—a searing kiss that leaves him a little breathless. She doesn't normally do that when they're out in public. "What was that for…?"

"That was because you called yourself 'weak.' Didn't you hear me this morning? You can't will yourself out of PTSD or will your ankle to heal just like that. It takes time. And patience."

"I'm not good at patience."

"I know. When you run out, I'll give you some of mine."

"Thank you," he whispers, and pulls her close as a formidable man with an angry-looking dog walks by.

Maybe…maybe this time off from both types of therapy will really be a good thing.