He's a little more relaxed, and he actually takes his pain pills—on a strict every six-hours schedule, because every four hours is just too often, in his mind—and talks to Linda, and is pleasingly surprised to notice the nightmares are fewer. He's successfully shoving them back down into that box of Things Danny Reagan Doesn't Think About.
That box gets even easier to keep closed when Doc cancels on him, citing a family emergency. He's surprised, because he'd gathered that the younger man didn't have any family, but he gives his shrink his best wishes.
The week drags by. He calls the precinct, desperate for something to do—even paperwork—but there is no reprieve.
Another Monday rolls around. Doc texts him to confirm their 8 p.m. appointment.
After an early dinner, Linda and the boys head to the pool. He begs off, because crutches and the pool just sound like a bad idea, so he settles on the couch with a book the boys had given him for Christmas that he hasn't had time to read until now—the Father Brown mysteries by a dude named Chesterton.
The short, stumpy priest's mystery-solving techniques, while sometimes preachy, are interesting enough that he startles when the doorbell rings. He glances at his watch, surprised to see it's after 8 p.m. "Come in!" he yells, sure he'd given Doc the code to the lockbox.
Doc comes in, picks up a piece of paper on the floor, and closes the door behind him. "Sorry about that, Danny; I texted you to say I'd be a few minutes late, and called. You didn't answer, and I didn't want to barge in."
He shrugs. "Yeah, sorry; I got stuck in this book the boys gave me."
He glances at his watch. "You know, you could've stayed home tonight, Doc. It's a nice summer evening; no need to spend it in my living room."
Doc puts the paper on the table and sits down. "Nice try, Danny. In four weeks, you have changed the subject, thrown hot cocoa at me, and done everything short of firing me as your therapist—all to keep from talking about how you injured your ankle in Fallujah. What happened?"
"You know, Doc, I…I really don't need to rehash that; it was…a long time ago," he starts.
"And yet it's clearly still affecting you, Danny. I haven't seen you in two weeks, but I can clearly see you're still not sleeping; you've lost weight; you're not doing your exercises, judging by the fact that the paper telling you what to do is on the floor next to the door—you are in full flight mode, Danny, and it's not going to help."
He resists the urge to roll his eyes like his teenage sons. "Full flight mode? What the hell does that mean?"
"There are three ways of facing trauma, Danny: fight—which you do when you lose your temper; flight—which you do by throwing yourself into work, deflecting my questions, not doing your physical therapy exercises; freeze—the not eating, not sleeping, the depression. Right now, you're doing everything you can to distract yourself from thinking about the first time you broke your ankle."
Doc shoves his hands in his pockets and looks him in the eyes. "Tell me how you broke your ankle in Fallujah, Danny."
He grabs his crutches and gets to his feet (well, foot), crutches into the kitchen and stares out the window into their back yard.
He puts his left foot on the ground and slowly shifts his weight onto it, hoping Doc won't notice.
Pain flares up his leg. He's due for a pain pill, but he doesn't move.
And then, shifting every so often so another stab of pain will keep him grounded, he tells Doc about that night in Fallujah.
He's sweating by the time he's done with his narration.
There's a scraping sound behind him, and Doc grabs him, lowering him into a chair. Another scraping sound, and his leg is lifted up onto the other chair and a towel and bag of frozen peas placed on it.
"Stop mollycoddling me, Doc," he grumbles.
"Stop putting weight on a foot that you're not supposed to be weight-bearing on for another week. Causing yourself physical pain—is not going to make the emotional pain go away, Danny."
"Put it on a bumper sticker, Doc! It's been a month!" he shouts as Doc walks off, returning with a chair for himself and sitting down.
"And when you texted me this morning, you said that the doctor said at least another week—because you haven't been following his instructions."
"You sound like Linda and Erin put together; you should have seen them after Wilder…"
He trails off with a shudder.
"Danny, did you know there was a ditch there, that night in Fallujah?"
"Of course not! What kind of question is that?"
"A therapeutic one," Doc smiles. "Did you see the ditch, have any warning at all before you stepped into it and broke your ankle?"
"Dammit, Doc, no!"
"So why have you been blaming yourself for something that you didn't know was there? How is it your fault? How is it your fault that Bobby LaRue died, unless you broke your ankle deliberately?"
He kicks the chair—with his good leg, he's not that much of a masochist, not yet, anyway. "Damn it, Doc! I don't have a god complex!"
"I didn't say you did. You have survivor's guilt, and what you're feeling is natural; but letting it consume you like this—isn't healthy."
"So what am I supposed to do, Doc? Talk about it with you every week for the next two months until my ankle's healed? Or maybe just forget about it, like I had been doing, and then maybe I'll actually sleep again?"
"I want you to write a letter to Bobby LaRue. And I want you to read it to me aloud next Monday," Doc says, and leaves after supervising Danny's move back to the couch.