A/N: This takes place between chapters 3 and 4 of "Drowning" and after chapter 1 of "Drowning in My Arms."
He and Jack are fishing when Jack says, "Dad, are you still mad at me?"
"No, Jack. I…I told you…it was just the case."
"But you're like…not here. I…I asked you twice if you could help me catch that big fish over there, and you didn't even blink."
Damn. He's going to have to do better at keeping his thoughts in check.
He'd glanced over at a tree some teenagers had graffitied, and gone straight back to that graffitied rooftop and John Russell's face.
"I…I'm sorry, Jack. Here, let me help you."
They catch the fish, and gutting it and getting it ready for dinner, plus catching three more so all of them can eat, takes the better part of a few hours.
After dinner, when Jack's reading in bed, Danny goes to sit by the fire.
He looks at his phone, wonders if cell service is good enough to try calling Linda.
"Want a beer?" Jamie asks, sitting down next to him.
"No."
"Since when do you turn down beer, Danny?"
He kicks at a rock, puts his phone back in his pocket. "Since I saw a 28-year-old fall off a roof less than forty-eight hours ago. Forgive me for not wanting to party, Jamie! Unless you let me drink the whole damn six-pack so I can get plastered enough to stop seeing John Russell's face every time I close my eyes!"
Jamie stands up, backs away a good ten paces, and sits down again. "You don't need to bite my head off, Danny!"
He shakes his head, kicks at an ember. "Can you just leave me alone?"
"Sure," Jamie mutters, and stalks off.
He's listening to the wind and wondering why they always go camping in January when there's snow on the ground, when his dad sits down. "I heard that all the way behind the cabin. What's going on?"
He shrugs. "Nothing; just…Harvard being Harvard."
"You wanna talk about it?"
He wants to snap at his dad, but he resists the urge. "Jack asked me this morning why I was zoning out. He'd asked me to help him catch a fish, and I…I didn't hear him. That tree those damn gang-members graffitied—before you had the local cops arrest 'em—took me straight back to the rooftop. All I could see was John Russell's face. Looked at Jack, and saw Tommy's."
"Did you sleep last night?"
"Marines can sleep anywhere," he deflects.
"That's not an answer, Danny."
He shrugs, pours water on the fire and starts stomping it out. "It's late. If we're going canoeing in the morning, we should hit the sack."
He waits until he hears snoring coming from each bunk, then tiptoes out of the cabin and goes to one spot near the cabin where he's guaranteed to get cell service, and presses speed-dial 1.
"Hey, Danny, how are you?"
He sighs. "Jack asked if I'm mad at him, and Jamie got into my face because I didn't want a beer, and Dad asked if I slept last night…so it's going just as well as every other Reagan Manly Man camping trip. I can't stop seeing John Russell's face."
"Danny, babe…please try to enjoy yourself. When you come home and start talking with Dawson, you'll have plenty of time to deal with all that. Please just…try to push Corporal Russell to the back of your mind, so you can enjoy this time with our oldest."
"I…I'm trying, Linda, but it…it's so much harder this time."
"Danny, listen to me, babe. Just listen to my voice. Close your eyes."
He does, unsure what she wants, and for five…ten?...minutes, she talks him through two relaxation exercises, and a very detailed description of what she is (more like is not) wearing in bed right now.
He isn't seeing Corporal Russell's face behind his closed eyes anymore.
The camping trip is supposed to be a no-phone zone, but he calls her every evening, and her voice, walking him through relaxation exercises and telling him about her day and what Sean's doing, slowly pushes the sceptre of John Russell away.
He's able to enjoy fishing with Jack, hiking, roasting marshmallows, some mostly-friendly banter with his brother, and Pop's ghost stories around the fire at night—the same ones he's been hearing since he was 13.
He's throwing a football with Jack Friday morning, when his dad comes to him with his phone—which mysteriously gets service in all parts of the cabin and the woods. "It's Detective Baez," he says, and Danny's heart sinks. This can't be good.
"Baez, what's wrong?"
"Sorry to bother you, Reagan, but you told me to let you know if I heard from Mrs. Russell. She just called—Corporal Russell's funeral is tomorrow."
The birds in the trees stop singing; Jack throws the football and he doesn't blink when it hits him in the stomach; and that suffocating feeling is back. "What…what time?"
"10 a.m."
"I…I'll be there."
He hangs up, kicks the football to Jack—it only travels about 3 feet. "I need to go call Mom, bud; I'm gonna leave after lunch; I'm sorry."
"Is it another bad guy?" Jack asks, sounding so innocent it breaks his heart. "I thought we were gonna watch a movie tonight."
"It's not a bad guy; I…I…" he clears his throat. "I need to go say goodbye to someone…to a friend." Someone who could have been a friend if he had accepted Danny's offer of help, instead of…
He shakes his head before the absolute, eerie stillness of that moment on the roof can take him prisoner again.
He throws the football around for another half hour, then packs, grateful they'd taken two cars.
He says goodbye to his family, then drives off.
He calls Linda from the car.