Linda frowns when Dr. Dawson comes out into the waiting room. "Is everything okay?"
Doc shakes his head. "Danny…remembered something from Fallujah—something I think he had repressed. He's too upset to talk about it, so he's writing it down; and he asked if you could sit with him while he wrote."
She's on her feet and in the other room before Doc finishes speaking.
Danny's shifting to put his leg up on the table so there's room for her on the couch. He looks… haunted.
She sits down next to him. "Can I…?" She was going to ask "Can I hug you?" but then his arms come around her with a desperate fierceness, and she brings her arms up to hug him back.
He's shaking, and she rubs his back. "Shhh. You're safe, babe. Whatever it is you remembered… you're safe now."
He shakes his head against her shoulder. "I can't…I can't tell you."
"You don't have to. Doc just wants you to write it down."
"But you're gonna want to know."
"Not if you don't want me to."
"You'll have nightmares."
She kisses him. "I'm sure they won't be as bad as yours. You can do this, Danny."
It's a good ten minutes before he picks up a pen and pad from the table and starts writing. Linda keeps a gentle hand on his back, rubbing circles to keep him grounded.
He writes for twenty minutes then hands her the legal pad.
She keeps her eyes on his face, not wanting to read it without his permission.
"I can't…read what I've written," he whispers. "Because I'm shaking so *** bad. Can you…re-write it for Doc?"
She nods. She'd always been able to read his normally-messy handwriting; she thinks she'll be able to decipher this, even though it's probably much messier than normal. "That'll mean me reading the details of your flashback, babe."
"I know. It's okay. I'll be back," he says—all in one breath, and pushes himself to his feet, limps out of the room, ignoring his crutches.
She hears him retching, and she drops the pad of paper and follows the sound to the little bathroom in the back of Doc's office.
The door is locked.
She jiggles the handle. "Let me in, babe…please."
Another heave is her only response.
Doc taps her on the shoulder. "Here." He hands her a key, and she looks at him, not understanding why he has a key…
"Sometimes patients lock themselves in there, and…there needs to be a safe way to get them out. I'll be at my desk doing paperwork; holler if you two need me."
"Thanks, Doc," she whispers, and unlocks the door.
Danny flushes the toilet just as she steps in the small room.
She drops to her knees beside him. "Danny, it's me. You're safe. Can I touch you?"
He nods, and she puts a hand on his shirt, which is soaked with sweat. His left leg with the walking-boot is tucked under him—it looks uncomfortable, if not downright painful—and she sighs. "Can I help you get off your leg?"
He shrugs, but leans toward her, taking his weight off his leg, and she maneuvers it—wincing every time he groans in pain—'till he's sitting with his right leg tucked under him and the left stretched out.
She's going to have to get Doc to help her get Danny off the floor…
Danny coughs, takes a few ragged breaths.
She keeps rubbing circles on his back.
"Think I'm done," he says finally. "Don't think I can stand."
"I'll get Doc. Will you be okay here for a minute?"
He shrugs. "Don't…you don't need to get him just yet. Can you just copy out those notes?"
"Are you sure you want me to?"
He nods. "Can you…sit here with me while you do that?"
"Of course. I'll be right back."
She goes back to the office, picks up the legal pad and the pen, and takes the bottle of water Doc hands her. "Thanks. You…you're okay with me copying out what Danny wrote so you can read it?"
"As long as it's okay with him, yes."
She nods, and goes back to the bathroom.
Danny's resting his head on his arms on the closed toilet lid. "I'm a *** idiot," he curses.
"No, you're not, Danny. You have PTSD and you had a repressed memory surface. There's nothing idiotic about that. Here's some water."
Danny sits up, opens the toilet lid, rinses and spits a few times, then flushes and rests his head on his arms again. "This was a bad one, Linda. Really bad."
"I know. I'm so sorry, babe. I'm going to copy out your notes now, okay?"
He nods, and she tears his pages out and starts re-writing them.
Three lines in she's biting her lip to keep the tears back. He doesn't need her tears now. There will be time—later—for her to cry, once he's (hopefully) asleep, once he's safe and warm and not hurting. She can cry later.
Think of it like a patient, Linda, she scolds herself. Like case notes. You're copying case notes for a patient. You're not emotionally attached to the patient.
She tells herself that for the next twenty minutes, until the last word of the narrative is written, then she goes and hands Danny's original and her copy to Dawson, as well as a check for the session.
"I'm going to need your help to get him off the floor, Dr. Dawson."
"Of course. Call me tonight if he gets worse, or if you think you need to, okay?"
She nods, and goes back to the bathroom, taps Danny on the shoulder.
Dawson takes most of his weight, and they get him to his feet, give him his crutches. Danny's left foot isn't even grazing the ground, and Linda hopes he hadn't damaged it more in his limp/hobble/run to the bathroom or his collapse in front of the toilet.
They get Danny in the car, and Doc closes the door. "Call me if you need to," he says again, and Linda nods and gets in the driver's seat.
It's going to be a long night.