A/N: Thank you to Lindannylove for inspiring this chapter!
Danny's cleaning up after dinner when he hears Linda groan.
He hurries to where she's sitting on the couch. "Babe, what's wrong? Are you hurting?"
"Nauseous. Dinner didn't sit well. Where's the trashcan?"
He'd enjoyed dinner—they'd had some of the shepherd's pie Pops had brought over—but he figures maybe she's still queasy from the anesthesia or something. She's only been home from the hospital two days.
He puts a couple bags in the trashcan and hands it to her—just in time.
He sits next to her and rubs her back as she throws up every bite she'd eaten, then gets her a glass of water to rinse her mouth out.
She rinses and spits, tears streaming down her face. "It hurts, Danny. And I just threw up the stupid pain meds."
He starts to get up to get her more, but she grabs his arm, gasping in pain. "Don't…leave," she says, her hand going to her side over the incision site—the f-g incision site where a bullet entered her side.
He sits back down, rubs her shoulders gently. "I'm sorry, babe. How can I help?"
"Shoot…"
She trails off, her face turning ashen, then beet-red as she starts hyperventilating.
He doesn't realize at first what freaked her out…then it hits him. She was going to say "shoot me"—not a common phrase in their house (for obvious reasons), but still one that comes out of their mouths sometimes without thinking—and it triggered a flashback or panic attack or…whatever this is.
He pulls her back against his chest, takes slow, exaggerated breaths. "Linda, you're safe. You're having a…a panic attack, babe. Breathe with me. Try to slow your breathing down, honey."
She shakes her head, and he kisses it. "Yes, you can, Linda. Do you feel me breathing?"
He keeps taking slow, huge breaths so maybe she'll feel them and try to match them.
"You're safe, babe. No one's gonna shoot you."
He wants to call 911, but being back at the hospital might trigger another panic attack. And she's talked him through one or two panic attacks of his own without having to go to the hospital…
He keeps talking and breathing and telling her she's safe, for ten minutes, until her breathing's slowed down to normal.
"Better?" he asks.
She nods. "Yeah. Think I…need a pain pill."
He very gently moves her out of her arms, goes into the kitchen, and gets some green Jell-O out of the fridge, a spoon, and her bottle of pills from the kitchen table.
"Let me help," he says, and spoon-feeds her the Jell-O, holds her water bottle for her, because she gets really pale whenever she goes to move her arm.
"Better?"
"Pain pill doesn't kick in immediately, Danny," she snaps.
"'m sorry." She's in pain, she doesn't mean to snap, he tells himself. Don't take it personally.
"I'm not going to…" he clears his throat so he doesn't have to say the words "shoot you" out loud. "But I will do whatever you need me to do to help you feel better."
"I need a shower."
"I didn't think you could…"
"I can't…take a bath until the stitches are out. But I can shower. And I need one."
He stands up, goes to pick her up—he's been carrying her around the house despite her gentle protests—but she holds her hands up to push him away. "Don't. I hurt too much. Just…put your arm under my left arm.
He helps her up, grabs her thermos, the pain pills, and a few grocery bags to put in the trashcan in case she gets sick again, then follows her up the stairs.
He's surprised when she asks him to help her undress. She's been shy about letting him see the bandages.
He unbuttons her shirt—button-ups are easier than shirts she has to pull over her head—unhooks her bra. "Why are you wearing a bra, babe? It can't be comfortable."
"So the boys don't see everything hanging out, Danny. It's on the loosest hook."
He eases it off, sighs when she instantly puts her arm over the bandage on her side. "Linda…"
"It's ugly and you don't need to see it."
"It's a bandage—you're alive—and you've seen plenty of my scars and stitches and bandages."
"I don't want you to see it, Danny," she says, teary.
He turns away, turns on the water and strips.
"Didn't know this was a joint shower," she says.
"For safety reasons, Linda. Since you refuse to let me get a shower chair—even though you know as a nurse it's a good idea."
She grips his arm tightly and steps into the shower. "Seem to recall a dozen times this detective I know refused to use a shower chair because 'I'm not 95, Linda,'" she says mockingly.
"Yeah, well, maybe I'm regretting that right about now. Maybe I was an idiot all those times."
She nods and buries her face in his chest. "Can you do my hair?"
He washes her hair, kissing the top of her head, her forehead, and lips frequently, then rinses and adds conditioner, and scrubs her scalp just the way she likes.
She groans, and he freezes, thinking he's hurt her. "Babe, what's wrong?"
"Feels good. Don't stop."
He swallows hard. "I have to, you're getting tired, and you're only half-washed. Let's finish and get you in bed." She's shaking with exhaustion and he's worried she's going to fall. As soon as he feels comfortable leaving her (which honestly will probably be never) he's going to Wal-Mart or somewhere and buying a damn shower chair.
He washes her body gently, plants the lightest kiss on each bandage, and hopes she doesn't notice he's a little choked-up under the water.
Twenty minutes later they're lying in bed, ice packs under each of her bandages.
He's fighting back tears and hoping she falls asleep soon, when her hand slips into his. "Thank you for taking such good care of me."
"Love you, Linda, Rose," he says.
"Love you more," she says, and squeezes his hand.