A/N: I know this is short…I hope it's okay.
Episode Tag: 3x20.
Thanks and many thanks to lindannylove!
He doesn't let her bandage his cuts or look at his arm—it's not broken, despite the sling, just badly bruised—he just trudges up the stairs, gets his pajamas, and goes into the bathroom.
He eases the sling off, mutters a few choice words under his breath. He should have taken the Tylenol or ibuprofen or whatever it was Linda offered him—hell, he should have probably gone to the ER to be checked out instead of bandaging himself up in the precinct bathroom—but this is what he deserves.
Except…he can't move his arm enough to get his shirt off.
He fumbles around in the back of the top drawer in their vanity—the one Linda always says she's going to organize—until he finds the scissors.
At least his left arm still works. He cuts his shirt off mournfully. He actually liked this shirt.
He strips, turns on the shower and gets in. The icy spray makes him curse and turn his back to the water, but he doesn't turn up the temperature. He deserves this. He's been a b $+ rd to Linda.
She…she was just doing her job.
The door rattles, and he sighs when he hears it open, then Linda undressing while muttering something under her breath.
A hand sneaks into the shower curtain and turns the water up. "Danny! Why are you trying to turn yourself into a human popsicle?"
He wants to say something snarky, like Why do you care? or Wouldn't you love to see me freeze to death? but he doesn't.
He ignores her question. "You're not mad at me anymore?"
She sighs. "Yes, I…I mean…I don't know. But just because I'm mad at you and just because you treated me like dirt, and just because…you disrespected my job, doesn't mean you have to punish yourself."
He doesn't say anything when she gets in and stands in front of him.
"Eyes up here, mister."
He meets her eyes. "I…I'm sorry…"
"Shut up and listen, Danny. I am sorry you got hurt."
He relaxes just a smidge…this is the first time she's apologized for him getting hurt since she came to the precinct. But her next words make him wish he was still alone under the freezing shower, instead of looking at her ice-cold blue eyes under the scalding water.
"But I am not sorry for doing my job. If I had let you question Christopher Dean and he had died—never mind that he did die after the second surgery—I would have lost my job, probably my license… Jamie was right—barging into my ER and demanding to see Christopher, never mind if he died because of that 5-minute delay in having surgery—is asking me to play God. And that is not my job. I…I can't be the one to decide 'O, we're gonna let Christopher die so other people don't die'—that's not my job as a nurse. Even if my doing my job meant you got hurt."
She's definitely still mad…actually, pissed…at him. "L…Linda…"
She puts her hand on his chest. "Don't. Don't 'Linda' me. Not until you can look me in the eyes and tell me what you're sorry for, instead of just throwing out the word like it's a magic cure."
Okay, now she's talking to him like she talks to the boys…minus the talking-down voice.
He clears his throat. "I…I'm sorry for…making you feel like I don't respect your job. I'm sorry for…for busting into your ER. And I'm very, very sorry for…making you feel like I was choosing my job over me."
Which, to be fair, is what he had thought she was doing—choosing her job over him.
"I'm sorry for making you feel like I blamed you for me getting hurt," he whispers, wincing. His lip is swollen and pulsing with pain.
"Apology accepted and I forgive you. Just don't…don't do it again—any of it. Got it?"
He nods, and lets her wash the blood and sweat off him and re-bandage all his wounds, then lies down gingerly.
Maybe they're going to be okay, after all.