A/N: Danny weighs about 160 normally, according to 03x04. Also, please don't hate me for the end of this chapter! (Linda will be back in the next chapter.)
He watches the clock for ten minutes after Linda pulls out of the driveway, then slowly pulls himself up and crutches over to the scale.
At PT that morning, he'd tipped the scale at 148—the broken-ankle-not-hungry diet is scarily effective—and according to the chart on the wall, he's currently allowed to put 37 pounds on his left ankle. Whatever doctor or physical therapist invented this "crutch-weaning protocol" must have been a Marine drill sergeant in a past life.
He bites his lip and puts his foot—boot and all—gingerly on the scale, wobbling and cursing himself for trying to do this alone.
31…40…36…42…and there's the magic number: 37. He relaxes a little. He can do this. Just put that much weight on the foot, and…
The doorbell rings.
He doesn't move, suddenly afraid that if he turns, he's going to fall.
The doorbell rings two more times.
"Danny, it's Doc! I'm coming in!" a voice yells. He hears the lockbox click, then the key in the door, and then Doc is standing next to him with a hand under his elbow. "I see you got the cast off, and the AOK to start weight-bearing?"
He nods, bites his lip. "Overdid it…need to get off the foot now," he says through gritted teeth.
Doc helps him back to the couch, puts a pillow under his leg, and takes the boot off. "How much pain are you in right now?"
He glares at Doc. "Thought you were my head-shrinker, not my ankle doctor."
Doc ignores him and hands him the pain scale. "That's right, but I want to know how much pain you're in before we dive into Fallujah."
"I guess…6?" Hard to ignore; avoid usual activities. "Maybe 7." And that's just his ankle. His back, shoulders and arms hurt from the crutches.
"Where's Linda?"
He shrugs. "At the library or the grocery store or something. If you're just going to molly-coddle me, you can leave the way you came."
Doc holds both hands up in surrender. "I…I'm not trying to mollycoddle you, Danny. But you've been off that foot for six weeks. If you had fallen, broken your ankle again, broken another bone, and you were home alone…"
"Then you wouldn't have to sit here for 50 minutes and make me talk about my feelings."
Doc leans forward in frustration. "Danny, I…I'm trying to understand here. You spent a year doing the very hard work of talking about Fallujah and dealing with your PTSD—what is it about the time you broke your ankle, that has you clamming up tighter than an oyster? Is it because of Bobby LaRue?"
He can't get up and pace like he normally does when he wants to get away from Doc's piercing stare; there's nothing breakable nearby to throw at Doc; so he punches the couch cushion, which doesn't help one bit.
The room gets a little stuffier, his heart is so fast he can hear it.
He had hoped he could avoid telling Doc this—that's why he'd tried to get rid of his therapist by throwing hot cocoa at him—he had planned to never tell Linda—and when his dad came by three weeks ago to tell him, he'd been told that the family didn't want anything publicized; they were refusing all the usual memorials the NYPD normally gave to…
He swallows hard, stares at the boot on his foot. "Bobby LaRue died because I sprained my ankle. When I broke it six weeks ago…I was dodging a bullet. The bullet missed me, but it hit someone else. The bullet that should have hit me killed an undercover cop."