He's successfully deflected Doc's questions for thirty minutes when Linda gets home.

"Gotta go, Linda's home," he says quickly, and hangs up before Doc can finish his usual "call me if you need to" spiel.

"I didn't realize you were that mad at me," he says when Linda walks into their bedroom.

"I'm not mad at you; I'm…frustrated," she sighs, and sits down next to him, props his leg up on a pillow.

"You're usually mobile, even when you've been shot. But now you're stuck in the wheelchair or on the couch, and then you were flirting with the nurse, and…it's been like 10 days since you got hurt, and you're angry at everything because you're hurting and you won't take your pain pills, and I'm not sleeping because your nightmares are waking me up two or three times a night, and I'm hormonal, and you griping about the shower bench and the plastic bag on your leg was the last straw. I was afraid I'd say something I couldn't take back, so I…I went to go get ice cream, and then I ended up calling Dr. Bennett, and we talked for a bit."

"So we were both getting our heads shrunk," he sighs. She looks confused, and he holds up his phone. "Called Doc—except all he wanted to know about was Fallujah."

She kisses him gently. "I brought you some ice cream."

He kisses her back, tasting the mint-chocolate chip ice cream and feeling a little better. "Will it taste better coming up than going down?"

"Are you nauseous?"

He nods, pushes himself to sit up. "Took two pain pills, so, yeah. That's why I don't like them."

"Then I'll go put this in the freezer."

He's teary, and thinking of Bobby LaRue, when Linda comes back.

"Danny? What's wrong?"

"Bobby was killed all because I'd sprained my stupid ankle. If I'd…watched where I was going, or…been more careful, or…then maybe it wouldn't have happened, and he'd still be alive. His girlfriend would be his wife."

"How dark was it that night?"

"Pretty dark," he shrugs.

"So…you didn't see the hole. You didn't sprain your ankle on purpose, Danny. It's not your fault."

"It shoulda been me. You sound like my shrink," he mutters, and rolls onto his side, away from her.

He pulls away when she tries to rub his back. He doesn't deserve even that small comfort.

Linda's just left for the grocery store when Doc rings the doorbell Monday evening.

He texts Doc the lockbox code—it's 0614, Linda's birthday.

Doc steps in, looking calm, professional—well, semi-professional; that open collar probably doesn't cut it in psychologist board meetings, if they have those—with a briefcase in one hand and his keys in the other. He does not have any cocoa.

"Detective Reagan, I hope I didn't wake you," Doc says, sitting down.

He shrugs, picks the ice pack off the floor, and transfers into his wheelchair so he can sit up straight while talking to Doc. "More like saved me from a nightmare. Please drop the 'Detective Reagan' crap, unless you're still pissed at me."

"I'm not. But I want you to tell me how you were feeling that day."

He's gone over it over and over and over again in his head since that day. While breathing through a flashback, angry that he couldn't curl into a ball like normal. While holding Linda while she slept and he tried to stay awake. While channel-surfing.

All that time thinking still doesn't make the words any easier.

"I was…angry. I thought I'd worked through everything about Fallujah, after Corporal Russell. I hated that I was having non-stop flashbacks. I was pissed that…" He shakes his head.

"That's a lot of anger, Danny. You know we've talked about anger hiding a lot of other emotions that you might not want to face. Here you go." He opens his briefcase, pulls out a sheet of paper, hands it to Danny.

The f-g Anger Iceberg. "Scared, embarrassed, overwhelmed, frustrated, depressed, trapped, helpless, annoyed, and exhausted."

"Why?"

He counts to 100 to keep from yelling at Doc. "Because my ankle hurt, I was having crazy flashbacks and everything was out of control."

"You like being in control," Doc observes.

He rolls his eyes at Doc. "Who doesn't?"

"Most people like being in control, but there's an extra emphasis on it for veterans with PTSD. What does it mean to you if you're not in control? How does it make you feel?"

He's going to throw something at Doc, again, if he asks that question one more time. "It's not safe."

"Have you had to surrender a lot of control with your broken ankle?"

He shrugs. It's not the control; it's the… "First week home, I needed help with everything because no one would let me use crutches."

"How did that make you feel?"

"Ang…exasperated. I hate being helpless."

"When did you start using the crutches?"

He glares at Doc. He'd told him this three days ago. "Friday. The day Linda left."

"But she came back."

He rolls his eyes at Doc. "She still left."

"Have you talked to her about that?"

"No. I mean…she went on and on about why she left, but I didn't get a word in edgewise."

"Then that's your first piece of homework tonight: talk to her about how you felt when she left. Can you do that?"

He nods. He's actually been wanting to do it all weekend, but she was too hormonal and pissy from cramps to talk to.

Doc nods with satisfaction. "Now, back to what you successfully avoided telling me Friday: tell me about the original ankle injury in 2004."