A/N: I've never broken a bone; all medical information comes from Google.
He and Cliff Reacher are on patrol tonight. He likes Cliff. Not sure why he's paired up with him, 'cause they're in different units, but whatever. He's telling Cliff about Linda and Jack, and he's so engrossed in his story about baby Jack peeing on Jamie, he doesn't see the hole in the ground until his foot's in it.
He goes down hard with a muffled scream.
"Reagan? What the hell?"
"Stepped in a ditch…o…f***…" he groans, trying to push himself up.
He yells when Cliff pulls him to his feet. "You sure it's just a sprain? That sounded like it hurt."
"'Cause it did. I'm gonna go ice it," he says, and begins the two-mile walk—well, limp—back to the FOB.
He finds an abandoned rifle and uses it as a crutch once he realizes he can't put any weight on the leg.
He's sweating bullets when he walks into the FOB.
"Shirking patrol so you can write letters to your girl?" Jonesy smirks.
"She's my wife, Jonesy, and I f-g sprained my f-g ankle. Otherwise I'd be out there, risking my neck so you and Bobby LaRue can keep yours safe!" he snaps.
"LaRue will take your place on patrol tomorrow, go ice that ankle, Reagan," his C.O. says. "You need to be ready to roll out at 0500."
By midnight he's pretty sure the ankle's broken, but this is not the time or the place, so he wraps three ACE bandages around it, takes enough ibuprofen to give himself an ulcer, and hopes he doesn't permanently screw up his future by not getting an X-Ray.
It's well over 100 degrees the next day, so he blames his sweaty pallor on that and not on the fact that his ankle feels like someone's twisting a knife in there.
It should be a simple surgery, so when the surgeon comes out and says he has an update, that surgery isn't finished yet, Linda's heart sinks. "What's wrong?"
"Just a little complication. I didn't see anything in Detective Reagan's chart about a prior ankle fracture."
She frowns. "He sprained it in Iraq."
"No, it was fractured and not set. The tech should have seen this on the X-Ray. He's going to need internal pins, and it'll be at least a month before he's weight-bearing on that leg, another 2 months at least before he can begin normal activities."
"So…at least three months before he goes back to full duty? He's a major case detective—a lot of that job involves chasing criminals."
"Minimum three months. If he overdoes it too early—tries to walk on it before he should—he risks permanent injury. Permanent desk duty."
Linda nods, biting her lip to keep from crying, and resumes pacing, waiting for the chance to see Danny.
It's a few days before he's coherent enough to have a conversation with. He'd reacted badly to the pain meds and been out of his head, convinced he was back in Iraq.
Linda's dozing in the very uncomfortable chair next to his bed when she hears him groan. "Linda?"
She stands up, goes over to him. "Hey there, handsome, how are you feeling?"
"Fuzzy, leg hurts, feel like I've had the mother of all flashbacks."
"You've been pretty out of it, Danny," she says, and kisses him. He's warmer than she'd like. "You've been talking about your buddies from Iraq, yelling about grenades."
He looks away.
She wets a napkin and wipes his face. "When were you going to tell me that you'd broken your ankle in Iraq?"
He frowns, grabs the control of the bed, and sits himself up a little, wincing. "I didn't break it; I sprained it."
"Surgeon says you broke it and it was never set properly."
He stares down at the bed, his face tight. "Two Marines from another unit were killed that night. My ankle wasn't top priority. I wrapped it, took some ibuprofen, and kept it iced and elevated. No reason to think it was broken. The next night…was the night they sent Bobby LaRue out in my place…I…I sorta forgot about my ankle."
He tries to move it, winces. "What's the damage?"
"Well, it has enough hardware in there for a hardware store; you have a cast on; and you'll be wheelchair-bound for a month. Absolutely no weight-bearing."
He pouts. "Why can't I have crutches?"
"Because you'll crutch your way to work and be putting weight on your ankle if you have the slightest chance."
"When can I go back to desk duty?"
She crawls into the bed next to him and holds him close. "Not for at least three months."
"It's just a broken ankle, Linda."
"Doctor's orders. Unless you want to risk permanent disability—and permanent desk-duty."
"Three months. Stuck at home. One month stuck in a freaking wheelchair. I'm going to go crazy, Linda."
"I know. That's why I've got a plan in mind to help keep that from happening. Now go back to sleep before PT comes in and starts torturing you."