He doesn't want to talk to Sean right now, so he goes to the game-room/man-cave and pulls the darts out of the dart-board.
He's on his third game—if it can be called a game, playing against (and losing to) himself, when a quiet voice says "Can I join you?"
He turns to see Doc leaning against the doorjamb. "How'd you get in here?"
"Sean let me in. We need to talk about Sean, actually."
He throws another dart, drops the bag on the card table, and sits down on the couch. "Why?"
"Did he ask you if you were going to kill yourself because you still blame yourself for Linda's death?"
The words still hit like a gut punch, and the only reason he doesn't collapse is because he's already sitting down. "He's my kid; he had a right to ask me that," he says, even though the question had about killed him.
Doc makes eye contact with him. "Not with that tone—not when it triggers you. Not when he tells me what kids at Jack's college have been saying for months—something you never mentioned in session."
"Well, forgive me for not telling you every single conversation I have with my sons, Doc! There are three other cops in my family; I can't be the first of us to get death threats! Maybe I thought I'd talk to people who have experience with that kind of $#!+, rather than someone who hears about it third-hand, sitting in the safety of his plush high-rise office."
It's a low blow, but he's past the point of caring.
"How did that make you feel—Sean asking you that?"
He swallows hard. "Like $#!+. Like the worst father in the history of the planet—no son should ever have to ask his father that."
"But some sons do. What does that say about their fathers? Are all fathers with PTSD or suicidal ideation—weak? Does that make them bad fathers?"
"No..." he says, wanting to add But it makes me a bad father—simply because I'm the only parent he has left.
"Does it make you a bad father?"
"Yes, dammit!" he yells, punching the arm of the couch and bolting to his feet. "Of course it does! A…a good father…"
...would be working fewer hours, which he's trying to, but the bad guys don't keep business hours. A good father would be strong, would move on from $#!+, wouldn't blame himself when three years of therapy has told him his wife's death isn't his fault. A good father would…
He coughs, hoping Doc hadn't noticed his little lapse. Pausing in the middle of a sentence is never good when you're around Alex Dawson—he should know, after six-plus years of therapy with the younger man.
Words are intruding on his litany of self-hatred, and he shakes his head, hopes that will make the words—the person who's interrupting him—go away.
"A good father would what?" Doc yells.
He jumps. "Nothing, n…never mind."
"Danny, we need to talk about this."
"No, we don't, Doc! Why the hell do you have to analyze every word that comes out of my mouth?"
"Because words are important—your words are a window into your mental state. What would a good father do that you think you're not doing?"
He doesn't have the energy to storm off.
He pushes himself to his feet, picks up the bag of darts and chooses a blue dart, aims, misses the bulls-eye.
"A good father would be…f-g able to talk to his kids about…emotions and crap—more than just a few times a year. A good father wouldn't…respect a woman for committing suicide. A good father would…be able to f-g reassure his son when he asks if he's gonna kill himself. I used to know how to reassure the kids; now…now I…can't."
Doc steps in front of the dart-board as he's aiming another dart. "Danny, look at me, please."
He looks up, drops the bag and the dart. The look in Doc's eyes…makes him want to either bolt, or bare his soul.
But he can't move.
Doc puts his hands in his pockets. "A good father reassures his son that he's not going anywhere—which you did. A good father is upset when his son asks if he's gonna kill himself—you were upset, that's why you weren't able to reassure Sean; you had a visceral reaction, and that's normal, Danny. There's still time to reassure Sean on that point; you haven't lost your chance."
If I truthfully can reassure Sean, he thinks bitterly, and bends down to pick up the darts.
Doc moves out of the way, takes four red darts. "You throw, you talk. I throw, I talk. Go."
He aims, throws, misses the bulls-eye, and curses. "What did you mean, Sean triggers me? I'm not freaking unstable, Doc!"
Doc lines up his dart and hits the bullseye. "No, but you do have PTSD and a history of suicidal ideation—or am I wrong about that, too?"
He curses under his breath, throws his dart so carelessly it hits the wall and falls to the floor with a soft thud.
Doc isn't wrong, but he's not going to give him the satisfaction of saying so.
Dawson nods as if he'd answered, aims a second dart, hitting the bullseye again. "Also, Sean said you looked like he'd punched you, when he asked you if you were going to kill yourself."
"Well, sorry for not jumping up and down," he says, and throws his darts down, walks toward the door.
"Where are you going? We still have a lot to talk about."
"I'm going to get Sean so you can talk to him instead of asking me ten million questions—because apparently this session is for his benefit, not mine!" he snaps, and storms out of the room.
"Doc wants to talk to you," he says when Sean opens his door, homework strewn all over the floor.
"Why?"
He shrugs. "He can explain it better than I can. He's in the game room."
"Man cave," Sean smirks, and follows him downstairs.
He goes back to the dart-board. The room's big enough that Doc can talk to Sean without him overhearing—unless Sean yells or something—but he's still nearby. And thanks to the mirror Erin hung on the wall—saying it made the room look bigger—he can keep an eye on them without seeming to.
Not that he doesn't trust Doc—he does, he's been talking to Doc for a good chunk of the past six years—but Sean is his son.
And Doc is his therapist.
And he would be very happy if the two had never met.
He grabs the darts and hopes he can still beat Jamie the next time they play.