A/N: I've never broken a bone in my life, so any information about Danny's experiences in this story comes from the Internet.
He really isn't sure why no one will let him use crutches. The wheelchair makes his back hurt, sleeping on the couch makes his back hurt; his foot feels like it's in a bucket of cement, and he's really mad that he's stuck at home instead of at Quogue with his family. Everyone is there, even his boys. He and Linda are stuck on Staten Island, all because no one trusts him to stay off his foot.
He hasn't spoken to or seen Doc since throwing the younger man out of his hospital room on Monday.
Ibuprofen isn't touching the pain, but he's (secretly) stopped taking the narcotics because he had thought they were what was making the flashbacks worse.
That hadn't helped.
The knives in the knife block…the 6 o'clock news…his throbbing ankle…even Linda touching his scars when she's helping him with a sponge bath…everything is triggering the crap out of him.
He picks up the envelope Linda had handed him earlier.
It's addressed to "Danny Reagan"—no return address, no title, so either the sender doesn't know he's a cop, or is trying to protect his privacy. Could it be a criminal? Their address is unlisted…
If nothing else, this'll keep him occupied for twenty minutes of the forty it'll take Linda to shower and blow-dry her hair.
He tears open the envelope, unfolds the carefully-creased stationery.
Unless this is a freaking wedding invitation, he doesn't know what it could be…
He never gets mail.
Handwriting says the sender is male.
He looks at the signature.
Doc freaking wrote him a letter?
Great.
He reacted badly; he knows that.
Is Doc sending him a "Dear John" letter of the therapeutic variety?
He taps it nervously on his knee before deciding to get it over with and read the darn thing.
Dear Detective Reagan,
I broke one of my cardinal rules of therapy—you tend to do that when you get close to your patients—no therapeutic contact unless the patient initiates it. This letter is breaking that rule, too, but… doctor's orders. My own "Doc," that is. Yes, your therapist has his own therapist.
Even though Linda asked me to come talk to you, I should have known that you weren't ready to talk…because if you were, you would have reached out.
I apologize.
Please forgive me.
I still hold to the words I had engraved on the dog-tags I gave you a year after your last suicide attempt, when I called you the strongest man I know. Because the work you put in, especially after that last attempt…that took strength.
And that strength is what's going to get you through the months of recovery for your ankle, and through whatever memories of Fallujah you still have yet to process.
I hope you can forgive me for pushing you to talk before you were ready, and I hope we can continue our doctor/patient relationship. Because I truly want to help you find peace.
Sincerely,
"Doc"
He folds the letter, puts it back in the envelope just as Linda comes downstairs.
She's been crying.
"What's wrong, babe?" he asks, shifting on the couch and wishing he could walk over to her.
"Nothing, Danny, I'm fine," she sniffles.
"You've been crying. What's wrong?"
"I'm worried about you."
"Come here," he says, and pulls her onto his lap. "I…I know I'm being an a**, and I'm sorry."
She kisses him. "You're not being an a**, Danny…you're just being a stubborn s.o.b. who isn't taking his pain meds or doing his exercises, and who's whining about being stuck down here on the couch. All that on top of nightmares every 2 hours and having a flashback at the slightest…you've had two a day since coming home, and those are the ones I know of."
He pulls her head to his chest so she can't look him in the face. "I'm sorry. I…if I'd known one broken ankle would do all this, I…" He trails off, shakes his head.
"You'd what?"
"Not broken my ankle," he says quickly, hoping she doesn't notice.
"That wasn't what you were gonna say. You self-censored, Danny."
He groans. "Stop with the shrink talk; I already have one shrink in my life."
"Whom you need to apologize to," she says, and gets up. "I need to get started on dinner."
He pulls out Doc's letter, skims it again, gets his phone and types out a text:
Got your letter. Apology accepted—and I'm sorry for being a bastard, for throwing cocoa at you, and for yelling at you. Could we…maybe talk? Monday, usual time—if you make house calls. I understand if you want me to find a new shrink.
He sends it, then begins the awkward and painful process of transferring from the couch to the wheelchair so he can go distract his wife from dinner.
He's sweating from pain by the time he gets in the wheelchair.
Then he realizes he can't go into the kitchen because he has to keep his leg propped up, and the leg rest on the wheelchair…won't fit in the kitchen. Darn long legs.
He wheels to the doorway. "Why wouldn't they give me crutches?" he asks Linda for probably the millionth time.
"Because you're a bad patient. You'd be testing the limits, trying to put your foot on the ground, trying to bear a little weight on it, and you'd pop a screw loose or something."
"I have screws in my ankle?" he asks, worried.
"Yes. 2 plates and 8 screws."
He's imagining dinner plates and screws like the ones he needs to fix on Jack's bookcase, and he frowns. That's not possible.
"Plates?"
"Like the metal ones that you put in the back of Jack's bookcase, to stabilize it."
"Oh." That makes sense now.
"When's my follow-up appointment?"
"Tomorrow at 10—which means we need to be out the door at 9, probably 8:30, to get you in the car. I'm glad the boys went to Quogue; it's one less thing we have to figure out," she says.
He wheels back into the living room. He was right—he's being a burden to her by being such a crappy patient. Maybe he can charm the nurses into giving him a pair of crutches.
His phone buzzes, and he picks it up. He has a text from Doc: "I can do Monday at 7, your house. How's the ankle?"
"Peachy," he writes back, and closes his eyes.