After his shower, he sat down on the bed. He didn't want to go downstairs in case Linda was still mad at him, but she wouldn't be happy if he didn't eat something. How could she have thought he'd gone and gotten drunk?
He shook his head, and startled when she sat down next to him. "Easy, Danny, it's just me." He let out a shaky breath, returned to staring at the floor. "I'm sorry for jumping to conclusions. I chewed Jamie out for doing that, and then…I did the same thing. I'm sorry, Danny," she said again. "Forgive me?"
He nodded, let out a shaky breath. "Yeah. I…I'm sorry for snapping at you. Forgive me, please?" he whispered.
She reached for his hand. "Always, Danny."
"I hate fighting with you."
"I know. Me too. I'm sorry." She slipped her arm around his shoulders. "I was so worried that what Jamie said…was going to make you quit therapy and lose all the progress you've made, and…I let my fear get the best of me. I'm sorry, Danny."
He pulled away, leaned his face in his hands. "Progress? What progress? Having a flashback when a car backfires isn't progress."
She reached for him, took his face in her hands so he couldn't look away. "Calling Doc, coming home to me, not getting drunk…that's progress, Danny. And I am proud as hell of you for it."
He pulled away, shook his head. "Doesn't feel like progress. I can't work if I'm having flashbacks. If I had one in the field…it could get me, or my partner, or innocent civilians, killed."
"Danny, you still have four more full weeks on modified. By that time, the Zoloft will have kicked in; it will help with your PTSD symptoms, with your mood. Give it time, babe."
He sighed, and she rubbed at his back. "Do you want to come downstairs, try to eat something?"
"Not hungry."
"What about something light? A few scrambled eggs?"
He shrugged. "Okay. Where are the boys?"
"Over at the Keenan's. Joanne will have them home in time for bed."
"How's Michael doing?" With everything going on in the past month, he hadn't had time to reach out to the kid who had insisted—rightly, it turned out—that his dad hadn't committed suicide, and had begged him to look into it.
"He's doing okay. Still talks about the Rangers game you took him to—was that a year ago? You did good, Danny."
He shrugged. "I did my job. I guess I'll try that scrambled egg."
"You did more than your job—because you always go above and beyond. And that is one of the things I love about you." She kissed him, stood up, pulling him with her. "Come on, let's get some food in you."
He managed one scrambled egg and a piece of toast, took the Zoloft with a glass of milk.
He wanted nothing more than to crawl under the covers and shut the world out; but that would just mean even more time to have nightmares; so he stayed downstairs, fixed the foosball table—Sean had broken it again—and looked over the boys' homework when they got home.
By 9:30, he was dragging…stupid nightmares the night before…and he went to bed.
After Linda had woken him from a nightmare for the second time, he sat up, and pulled on his bathrobe.
"Where're you going?" Linda asked, sitting up.
"Downstairs. No use trying to sleep any longer."
"Danny, it's…2 a.m." She stood, padded over to him, and sat down. She leaned her head on his shoulder, slipped her arm around him. "If you want to talk about it, I'm listening."
"I can't." He shuddered, remembering. The nightmares hadn't been his usual ones that he could probably re-tell with his eyes closed. Instead, the nightmares had been voices…the disembodied voices of Michael Oates and John Russell and Bobby LaRue and everyone else telling him that he had betrayed them by coming home alive.
He was trembling now, and she tightened her hold on him. "Okay, Danny, but I'm here. You're not alone. You don't have to fight this alone."
He had no choice but to fight this alone; he couldn't burden her with any more words about how he didn't deserve to be alive, didn't deserve to be home. That was his burden to carry, and his alone.
"If you can't tell me, at least tell Doc…please, Danny."
The mere thought of talking to Doc about this made his stomach churn, and he pulled away from her, turned on the light, and picked up the brochures that lay crumpled on his bedside table where he'd thrown them the night before. "No point in trying to sleep; I might as well do my homework."
An hour later, they'd settled on a combination of exercise and sunshine—in the form of a walk around the block each morning. He highly doubted it would help any more than the Zoloft was helping (meaning: not at all), but Doc knew what he was talking about, so he'd give it a shot.