Jack followed him around like a puppy all weekend, and Danny noticed that the dark thoughts seemed to bother him less when he wasn't alone. But late Saturday afternoon, Linda went to the grocery; Jack was playing chess with Pops; Sean was in his room playing video games; and his dad had gone back to the office to deal with some crisis—leaving Danny alone.
Memories from Fallujah had been haunting him all day; and now, with no distractions, they swam to the forefront of his memory.
He stalked into the kitchen, opened the fridge. Nothing in there that looked appealing.
His dad's words from a year or so ago—"If you find yourself on your third beer with the TV on and the door closed, put it down, turn it off, and go find Linda and the kids"—swam through his mind.
He didn't feel like zoning out to the TV; he couldn't mix alcohol with the anti-depressant.
He wandered up to his old room. The punching bag still hung in the corner. It had always been a good outlet for him before; maybe it would help now.
He pulled his long-sleeved shirt off, threw it on the floor, and took a swing at the bag.
The faces of John Russell, Bobby LaRue, the men in his unit swam through his mind. He swung, harder and harder.
His knuckles were throbbing, but the pain of the memories was easing.
He kept hitting the bag.
"Danny! Danny!"
He blinked. He was in bed…no, he was lying on something hard.
He looked around.
He was lying on the floor of his old room. His arms hurt.
Linda was sitting next to him, shaking him. "Danny, wake up!"
He sat up, blinking when he saw his knuckles were raw and bleeding. "Dammit. Hit…the punching bag…too long."
"Why weren't you wearing gloves?"
He shrugged. "Didn't think about it."
"I'll be right back. Don't move."
She came back with the first-aid kit, and he winced as she began cleaning his hands. "What happened, Danny?"
He shook his head. "I don't know. Dad had to go back to 1PP; Pops was playing chess with Jack. I started thinking, and I was…on the verge of a flashback. Couldn't drink a beer; didn't feel like TV; but I knew I needed to distract myself. Was only going to hit the bag a few times. Guess I wore myself out."
She finished bandaging his knuckles, and he slowly stood up. Damn, he was dizzy.
Linda wrapped her arms around him. "Don't you ever do that to me again, Danny! I thought…"
Her voice broke, and he said, roughly, "You thought I'd tried to kill myself."
She flinched, and he pulled away to wrap her in his arms. "I…I…I didn't… I was trying to distract myself from doing something stupid."
"Doc told you to reach out. I didn't hear him say to beat the crap out of a punching-bag."
"I didn't know who to reach out to, Linda! Jack was with Pops…I'd only have scared Jack more if I'd gone to talk to Pops; I didn't want to keep bothering Doc…"
"Danny, you could have called me, Doc, or Frank; any one of us would have talked to you 'till we got you grounded again. It doesn't matter that we were busy doing other things. Instead, you decide to punish yourself with the punching bag; and I come home to…to…you lying on the floor of your old room—asleep or passed out, I didn't know which—with your hands all bloody. Scared the crap out of me."
"I'm sorry," he whispered, and cursed as he felt tears stinging his eyes. Stupid anti-depressant. "I didn't mean to scare you. I guess I just…lost track of time. I'm so sorry," he said again, and held her close.
He managed to ease his dad's and grandfather's worries with a few words; the boys were almost as easy; and, thankful for the cold weather, he kept his thick leather gloves on all during Mass the next day.
He couldn't eat with the gloves on; so he walked into the dining room with a silent prayer that nobody would give him too much of a hard time.
Linda had barely finished saying grace before Erin asked worriedly, "What happened to your hands, Danny?"
He shrugged, cursing his family's powers of observation. "Work-related injury."
"I thought you were riding a desk—for real, this time," Jamie said, and Danny cursed.
"Boys, take your plates and go into the kitchen."
"So you can talk about stuff we're not supposed to hear?" Sean asked.
"That's exactly right, kiddo. Go on."
Erin glanced at Nikki, who stood up. "Come on."
When the kids had left, Danny pushed his chair away from the table. This conversation wasn't going to help his appetite any.
"I had a…flashback yesterday, took my anger out on the punching bag."
"But why are you on modified?"
Danny glanced at his dad, who shrugged.
He let out a shaky, angry sigh, and flinched when Linda slipped her arm around him, rubbed at his back. "I had...another, really bad flashback Wednesday morning, took my off-duty weapon—my loaded off-duty weapon—out of the safe. I was this close to using it—and not on a bad guy."
He could see from his sister's face that she didn't understand what he was saying.
He glanced at his grandfather. If the man didn't know already, he didn't want to be the one to give him another heart attack. "Pops…" he said hesitantly.
"I know, Danny," the elderly man said.
"Know what?" Erin exploded. "What does everyone else at this table already know that I don't?"
He took a shaky breath, let it out, and stood up. He walked over to stand behind his sister's chair. It would be a lot easier to say the words if she weren't looking him in the face.
He put his bandaged hands on her shoulders. "The case with Corporal Russell…stirred up a lot of…memories from Iraq. I haven't been sleeping or eating. I…"
He cleared his throat. Saying these words out loud with his grandfather, his father, his wife, his sister and brother sitting there, listening…he couldn't sugar-coat, couldn't use the euphemisms he'd cursed Doc for not using.
"I…was this close…to turning the gun on myself because…"
Erin pushed her chair back from the table, knocking Danny back. He staggered—stupid pills were making him dizzy—caught himself on the chair as his little sister threw her arms around him, sobbing.
"Shhh, Erin, it's okay. I'm right here."
She pulled away from him and slugged him in the chest, fists flailing in much the same way Jack's had on Thursday. "No, it's not okay, Danny! You thought for half a second that this family would be better off without you, that I could handle losing another brother? Dammit, how selfish can you be, Danny?"
She stormed out of the room through the kitchen—so much for keeping the kids ignorant of their conversation—and Danny stood there.
"I'll go talk to her," his dad said, and rose. "Excuse me."
"Sorry." Danny glanced at his grandfather. "I couldn't lie to her."
The family patriarch didn't say anything, and Danny retrieved his plate from the table. "Excuse me," he said, and headed into the kitchen to put his un-eaten dinner in the fridge.
"She got you pretty good," Linda said as they sat on the edge of the bed that night.
He nodded, and winced. Between Jack's fists Thursday, his own attack on the punching bag Saturday, and now Erin's fury, he was feeling twenty years older.
He'd seen the bruises earlier; his little sister could sure throw a punch. "Pain's good. Keeps me grounded, here."
"Hurting yourself…isn't going to make the memories go away, Danny."
"You sound like Doc."
She kissed him. "Well, I'm not Doc. I'm your wife, and I hate to see you in so much pain." She picked up the ice pack she'd snagged out of the freezer earlier. "Put this on for ten minutes."
He obligingly lay down and let her arrange the towel-covered ice pack on his bruised chest.
"Doc's gonna be pissed at me tomorrow."
"So's your partner. Does Baez even know what's going on?"
He shrugged again, and winced. Needed to not do that for about a week. "She knows I'm on modified. Doesn't know why. I'll have to tell her tomorrow."
"Okay. Right now, though, just rest. You need it, Danny." She kissed him, ran a gentle hand along the bruises. "Love you."
"Love you more," he whispered, and tried to sit up to kiss her; but she pushed him down gently. "Dammit!" he cursed at the pain.
"Sorry, babe. Does it hurt when you breathe?"
"No, just when I…move."
"Good. You probably don't have any broken ribs; bruised maybe—Erin does not hit like a girl, not when she's ticked. Stay still now, Danny." She kissed him again. "Love you."
"Love you most," he whispered, and used every ounce of Marine training to make himself drift off to sleep.