A/N: This chapter picks up where the last one left off: Monday night, post-session with Doc, eleven days after Danny's struggles with suicidal thoughts in chapter 8.

Statistics on number of U.S. Marines killed in November and December 2004: (/)military(/)ops(/)iraq_casualties_

After he left Doc's office, he got in the car, locked the doors, and dialed a number.

His dad answered on the third ring. "Hey, Danny, what's wrong?"

"Sorry to call you so late. Do you have a minute?"

"What's wrong, Danny?" his dad asked again.

He let out a shaky breath. All of a sudden, this seemed like a much more stupid idea than it had during his walk to the car. "N…nothing. I just called to say 'hi'…"

"Don't give me that b.s., Danny. What's wrong, son?"

He hadn't heard his dad's voice that gentle in a long time. "I just got out of Doc's office, and I was thinking…maybe…maybe all this therapy and the anti-depressant is a waste of time, because maybe I deserve the depression and the PTSD. Maybe that's the price I have to pay for…making it home alive and not in a box."

"Danny...no one deserves to feel like his life has no meaning."

"Dad, you don't…"

"I don't need to know every detail of what happened in Iraq—though I'll listen if you need to tell me, Danny. What I do know is that you have more than made up for whatever happened in Iraq, whomever you feel you failed."

He was trying to find the words to tell his dad that he couldn't tell him everything that happened, that it was hard enough telling Doc and then going home a broken mess and talking to Linda, when his father said, "If you can't find the will to live yourself, then there are three reasons at your house. Go home, hug Linda, hug your boys."

He nodded. "Okay, I can do that. Thanks, dad."

It was close to 10 by the time he got home. Linda was sitting on the couch reading, and he leaned down to kiss her. "Hey, babe, how was your day?"

"It was good. How was lunch with Erin?"

He shrugged. "It was okay. Let me talk to the boys before they go to bed." He leaned down for another kiss. "Homework assignment," he whispered in her ear, and she nodded.

He walked over to the kitchen table where the boys were playing a card game, sat down. "When you're finished, let's play Spoons."

Sean threw his cards down, stood up, and stalked into the kitchen. "Now's fine, Jack hasn't let me win once."

"It's not a matter of letting you win, Sean-o; it's a matter of you stink."

"Hey, be nice now," Danny chastised as Sean came back with two spoons, which he slammed onto the table.

It was a fast-paced game, but he was paying too much attention to his boys—reading their body language, looking in their eyes when they made eye contact—to really pay attention to the game, and he lost both games.

There was no fear in their eyes, and he relaxed just a bit.

"All right, good game. Get outta here. I'll come say goodnight in a sec."

Linda came up beside him, leaned into him. "Why'd Doc want you to play a game with the boys?"

He shrugged. "To see their reactions." She looked puzzled and he sighed. "To see that they love me and trust me and…to see how much it would hurt them if…if I…"

He couldn't say the words, and she kissed him fiercely. "Go say goodnight to our boys, Danny. I'll be in our room."

He nodded, kissed her, and trudged up the stairs.

He knocked on Sean's door. "Yeah?"

"It's Dad."

Sean opened the door. "Night, Dad." He frowned. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I…I will be." He ruffled his younger son's hair. "Love you, kiddo."

"Love you too, Dad."

He knocked on Jack's door, surprised when the thirteen-year-old opened it and tackled him. Maybe his ribs weren't as healed as he thought… "Hey, whoah…old man here, bruised ribs."

Jack pulled away instantly. "Sorry, dad…did I hurt you? Are you okay?"

He winced. "It's okay, I…I'll be okay. 'Night, kiddo."

"Night, dad. Love you."

"Love you too, kiddo."

He hadn't specifically asked the boys if they loved him—but they'd said the words, so that probably counted. Maybe.

He showered and changed quickly, then sat down next to Linda. "Doc was…" He trailed off, shook his head. "Just…let me hold you?" He hated the pathetic tone in his voice, but another wave had crashed over him; and he didn't have the energy to fight it.

She scooted into his lap, laid her head over his heart; and he just held her. By some miracle she was still putting up with him, still here.

"Doc needs to ease up on you, Danny; you've been a million miles away since you got home."

"Not a million. Just 5,973." But she just looked at him blankly, and he said, bitterly, "The number of miles between here and Fallujah."

"Danny…"

He shook his head. "Doc was full of it tonight. Tried to tell me that I don't deserve to spend the rest of my life with depression and PTSD." He sighed. "We ran out of time for me to tell him that if that's the price I have to pay for being the only one who made it home, then I'll pay it."

"Danny…you've been home for nine years. All that time, and you still think you didn't deserve to come home?"

He took a ragged breath, cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was bitter, rough. "Linda, every last one of us wanted to get home to our families; hell, that's the only thing that got me through each day. And yet, in my last two months over there, we lost 72 Marines. At least once killed every day. Most of them were 19- and 20- year-old kids. Want me to tell you their names? 19-year-old Lance Corporal Bobby LaRue, 19-year-old Lance Corporal John Larson, 20-year-old Lance Corporal Matt Pearsons…" He trailed off. "I saw at least twenty of these kids die before my eyes. So yeah, I still f-g wonder why I made it home—why they were killed and I wasn't! I deserve every second of survivor's guilt and depression."

"No…Danny…you don't deserve any of that. You don't deserve to live in pain."

"Well, I don't know how to not live in pain, Linda! Maybe the only reason I made it home is to make up for every kid we lost over there, by getting justice for every victim in every case I work. And I couldn't save Russell, so maybe I deserve this pain!"

"No, Danny. You don't deserve to live in pain."

She sat up, cupped his face in her hands. "Danny, babe, you're going around in circles. You came home, okay? I cannot tell you why you were the only one in your unit to survive, but you were. And now you're home, and I know you buried all this for nine years…but now it's time to fight through this. You deserve healing. You deserve to live a happy life."

He flinched, and she moved behind him, back against the headrest. "Come here, Danny." He scooted over, unsure what she wanted, and let out a shaky sigh as she began massaging his shoulders.

Some of the tension left him, and he pulled his knees up to his chest, leaned his chin in his hands. "I…talked to Doc about the depression, like you suggested. He gave me some brochures—'self-help strategies for depression'—exercise, sunshine, sleep, family. He wants me to look at them with you, find two I can do daily, and tell him on Thursday."

"I'll help you with that tomorrow. Right now, you need to sleep." He shook his head, and she said gently, "One day at a time, babe. Maybe you need to take a couple sick days, get some rest."

"Can't. That'd just mean even more days on modified."

"If you need the extra time…for both your physical and mental health…no one's gonna hold it against you." He tensed, and she said, "Are you eating lunch at work?"

He shrugged.

"I really think you should call your primary care doctor, see if you can get a prescription for the nausea. Then maybe you can eat more and get your weight back up."

He sighed. "If I think of it, I'll call him in the morning."

"I'll remind you." She finished the backrub, lay down, and pulled him down with her.

He laid his head on her chest, his ear over her heart, and let out a shaky breath as she ran her fingers through his hair. "Thanks, Linda. Love you."

"Love you more," she whispered.

"Love you most," he finished, and kept his eyes open against the memories and faces that wanted to invade his dreams.

It was going to be another long night.