A/N: I think this takes place sometime in season 6.
He's waiting on his discharge papers. Linda had gone to see if she could figure out what the hold-up is, though warning him that it still could be a few hours.
He's exhausted from transferring from the bed to the wheelchair, to a regular chair, back to the wheelchair, and back to bed. PT is a bunch of sadists and they shouldn't be allowed to start making a patient get tortured at 8 a.m. It's cruel and unusual punishment.
He's glaring at the pain pill he'd been given—and that he'd palmed—and wondering how long he can put off taking it before Linda gets back. She won't be happy if she knows he didn't take it.
There's a knock on the door, and an all-too-familiar voice says, "Good morning, Danny. Can I come in?"
He looks up. "Doc…what the hell are you doing here?"
"I brought cocoa. Can I come in?" he asks again.
He shrugs, winces. His shoulders are sore from all the effort of transferring himself. "I guess. Since you brought cocoa."
He takes a sip, and curses when it burns his tongue. It's scalding hot. "Linda called you?"
"She did. She wanted to explain why you missed our Monday session, and she said she was concerned about you."
"I have a broken ankle, Doc. I don't think that's your specialty. She's just eager to palm me off on a shrink because she found it so helpful when talking to hers."
"Last time we talked, you said the two of you were doing better."
"We are. So I'm not sure why she's concerned about me."
"Okay. Then how about this, Danny? I have admitting privileges here; I read your chart. You haven't slept since getting hurt. You've been having flashbacks—yesterday they had to sedate before you hurt yourself. That's why she's concerned —and that's why I'm here."
He plays with his ID bracelet, trying to hide the fact that he's teary. Doc is great, but something about him…his bedside manner, maybe, the freaking concern…it just knocks down all the f-g walls he tries to build him, makes him feel things he doesn't particularly want to feel.
"The flashbacks are just from the stupid narcotic they gave me. Nothing you need to analyze, Doc."
"You broke your ankle in Fallujah and did not receive proper medical care. Can you tell me about that?"
He kicks the mattress with his good leg. "Why do you have to freaking analyze every single aspect of my life, Doc? I broke my ankle! There's nothing there for you to f-g psychoanalyze! Thanks for the cocoa, now please get the hell out of my room!"
He shoves the table away, sending his cocoa flying.
It splashes all over Doc, who curses—for probably the first time in the three years Danny's known him.
It was hot, but not hot enough to burn Doc, at least Danny doesn't think so.
He finds the pain pill under his pillow, dry-swallows it, and puts his mattress flat. He pulls the sheets over his face like a little kid, and lies there, pretending to be asleep.
He hears Doc go into the bathroom, get paper towels, and clean up the mess.
"When you're ready to open up and be honest with me, you know my number," Doc says quietly, but the anger in his voice is obvious.
Then he walks out of the room.
Danny doesn't move.
Linda's going back to Danny's room when she runs into Dr. Dawson. It looks like he got coffee or cocoa—nope, that's definitely cocoa, judging by the smell—splashed all over him. "Dr. Dawson, what happened?"
"Just…don't spring me on Detective Reagan any more without his consent. I told him to call me if he actually wants to talk. Have a good day, Mrs. Reagan," he says, and leaves.
She frowns. He's always professional, but he's gotten to know Danny well, and there's usually an undertone of friendliness to their interactions.
Just now, "Doc" had been coldly professional, almost brusque.
She wonders what Danny's done now…
Back in his hospital room, she sees evidence of hot cocoa splashed everywhere. It had been cleaned up, but it had left stains.
Danny has his head under the covers but his breathing is too irregular for him to be asleep. She pulls the covers away. "Danny, what happened? How did Doc get cocoa everywhere?"
"You had no right to call him behind my back. The only time you had that right, was when I was f-g suicidal. I'm sick and tired of him waltzing in, thinking everything ties to Fallujah and that talking will fix it. I have a broken ankle, Linda; I don't need my head shrunk," he snaps.
"It's been a week since you got hurt; you're not sleeping or eating; you're having flashbacks and yelling for your dead buddies. You need to talk to somebody, Danny."
"I did! Spent a whole freaking year talking to Doc after I tried to kill myself. This whole standing appointment on Mondays can stop! I don't need to talk!"
"You threw hot cocoa on Doc. You could have burned him. If nothing else, you owe him the courtesy of a session and an apology before you call it quits on therapy," she says, just as a nurse comes in with Danny's discharge papers.