When the boys are asleep, and Linda is dozing on Erin's shoulder after they looked at photo albums for hours, Danny slips upstairs to his old room, grabs the pair of pajamas he'd bought earlier that day—having to buy new clothes and new shoes and new dress blues and new furniture and new dishes and new sheets and a new HOUSE and new freaking everything is going to break the bank—and goes into the bathroom.
He bends the flimsy disposable razor until it breaks and pulls the blade out and stares at it, then sets it on the edge of the tub.
Then turns the shower on, makes sure the water is freezing, tears off his clothes, and gets in.
Their house is gone—every earthly possession, except whatever had been in the lockbox and the safe.
He may have been doing his job as a detective, but he hadn't done his number one job: keeping his family safe.
Linda startles awake from a nightmare, wipes her face with the back of her hand, and tries to keep the tears back. "Sorry about that," she says to Erin. "Where's Danny?"
"He went upstairs. Think he's taking a shower. Dad and Grandpa and I were going to have some whiskey; you should join us—I think Dad already poured you a glass of wine."
She nods, follows her sister-in-law into the other room.
Then she realizes what Erin said.
Danny. Is. Taking. A. Shower.
Which means only one thing.
She waves off the glass of wine Frank offers her. "Sorry, I…I can't, I have to go check on Danny."
She hurries up the stairs, grabs the pajamas they'd bought earlier that day, pushes the bathroom door open. The one thing about this old house is that the doors don't lock—so Danny hasn't been able to lock himself in, like he usually does when he's self-harming like this.
No welcoming cloud of steam greets her—she likes her showers hot—and her heart breaks. "Danny, babe, I'm coming in."
"I wanna be left alone," he says, sniffling.
"I can't do that, babe. You know why?" she asks, her voice shaking.
"No," he sighs.
"I can't leave you alone because…you aren't alone. You still have me and the boys."
"Just let me…take my…shower in peace, Linda."
She shakes her head even though he can't see her, quickly undresses, shivering, and steps into the shower behind him.
The water's so cold it takes her breath away.
Danny is sitting on the floor of the tub, arms wrapped around his legs, shivering violently.
She quickly turns the water temperature up. "Why are you in here trying to turn into a human popsicle?"
"You know why," he sighs, sounding defeated and tired and depressed.
"Pretend I don't."
"Our house is gone."
"It wasn't your fault."
He punches the wall with his fist.
"It was my fault!" he yells, his voice breaking. "You and the boys could have been inside—you could have been killed!"
He takes a shuddery breath. "I can't…I can't lose you."
She pulls him to sit in between her legs, pressing her body into his back, hoping the physical contact will ground him. "I'm not goin' anywhere, Danny. I'm right here."
"You shouldn't. You've been kidnapped, shot, the house burned down…if bad things keep happening around the same person, are they stil just accidents?"
"Danny, don't. Don't go lumping all those things together, trying to say they all happened because of you. None of those things was your fault—our house burning down is NOT your fault."
Danny reaches his hand back under her leg, trying to reach his own back, and she grabs his hand.
She's seen the aftermath of him scratching now-12-year-old scars 'till they bleed; she doesn't want to see the amount of force he has to use, and she's not going to let him hurt himself. Not on her watch. Not when she's sitting there, pressed so close together he'd normally have other, more pleasurable things on his mind. Not when he's already hurting so much inside.
There's something in his hand, and she winces when it stabs her in the finger. Danny lets go, and she looks at it, sighing whne she sees the bare razor blade. So this is how he's torn open his scars time and time again…
She throws it out of the tub, hoping it will land in the trashcan, and smiling to herself when she hears it land in the bag.
She kisses the back of his head. "Don't, Danny. Don't hurt yourself. Not now, not here—not ever again, please. The boys don't blame you; I don't blame you—because there's no way this is your fault."
He shakes his head. "You should—blame me, I mean. It is my fault. They burned our house down because of my job."
"It isn't your fault, babe. I promise you it isn't," she says, wishing Doc were here.
Well, not here here—that would be awkward, but nearby, close enough to have a face-to-face session with Danny very soon.
"Don't, Linda," he says roughly. "Nothing you can say is gonna change my mind, so don't bother. If you're not gonna leave me alone, just please…let me alone with my thoughts."
"I can't, babe. Not when those thoughts are so dark you're trying to hurt yourself—in more ways than one. there's only one way we're gonna get through this, Danny."
"What's that?" he asks, his tone conveying his absolute disbelief that they're going to get through this—any of it—at all.
"By sticking together, by…you coming to me to see that I'm still here, that I'm alive, and not…not trying to freeze yourself to death alone. By…talking to me. By…calling Doc later tonight and talking to him. By…"
Nothing she says is getting through to him, so she gets out of the tub and wraps a towel around herself, puts a chair under the doorknob of his old bedroom, and pulls him out of the tub. Maybe she can show him with her body that the only way they're gonna get through this is together.