He's trying to throw some darts right-handed when Sean hugs him tightly and then blows past him.
He picks the darts off the floor. "Thanks for coming, Doc. Guess I'll see you…next week?"
"How much of that did you hear?" Doc asks, his eyes drilling holes in Danny's back.
He shifts from one foot to the other, aims, hits the outer edge of the board. "Enough to know that I don't want to have a full session with you, so I'll see you next week."
"Nice try, Danny, but we need to talk about this—tonight, and you're not getting out of our session tomorrow, either."
"Don't you…have somewhere better to be on a Sunday night than seeing your pain-in-the- $$ patient? Don't you ever take a break? Keep regular business hours?"
"I don't go into the office until noon on Wednesdays and Thursdays, Danny, and I don't see patients in the office on Sundays. Please sit down and talk to me."
He throws the darts in rapid-fire succession, only one of them hitting the bullseye, stalks over to the couch, and plops onto it, grabbing a pillow and hugging into his chest—and hoping Doc won't try to interpret that in some shrink-ian fashion. He needs something to do with his hands right now.
"Sean doesn't need to worry about me. He's the kid; I'm the parent; he shouldn't be asking me these types of questions!"
"What types of questions?"
"If I'm gonna kill myself, if I still blame myself for his mom's death!"
"Did you talk to him after Officer Martin's suicide? Reassure him?"
"How the hell do you remember that cop's name? I was busy trying to rescue Delgado's kid, if I mentioned it…"
"You did. And Sean mentioned the officer just now, and something clicked."
And now something's clicking for him, from that family dinner three-odd months ago.
He throws the pillow on the floor, stands up. "I'll see you for our regular session tomorrow, Doc. I need to talk to my son."
When Sean opens the door, it's kind of obvious he's been crying—his eyes are red, and his face splotchy. "Thought you were talking to Dr. Dawson."
"Yeah, well, we can talk tomorrow. Right now, you and I need to have a father-to-son talk. Go wash your face and meet me in the living room. Hot cocoa or chocolate milk?"
"Chocolate milk," Sean says, and goes past him into the bathroom.
When they're settled in the living room, him with his cocoa and Sean with his cold chocolate milk, he takes a deep breath. "What happened at family dinner in the middle of the Delgado case? Before I got there?"
Sean's knuckles are white on his glass of chocolate milk. "You mean the case where you'd been working 22 hours straight—so freaking long, even you didn't know how long you'd been on duty? After Officer Martin killed himself? And Grandpa called you and you didn't pick up? I tried calling you five times to see if you were okay, to see if you'd make it to Mass—and you didn't pick up? That family dinner?"
Danny can't say anything.
Sean takes a swig of his milk, puts it down, cracks his knuckles. "I asked why so many cops kill themselves. And everybody looked at everybody else, like they didn't want to talk about this in front of me—and then they gave all the nice, polite reasons: stress of the job, cumulative trauma of the job, easy access to a gun, too proud to ask for help. And all I could think was, They're talking about Dad and they don't even know it!"
"I…I'm not going to kill myself, Sean," he says, and hope the words sound less hollow than they feel in his throat. "I wouldn't…I couldn't…do that to you and Jack. Not after…"
"Not after…we lost Mom?" he asks quietly.
He takes deep breath and counts by 7's to 100…well, 98, to be precise. "Yeah," he whispers.
"Why…can't you say her name anymore? You don't talk about her," Sean says—his tone hesitant, not accusatory, making it obvious Doc talked to him about that.
"Because…it hurts to say her name. Because…it's my fault she's dead, and every time…"
He stands, goes into the kitchen and starts washing out his mug.
He had almost…it would have sounded like he was blaming Sean—like Sean mentioning Linda is what triggers this spiral of self-hatred, of suicidal thoughts, that he can't get out of—a spiral that has been getting steadily worse. He didn't mean to blame Sean, he doesn't want to blame Sean, 'cause it isn't the kid's fault. It's his fault for…reacting.
He dries off his mug, puts it back in the cabinet, and turns to see Sean leaning up against the island. "Every time what? Am I 'triggering' you by mentioning Mom? By asking the honest-to-$# question if you're gonna kill yourself? Are we just never gonna talk about Mom again?"
He hits the counter with his fist. "No, Sean! It's not that I…don't wanna talk about your mom! Just… what did Doc tell you?"
"Thought I had confidentiality."
"I'm not asking for direct quotes, and I don't think you have confidentiality 'cause you're not his patient, and you're not 18. Just…the Cliffs Notes version. Please."
Sean leans on his elbows. "He…told me to watch my tone when I talk to you, suggested we get out of the house a bit. And…I sorta think he asked me to commit a federal offense."
"What's that?"
"To intercept the mail, so if…you do get…if those j ck $$#$ at Jack's school try to send you—mail—to open it and shred so you don't have to see it."
He scrubs his face. "I don't know about the legality of that, but it's not a bad idea. Just don't tell your Aunt Erin. You know where I keep evidence bags and gloves?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"So that if you find something, you can put it in a bag and we can get it analyzed, figure out who these punks are."
If he does get anything in the mail, and if he decides to follow up on it…
He starts the dishwasher and turns off the light over the sink. "I'm going to bed, Sean. 'Night."