A/N: Doc's bullet-hole analogy is from Chapter 5 of my story "Drowning."

Information on gun-cleaning comes from: . (/) forum/equipment-tactical/firearms/79939-how-often-do-you-clean-your-guns.

"I…I'm scared, Linda," he whispers. "I thought this was…going to be an easy recovery: Surgery, six weeks off the ankle…yay, I'm better. Maybe with a few hiccups here and there. Not…flashbacks and re-injuring the blasted thing three times, and getting booted out of PT twice."

"What are you scared of?"

"Never getting back to full duty—having to go out on ¾ disability. You getting so…frustrated with me you leave for good."

"I'm not leaving, Danny," Linda says before he can continue. "And a lot of this—the PTSD, the flashbacks, the stuff that's causing you to self-sabotage—isn't your fault. But I do think…part of you doesn't want to get better."

"What do you mean? It's not like I…"

"I…talked to Doc while you were getting the X-Ray. And…he said something about… Getting better requires PT, which is going to hurt. But if you rush the process, you're not going to get better. You want to rush the process—have the end result without the steps to get there. Same with everything going on inside your head."

"No pain, no gain?" he sighs.

"Something like that."

"I'll try," he whispers, and picks up his book from the table while she goes to start dinner.

Linda's gone upstairs to read, and he looks at his therapist. "I thought you had a rule, Doc—no patient contact unless I initiated it."

"Rules can be broken for a good reason, Danny," Doc smiles, sitting down in a kitchen chair across from him.

"Huh. That sounds like something I should be saying, not you."

"What happened?"

He tells Doc everything…getting kicked out of PT, Linda telling him he's not trying hard enough… everything except the incident with his lockbox.

"Linda might have a point," Doc starts.

He hits the couch with his arm. "I don't *** care if she has a point! I am tired—sick and tired—of everyone telling me how I feel and how I think and how I should feel and how I should think, and 'You're so traumatized, you poor baby!' They don't know $#!+! I'd like to give them five minutes in my head, with my memories, or just one *** flashback—one second of the hell I went through in Fallujah …make them all shut up about how screwed-up in the head I am!"

"You're not screwed-up in the head, Danny," Doc says quietly.

He turns to look at the younger man, halted in his assault on the couch. "Say that again."

"You're not screwed-up in the head, Danny."

He laughs bitterly. "Seriously, Doc? You, of all people, should be the first in line telling me just how *** in the head I am…and you're not? I think you're the one who needs your head shrunk!"

"I have gotten my head shrunk, and continue to do so."

"O yeah. The Cop Doc conveniently has a shrink so he can tell his patients he's in therapy, too."

"No. I have a therapist because even the happiest, most well-adjusted person on the planet needs to unload to someone who can listen objectively, help him problem-solve, and address any problems before they become crises."

"Sorry," he says.

"Apology accepted."

He picks up the thermos, takes another sip of nasty, stale, lukewarm water. "If I'm not screwed up in the head, then…what am I?"

Doc leans forward a little, makes eye contact with him. "You are a person who has a stressful career, has endured trauma day in and day out for twenty-three years as a cop, the trauma of losing your brother, everything you went through in Fallujah…and now, on top of the physical ailment of your fractured and sprained ankle, is having to face a repressed memory. That's who you are, Danny."

"Sounds like a long-winded way of saying 'majorly screwed up in the head.'"

"No."

"Then what?"

"Hurting. In pain. And I am not talking about your ankle. I am talking about here"—Doc taps his forehead, much like Nate had done that morning—"and here"—Doc taps his heart.

"Nate said the same *** thing."

"I know. He called me to let me know."

Before he can explode at that violation of his privacy or confidentiality or something, Doc's talking again:

"Danny, do you remember my bullet-hole analogy from two years ago?"

"No. Just your freakishly accurate drowning analogy."

"Well, the bullet-hole analogy was this: What would happen if you got shot and you just ignored the wound? Maybe you…put a Band-Aid on it, but you didn't let a surgeon operate and take out the bullet?"

He shrugs. "It'd get infected."

"And if you continue to ignore it for…days, weeks, months…?"

Now this is starting to sound familiar…

"The…infection would spread; I could lose my arm or die of blood poisoning."

"Exactly. The PTSD, this repressed memory…that's the bullet."

Now he's remembering where Doc's going with this… "If you're just gonna tell me how *** traumatized I am, and how much I need to work through that, you can leave now, Doc. I don't have any hot cocoa to throw at you, though."

Doc smiles. "Thank you, Danny. The issue here…is one I thought we had worked through after Corporal Russell's suicide: You don't think you deserve to be happy or healthy—and I don't mean physically healthy."

He hears a creak, and looks up. "Come on down, Linda. You know I asked if you wanted to sit in."

She's been crying, and he scoots over so she can sit on the couch. "I…didn't mean to eavesdrop; I was just coming downstairs for water, and heard Doc's bullet-hole analogy, which you told me before, and…yeah, I am frustrated, and…you scared me when you got your gun out earlier—even before you dropped the lockbox on your foot. I just want you to be happy and healthy and stop…stop hurting."

"Why did you get your lockbox out?" Doc asks.

He sighs. He'd really hoped to not have to bring that up with Doc… "To clean my gun."

"Come on, Danny. I've known you for two years…I don't buy it. How often do you clean it?"

"Once a month if I don't fire it. Plus after every time I fire it."

"You clean it on Saturdays, Danny!" Linda interrupts. "And today is not Saturday. And the last time you got it out to 'clean' it, you tripped, knocked the lamp over, and scared the $#!+ out of me because I found you lying on top of your gun on the bed! And that was…less than 6 weeks ago."

"Okay. Maybe…some part of me…was hoping…it would go off accidentally. Put an end to this $#!+$+0rm of feelings and memories and everyone in my face telling me how *** traumatized I am."

Linda punches him (not-too-gently) in the arm. "Am I really that annoying, telling you that…you have to want to get better, that you'd kill yourself to escape my…'nagging'?" she asks tearfully.

"No…no, babe. It's not you that's annoying; it's me. I'm tired of…everything. I'm tired of not being able to 'grin and bear it.' I'm tired that I keep injuring myself, that I can't…find the strength to help myself, that I can't find the…guts to want to get better. I'm so tired," he whispers, and his voice cracks, and then Linda's holding him so tightly he can't breathe but that doesn't matter because she's there, she hasn't left; and Doc quietly slips out of the room.

"I…can't…handle any more…."

"Then maybe you need to take a break from therapy, also," Linda suggests.

That's the best idea he's heard in weeks.