A/N: I re-watched the last few minutes of 11x09, and while part of me—the author who has given Dawson a life beyond 19 minutes in 4 episodes—wants to keep him only for Danny, another part of me can see why Doc would be good for Frank. After all, this is Frank Reagan we're talking about. The one time we saw him attempt therapy, in 2x12, he left after barely 3 on-screen minutes—40 minutes in the session, according to the therapist. The mere fact that he's willing to try to open up…I'll let him keep Doc.
I needed to give Danny a solid reason for freaking out at the thought of losing Doc as his therapist, so I brought in grief. Danny and the author would like a user's manual or a how-to guide on grief. Also there was a typo in the last chapter: it's been almost four years since Linda's death, not three.
He drives to Doc's on auto-pilot, his mind a jumble.
It's been eight years since his first meeting with the man he calls "Doc." First, it was just the two mandatory anger management sessions, which failed miserably, or so anyone that knew him would say. Then, a year of twice-weekly sessions after Corporal Russell's suicide, when his own PTSD was spiraling out of control. Then every other week as needed, though the door of Doc's office was always open for him at 8 p.m. on a Monday. He'd drop by during a tough case, or on Fallujah anniversaries, or when he and Linda were having a rough patch.
He'd resumed weekly sessions in desperation after Linda's death, trying to stay afloat when life itself had been ripped from under him. Again, after about a year, the intervals between sessions spread out a bit. He was back to monthly sessions now.
Can he really deny his father that same…intangible whatever-it-is that Doc gives him? The perspective, the safe space to vent without fear of it biting him in the $$, the listening ear?
Maybe there's another therapist out there with the same whatever-it-is Doc has, but he's been to his share of "cop docs" in way too many trauma debriefings, mandatory psych evals; and Alex Dawson is the only one who has…been able to put up with the anti-shrink feelings that sometimes come out, not batted an eye at his anger (he's punched a few holes in Doc's wall, dented his filing cabinet over the years), and that common bond of widowerhood (is that even a f-g word?) they share has definitely helped.
It's been sixteen years since his dad lost his wife, twelve since they lost Joe, almost four since they lost Linda. He knows his dad can recite the names and death dates of all twenty-odd officers killed in the line of duty since his tenure as police commissioner began.
He sighs, turns his car off and goes inside the familiar building.
He gets a cup of cocoa and sits down in "his" chair. "Doc, if…if you were to take on my dad as a patient…what sort of…I mean…?"
He's not sure what the proper shrink lingo is, and he sets his cup down, leans back in the chair.
"You're asking about the boundaries that would exist?"
He nods. Yeah, that was the word he was looking for.
"I would not discuss your sessions with him, or his sessions with you."
He nods. "What about if…I don't know…I did something stupid at work, got suspended by 1PP? It's happened before."
Doc smiles—he's been a mediator on some of those occasions. "Then I would walk the confidentiality tightrope very carefully."
He relaxes a little bit. "You gonna tell me how immature I am, freaking out at the thought of not being your patient anymore?"
"No, I'm not going to tell you that—but I need you to tell me why you, as you put it, 'freaked out.'"
He shrugs. "When I was drowning after Corporal Russell's suicide, after Linda's…murder"—that word is still so hard to say—"you gave me a lifeline. And, some days I'm still drowning, and knowing that you're there if I need to reach out…is the only thing that keeps my head above water."
"What does 'drowning' look like these days to you, Danny?"
He shrugs. "I…I don't know, Doc. Why'd you take my gun earlier?"
"Because I've been working with you long enough to recognize when you're overwhelmed and beginning to think of options to make everything end."
He sighs, tries to look at the clock Doc keeps so well-hidden. "I'm not suicidal."
"Says the man who was sitting on the side of the Verazzano thirty minutes ago," Doc says, keeping eye-contact with him.
He's on his feet in an instant. "Dammit, Doc, it's not…"
He's choked up again, but he doesn't bolt. He just paces once, twice, three times around the room, then sits down.
He's breathing fast, and there's a lump in his throat, and he can't look at Doc, because the f-g compassion in those eyes will make him cry.
"If that wasn't a suicidal gesture, then what was it, Danny? I need you to tell me."
"You tell me," he sniffles.
"That's not how it works, and you know it, Danny; I'm not a mind-reader, although it would make this job easier sometimes. I need you to talk to me. What's wrong?" Doc asks gently.
He scrubs his face, disgusted to feel that it's wet, leans forward in the chair. "It's coming up on four years, Doc. All of a sudden, I'm not sleeping; I f-g cried for no apparent reason. Last year it wasn't this hard. I mean, I was…sad, but…not like this. Hell, it's not even May yet. How bad is all this… stuff…gonna be then?"
"Grief, unfortunately, isn't linear, Danny; it has more ups and downs than a rollercoaster. We'll start unpacking that in a minute, but I need to know: is this why you 'freaked out' when you thought I was going to stop seeing you as a patient? Because you were feeling overwhelmed with unexpected grief, and you didn't know how to handle it?"
He nods, unable to speak around the growing lump in his throat.
"It would be unprofessional of me to drop you as a patient when you're going through a crisis like that. I'm not going anywhere, Danny."
He lets out a shaky breath, relieved and suddenly teary-eyed. He swipes at his eyes, grateful when Doc stands up and goes over to the cocoa/coffee station. "Want another cup?" Doc asks calmly.
"Yeah," he whispers, swipes at his face. That just makes the tears come faster. He leans his head in his hands, hopes Doc doesn't notice. It's been a while since he's cried in this office, but it's still awkward.
He jumps at the hand on his shoulder. But Doc doesn't say anything, just stands there, the hand warm, reassuring, letting him know he's not alone.
He cries for a few minutes, then stands up, goes over to the table in the corner and grabs a few tissues to wipe his face.
He takes a shaky breath, then returns to his seat. "Sorry about that."
"It's okay, Danny. I want you to think about the past few weeks, tell me, if you can, what triggered this new wave of grief?"
He doesn't have to think about that; he knows the exact instant. "Got an email from work about a mandatory meeting on the…on the anniversary. I had been…thinking about…taking the day off—had actually requested it, and the request had been approved. You're always telling me that I need to work fewer hours, take a mental-health day now and then; so I was gonna spend the day with Jack and Sean, visit her grave. But no, I have a f-g mandatory meeting that lasts eight hours. I was so pissed that they didn't know what that day was for me…and then when I got home, I lost it. Cried like a baby. Stupid, pathetic…"
He goes to punch himself, but Doc is at his side in an instant, and grabs his hand. "Stop it, Danny. Don't hurt yourself. There is nothing stupid or pathetic about you. This is grief, and it hurts, but you are going to get through this. I will help you—but you have to talk to me, and you cannot hurt yourself. Now, drink your cocoa, take a few breaths, and we'll talk."
He's completely exhausted by the time the session is over, and when Doc asks if he can drive him home, he agrees, surprising even himself.
Right before he closes the car door to go inside his house, he looks at Doc and says, very quietly, "I…I'm okay with you seeing the Commissioner as long as you don't fall off that tightrope."