A/N: The first part of this is a flashback to about a month before chapter 1. Sorry for jumping all over the place…blame the Dreaded Virus. On day three of self-isolation and slowly losing my marbles.
Jack's been home from college for a few nights. They still haven't talked about what Sean told him. He's hoping to put it off as long as possible.
He's getting a drink of water from the kitchen sink when a voice says "Dad, can we talk to you?"
He turns to see Jack and Sean standing there in bare feet and pajamas…something that makes them look 10 and 8 again, despite their height.
"I thought you went to bed hours ago. It's late."
Sean shrugged. "We were talking. This is important, Dad."
"Okay." he walks over and sits on the couch.
Jack puts his hands in his pockets. "I saw the note on the table. When were you gonna tell us that people were sending you death threats and telling you to kill yourself?"
He shrugs. "I wasn't going to tell you; didn't want you worrying about it. What's going on at college?"
"We're not supposed to worry when our dad—a vet, with PTSD, a widower, and a cop—gets an anonymous note in the mail telling him to eat his gun?" Jack asks.
"That's old news; it was from last summer."
"And the death threat, Dad? Did you tell Grandpa? Or your new boss?" Sean glares at him accusingly. Graduating high school, and getting accepted into college, has done wonders for his youngest son.
He shakes his head, looks at the note, which he'd stuck in an evidence bag as soon as he saw it. He keeps a few stashed around the house in case he needs them—he's not the first cop to get a note like this.
"I'll tell them in the morning."
"Have you told your supervisors about the notes?" Doc asks., bringing him back to the present, sitting on the curb in the parking-lot of Doc's office at 2 a.m. or whatever ungodly hour it is.
He shakes his head.
"You need to. That's an order, Danny."
"An order, Doc? And if I don't?"
"I'll tell Lieutenant Gee—and ask that you be put on modified duty."
"I already gave my gun to Baez," he mutters.
"Which means you're sort of already on modified, so being formally put on modified won't be a hassle."
"So now I don't have my weapon, so if this quack that wrote me those notes comes after me…"
He stands up, gets in his car, and drives back to the precinct to do his paperwork.
He's on his third cup of coffee when Baez slams her desk drawer shut, making him jump.
He looks up. "Thought I was the one with anger management problems."
"You are! And you're just trying to pass them to me! What was that about earlier, giving me your gun?"
He shrugs. "What do you mean?"
"You gave me your suspect and your gun—and left! Without a word! If I hadn't been holding your gun in my hand, I would have thought you were suicidal! What the hell happened?"
He shakes his head, reaches for his wedding band to twist it around his finger. "She told me to put my gun under my chin and pull my trigger."
"The suspect? Lacey?"
He nods.
"Danny…"
He holds his hand up to stop the wave of sympathy. "Don't. I already talked to Doc, now I'm just killing time 'till the boss gets here."
"He's here now," Gee says from behind him. "What do you need to tell me, Reagan?"
He gets the letters out of his locked desk drawer and follows Gee into his office, surprised to see it's after 7 a.m.
Quickly, trying to hide how rattled he is, he tells Gee about the letters, about last night's suspect, about giving his weapon to Baez.
His boss is strictly professional; gives him a 3-day rip, takes his weapon, tells him he's on modified duty until he's cleared by the department shrink. "And I want to talk to whoever you're seeing that isn't the department shrink," Gee adds as a parting shot.
He goes to Doc's, wondering how he's going to mention that request, and wondering about the legality of it and the ethical professionalism of it and all that crap.