A/N: UPDATED to fix several continuity and accuracy errors. Thanks, JLMayer!
Linda frowned when she rolled over into cold sheets and not her warm husband. She sat up quickly. Danny wasn't in bed.
"Danny?" she called, worried. Two weeks had passed since Corporal Russell's suicide, and their nights had a new pattern. They'd go to bed; she'd wake Danny up a few hours later; sometimes he would talk about it, more often than not he would go downstairs to the punching bag; but he was always there in bed. And if he'd just gone to the bathroom or to get a drink of water, he always left something on the pillow so she wouldn't freak out that he was gone.
The sheets were cold, which meant he'd been up for a while; and there was nothing on his pillow.
She pulled on her robe and started looking for him.
He wasn't in the bedroom or the bathroom or any other room upstairs; and she padded downstairs, sighing in relief when she saw him sitting in the living room. "Danny?" she called again.
He didn't answer, and she stepped closer, gasping when she saw—in the dim light from the street light—that he was holding his off-duty weapon. "Danny!"
He didn't move, and she ran back upstairs, grabbed her cell-phone with trembling fingers, and called Frank.
On the second ring a sleepy voice said, "Hello?"
"Frank, it's Linda. Something's wrong with Danny; I think he's having a flashback. He's got his gun in his hands, Frank! I don't know if it's loaded or not!"
"I'll be there in thirty minutes, lights and sirens. Call Dr. Dawson, tell him my detail and I will pick him up on the way."
"I don't know…"
"His number is probably in Danny's phone."
"Okay. Hurry, Frank, please!"
"I will, Linda. Just breathe. And call Dawson."
He hung up, and she walked to her husband's side of the bed, picked up Danny's phone. Thank God I know his password she thought, and scrolled down through his contacts.
A tired voice answered on the fifth ring. "Hello?"
"Dr. Dawson, this is Linda Reagan. Danny's having a flashback, he's not responding to me, and he's got his off-duty gun. I don't know if it's loaded or not. Frank should be calling you in a minute; he's on his way to pick you up and bring you here."
She heard a long, low whistle from the psychologist. "Okay. Stay calm. Stay out of Danny's line of sight. Talk to him, tell him he's safe, that whatever he's seeing isn't real. Don't touch him, Linda. Go unlock the front door for your father-in-law."
Downstairs, she backed her way to the front door. She kept her eyes on Danny, talking to him quietly. "Hey, Danny, you're okay, you're safe. The boys and I are safe, too. Whatever you're seeing or hearing—isn't real. You're having a flashback, babe."
He didn't move, didn't blink—if she hadn't seen his chest moving, she would have thought he wasn't breathing. He just sat there, holding the gun in a steady hand. It was pointed at the window, and she hoped fervently that no one walked by outside.
A tiny voice in her ear startled her, and she jumped. She was still holding the phone in her ear. "H…hello? Sorry about that, Doc."
"It's okay, Linda. Call Frank, tell him I'll drive myself over; he doesn't need to pick me up. What's your address?"
She rattled it off, hearing a car beep, and then a door close. "Thank you, Linda. Remember not to touch him, but keep talking to him. I'll be there as soon as I can."
She nodded. "Th…thanks, Doc.
She put the phone in her pocket and resumed talking to Danny as she unlocked the door.
She wasn't sure what she was saying; she was babbling; and she blinked back sudden tears.
Danny had seemed tense when they went to bed; he'd told her he was tired of the nightmares; but this wasn't just a nightmare. This was…this was a full-blown flashback. Danny probably didn't even realize where he was, or what he'd done.
O God, the boys! What if they woke up and came downstairs and startled their dad?
She tiptoed up the stairs to check on them. They were sleeping soundly. Please God, don't let them wake up, she prayed.
She went back downstairs, called Frank to give him Doc's message, and put the coffee on, simply for the sake of something to do.
She went back into the living room. Danny was still sitting there, frozen, his eyes wide, the gun unwaveringly pointed at the window. She crept up as close to him as she dared. "You're safe, Danny. You're here, at home, with me and the boys. Everything's fine. You can put the gun down."
He didn't move. It was worse than talking to a statue.
She paced, prayed, poured a cup of coffee. She took a sip, then poured it down the drain when she realized she'd made it too strong.
She must have walked up and down the stairs fifteen times before she heard sirens blaring. Then they cut off abruptly.
She ran to the front door, opened it, and stepped out into the cold night.
Frank's car pulled up. He got out of the car without even waiting for his detail, and Henry followed him.
Another car screeched to a halt at the curb, and a thin, tall man—it must be Doc Dawson—got out.
Then Henry's arms were around her and she was sobbing into his coat.
Alex Dawson pushed himself in front of the Commissioner's security detail. "I can talk Danny down, Commissioner. I know I can."
"I'm his father," Frank Reagan said firmly.
A member of the Commissioner's security detail shook his head. "Sir, you really should let me go in there first; my job is to make sure Detective Reagan doesn't shoot you."
"He won't shoot me!" Frank exploded.
Alex pushed past them and into the house. Danny still didn't move, and he walked behind the couch. He motioned the others to stay back, then in one swift motion, he punched Danny hard in the arm.
As he had hoped, the gun fell to the ground.
Frank stepped forward to kick it away, and Alex walked to the other couch, sat down squarely in Danny's line of sight.
Danny blinked, looked at him, his eyes glassy. "Doc?" he whispered. "Why are you here? Where…" He looked around the room. "I was just in Fallujah…why am I…?"
"Easy, Danny, it's okay," Alex said in a level voice, maintaining eye contact with the detective. "You're safe. Linda and the boys are safe. Do you know where you are?"
"My…my house. Whatthehell happened? What did I do? Why's everybody here?"
"What do you remember, Danny?"
He blinked. "I was…I thought I was…back in Fallujah…I must've…had a flashback." He looked up at his dad. "O God, why do you have my gun, Dad? Who took it out of the safe…did I…?"
"You didn't use it," the Commissioner said gravely. "However, you're on modified duty for thirty days—pending full clearance from both Doc Dawson and the department psychologist, and my personal approval. I need your badge, Danny."
"Why…why are you putting me on modified?"
"Because your head's not on straight, son. If this happened while you were on duty, and you ended up shooting someone...an innocent bystander...you'd never forgive yourself. I can't let you back in the field until I know your PTSD is under control. Now, where are your badge and your service weapon?"
"My weapon's in my locker at the precinct, badge is on the bedside table."
Frank headed for the stairs. "I'll get it. Henry's with the boys."
Danny buried his face in his hands. "I don't remember unlocking the safe…if I'd used the gun…o God, Linda…"
She sat down next to him, and Alex rose and stepped out of the room.
Linda wrapped her arms around him, and he buried his face in her shoulder. "I can't even… If I'd used the gun, and shot…" he trailed off, unable to say the words aloud. If I'd shot you or the boys… He shuddered at the thought.
"But you didn't, Danny. You didn't. I'm safe and so are the boys."
He pulled away from her grasp as his father and grandfather came back down the stairs. "Boys are sound asleep," Henry said quietly.
"I…I need to check on them," Linda said, and pulled him close for a minute, then rose and headed for the stairs.
"I'll make some hot cocoa," Pop said, and steered his dad into the kitchen.
His dad locked eyes with Doc, who nodded, and then he and Pop went into the kitchen.
"What was that all about, Doc? That whole eyebrow-raising?"
"I'd like to have a session with you now, while everything's still fresh in your memory."
He shrugged. "What do you wanna know, Doc?"
"First of all, I want you to know that whatever you tell me is confidential, even though we're sitting in your living room and not my office. Understood?" He nodded, and Doc continued, "Walk me through the night, from the time you went to bed."
He set the mug down and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Went to bed earlier than normal, about 10. I was dead on my feet. Chatted with Linda a bit. I did tell her I was worried I'd have another nightmare. I couldn't fall asleep for a long time."
"And when you did fall asleep?"
He opened his mouth but stopped as Pop walked back into the room, carrying two mugs. "Here we have freshly made hot cocoa. Danny, Dr. Dawson."
"Thanks, Pop." He took the mug, sipped it. It was just the right temperature.
He waited until his grandfather was back in the kitchen before he said, "I was back in Fallujah… under heavy fire…trying to get to safety. I don't know how I wasn't thrashing around and didn't wake Linda earlier."
"And you have no recollection of getting out of bed, getting your safe from its hiding place, unlocking it, and taking out your gun?"
He slammed the mug down, cursing as it splashed hot cocoa everywhere. "Dammit, Doc, do you think I'd be sitting here if I did? No, I don't remember!"
He rose, stalked into the kitchen, and glared at the concerned faces of his father and grandfather. Then he grabbed a towel and stalked back into the living room to clean up the mess.
Doc set his own mug down, held his hands up in a placating gesture. "Okay, okay. I had to ask, Danny. What were you seeing or feeling right before you came back from the flashback—sitting in your living room?"
"I…I don't remember."
"Danny, you were holding a loaded gun. Even though you weren't aware of what you were doing, your subconscious thought you were in danger. I think you do remember."
He leaned his head on his hands, stared at the floor. "Have I ever told you you're a hard-ass?"
"Only ten times in the past two weeks. Stop stalling, Danny. What was going through your head right before I knocked the gun out of your hand? Where did you think you were?"
"I told you, Doc: back in Fallujah!"
"And what was going on?"
"I was…" He trailed off. This made absolutely no sense, just like the nightmare that had been on repeat since John Russell's death. "I was dodging bullets, and yet somehow…Linda and the boys were in danger. I was waiting for just the right moment to take out the bastard who wanted to hurt them." He sighed. "The boys were…the same age as they are now, even though they were tiny when I was in Iraq. Why the hell do my memories get all messed up with current events?"
"You're afraid of losing your family, Danny. You've already lost so many people…your grandmother, your mother, your brother Joe, every single member of your unit. It makes sense that, deep down, you're terrified something's going to take your family."
"Why now, Doc? I've been in danger before, but Linda and the boys haven't been."
"Because you met John Russell. He didn't see a reason to live because, for all intents and purposes, he'd lost his family. You identified with him, Danny."
"The hell I did, Doc. The boys aren't scared of me; Linda doesn't want a divorce. How the hell did I identify with him?"
"Danny, you…Danny, you know that there are memories that you haven't faced yet, things you don't want to face…the full story of your time in Fallujah, Joe's murder…memories you're burying. You're afraid that if you let them come to the surface, you'll end up like John."
"You think I'm suicidal?"
"I think you're a lot closer to the edge than any of us realized, Danny."
He was too exhausted to yell at Doc and tell him he was wrong. "How am I gonna keep from ending up like John?"
"Talking about Iraq. What are your hours on modified?"
"0830 until 1700, with thirty minutes for lunch. Five days a week."
"Well, then, I'd like to meet with you twice a week—after work, after you've gone home for dinner and had some time with your family…say, around 8 p.m., Mondays and Thursdays? Does that sound good?"
He shook his head. "That's a lot of driving, from the precinct back to Staten Island, then back to your office. How 'bout 5:30 or 6, right after work?"
"That'll work." Doc rose, and Danny did as well.
"Thanks, Doc. I'll see you Thursday."
"You're welcome. Call me if you need to before then, okay?"
He nodded. "Copy that."
Doc let himself out, and Danny headed for the kitchen. "Could we…talk, maybe, just for a minute?"
"I'm listening, Danny," his dad said quietly, and Pop rose.
"I'll go check on Linda and the boys."
He sank into a chair, leaned his head in his hands. "Am I going crazy, Dad?"
"The person best qualified to answer that just walked out the front door, Danny. However, for what it's worth, no, I don't think you are. I think you need to work through some things, but you're not crazy, Danny."
He nodded. "Yeah, okay. Thanks. You and Pop should head home, go to bed."
"Danny, you're the one who wanted to talk. So talk."
He cursed under his breath. He needed to get out of this one, and fast. "I just wanted to hear you tell me I'm not crazy. It's okay. I need to go check on Linda and the boys."
He turned and headed for the stairs.