A/N: Mmmmm the angst! I'm warning you guys now that I don't know much more about panic attacks than anyone else; most of what I'm writing for Bobby (and in the future, the therapist) to say is/will be just me using my common sense and vague knowledge of psychology. If I make any glaring mistakes, please let me know and I'll try to correct them.

Three hours later, she was on the couch, curled up against him in the tightest ball she could manage without hurting her ribs. She'd been like this almost since the moment he got her home; she'd locked the apartment door behind them, walked directly into the bedroom to change into a pair of his sweats, and returned to the couch, huddling up against one end with her face pressed into her knees.

She hadn't worn his sweats in days - ever since she discovered that she could button her own pants - and the fact that she'd opted to drown herself in his clothes tonight told him as much about her mood as anything else she'd done or said today. Unfortunately, the news her actions were communicating wasn't good: Alex was distraught. More upset than he'd ever seen her, including during the time right after she'd been injured and during any of her panic attacks.

And she wasn't talking. She just sat, her head buried in her arms, which were balanced on her knees, and trembled soundlessly.

Initially, he'd gone to the kitchen to make her tea, then brought it to her and sat on the other end of the couch, waiting for her to snap out of it, but she hadn't. She'd been like this for hours now, and even if he ignored her obvious depression, he knew the position had to be getting uncomfortable for her.

Eventually, he hadn't been able to stand it any longer. He'd moved across the couch and pulled her into his arms as gently as he could, enveloping her body in his and resting his cheek on top of her head, but she had remained curled in on herself, not resisting his touch but not accepting it, either. And still, not a word came from her; in fact, he hadn't heard even a whimper - only the sound of her slow, deliberate breathing.

So he mumbled nonsense into her hair as he stroked it softly, searching his mind for something to do or say that would help. He pleaded with her to talk to him about it. When she didn't show any response to that, he asked for a cry, a moan, anything at all to let him know she was there with him.

Not a sound, but he noticed wet patches spreading on her knees underneath her face. She was crying silently, holding herself in such tight check that her whole body was shaking from the strain.

He swallowed, hard. Alex didn't cry. Alex never, ever cried. He couldn't think of a time when she'd even come close to crying. "Alex, please," he finally said, too concerned to continue to keep his peace. "It's not the end of the world. You've had these panics before and bounced back. You're strong enough to work through this."

His heart leapt when she began to slowly lift her head in response to that, but one look at her face sent it plummeting back into his stomach. Pale, drawn. Tear-stained. Her eyes were dull underneath the sheen of tears, and her lips trembled slightly as she looked at him and drew in a ragged breath. "You don't understand," she managed in a voice so clogged with tears that it was almost unrecognizable. "I . . . it's gone."

"What's gone?"

"Everything," she said flatly, dropping her head again. "The job. Me."

"What are you talking about?" he asked, the words sounding rougher than he meant them to be. "Nothing's gone. You're still you, you're still at MCS, you're still my partner. It's not gone."

She just shook her head against her knees and repeated, "It's gone. You don't understand."

"Ok, fine, you're right - I don't understand, but I want to. Explain it to me," he exhorted. "Come on," he added, applying slight upward pressure to her chin, "look me in the eye and explain it!" He injected a touch of derision into his voice - just enough to raise her hackles.

She tensed against him, then looked up and, with her nose less than an inch from his, stared him in the eye as he'd asked. "How would you feel if one day you realized that you can't do your job anymore? If you woke up and found out that the one thing you're good at is the one thing you can't do?"

"You can do your job, Alex. It was ten minutes of one day, that's all! You're just going to roll over and give up because of one bad day?"

She made a disgusted noise. "You make it sound so easy, like I'm going to wake up in the morning and suddenly I won't be afraid anymore."

"I didn't say anything like that, Alex, and you know it. What I'm telling you is it'll take time, but things will get easier."

"Jesus, is this what you spent all those years in the Army for? So they could teach you to spout useless clichés to people? Did it work on the Koreans, Bobby?"

He blinked, taken aback by her sudden attack, then decided that he'd much rather have her ranting at him than hiding her face from him. "Usually I was the one trying to break them down, not build them back up. It's not a valid comparison. I'm trying to help you here," he added before she could argue with him. "But you have to let me in."

"You're too far in as it is," she said shortly, turning her face away.

"Oh?" He pulled his hand away from her face so he could wave it to emphasize his words as he said, "So what, you're just going to sit here in your apartment and feel sorry for yourself? Tell yourself that no one else could possibly understand, so you don't have to listen to anything they say?" Part of him hated the harsh words, but a larger part of him was beginning to understand that offering her sympathy wasn't helping; maybe he needed to goad her into fighting back.

"Maybe."

"Oh, that's fucking brilliant, Alex. That's going to get you real far in life."

"Excuse me?" she said incredulously, returning wide eyes to his face.

"You heard what I said," he told her, moderating his tone slightly. "You didn't get where you are by letting yourself think there were things you couldn't do. So what's changed now?"

"Bobby, look at me! I can't even make myself stop crying," she muttered, dashing fresh tears from her cheeks. "How am I supposed to believe that I can make myself stop being afraid?"

"Why do you need to stop being afraid?"

"Huh?" She looked at him blankly for a second before saying, "Uh, maybe because I can't do my job the way I am right now?"

"So you're telling me that you were never afraid on the job before Steven Brewer got to you? Not even when you had a gun pointed at your head?"

"Of course I've been scared. You know that! But it's different now."

"Why?"

"Why what? Why is it different? Come on, Goren, don't act stupid. You've seen me! I can hardly even breathe, let alone stand up or fight back!"

"Uh-huh. Now tell me, is it the fear that's different, or is it the physical reaction?"

She glared at him. "I don't understand what the hell you're talking about. Would you just . . . leave me alone, please?"

"No." He tightened his arms around her. "Listen to me, ok? Just for another minute, then you can go lock yourself in the bathroom or whatever it is you think you're going to do."

She pulled away from him and crossed her arms, but didn't try to get up. "Fine. Talk."

"You're having panic attacks. That is not the same as fear. Fear is a healthy, logical reaction to something that presents a threat. It would be completely rational for you to be afraid if someone you didn't trust backed you into a wall. Panic attacks are illogical reactions to something that doesn't present a threat. No matter how angry or upset you might be, you know that I'm not going to hurt you. You know Deakins isn't going to hurt you. Right?"

She nodded sullenly.

"So the problem isn't the fear. The problem is the reaction. You need to learn to turn that off."

"Bobby, I don't know what you're talking -"

"Let me finish," he said quietly, putting a hand lightly over her mouth. "You need to learn to turn it off, and you need to learn it in an environment where you feel completely safe. You know the department will pay for any counseling you might need, and -"

"No." She flung his hand away from her face. "I don't need a shrink, thank you very much. I've had enough of this," she added, scrambling off his lap to stand up. "You don't - Bobby!" she broke off when he clamped his hand around hers, not allowing her to move any further away.

"The way we've been doing things hasn't helped the panicking, Alex," he said as calmly as he could. "It's helped the nightmares, but not the panics. That leaves you with two choices: get someone to help you with it, or give up the job. You've spent this whole night forgetting that you have the first option, but I'm reminding you now and I want you to tell me this: would you rather cling to your pride and give up your job, or would you rather admit that maybe you do need help with this one thing?" Releasing her hand, he watched her stare at him silently. "Think about it. I'm going to make you something to eat; you must be hungry."

She watched him turn his back on her, watched him disappear into the kitchen. As the sound of cabinets opening and closing began to drift toward her, she looked down at her hands and tried to think.