A/N: I hope the idea of Frank driving Linda to Doc's isn't too deus ex machina…
He was still trying to find the words when his phone buzzed. "Sorry, Doc." He glanced at it. "It's Linda. I need to take this."
He rose, walked over to the door. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, Danny; just a change of plans. Your dad just called; I'd forgotten that he'd offered to take the boys for two nights. He's on his way here, and he'll pick up all three of us, drop me off at Doc's, then take the boys to his place. We can pick them up at Sunday dinner."
He nodded. "O…okay. Tell dad thanks. Love you."
"Love you more," she said fervently, and he leaned into the words.
"Love you most," he whispered, and hung up. "Sorry about that, Doc." He quickly explained what was going on to the younger man.
"That sounds like a good plan all around, Danny; it'll save Linda the cab fare, and give both of you some time to talk tonight, without worrying about the boys overhearing."
He nodded, and Doc rose. "I'm going to have a cup of herbal tea; want some?"
He shrugged. He didn't like tea, but a hot beverage sounded good. "Sure. Thanks."
Doc was quiet for a few minutes while he got the Styrofoam cups and the hot water and the tea-bags, then, almost casually, he asked, "Why did you tell Linda you couldn't drive home?"
He shook his head. "What does it matter?"
"Tell me why you don't think you should drive home, and then I'll tell you why it matters." Doc walked over with the cup of tea.
He took it, let out a shaky breath, stared at his shoes. "I'm afraid that if I drive home, alone, I might do something stupid."
Doc sat down, blew on his tea to cool it. "Good job, Danny." He frowned, wondering why in the hell that was good; and Doc went on, "Recognizing that it's not safe for you to drive home…reaching out, asking Linda to come…is progress."
He took a sip of his tea. It burned his mouth, and he cursed. "Knowing I'm too unstable to drive home…how the hell is that progress, Doc?"
"It's progress because you're taking measures to keep yourself safe. That tells me that you want to live."
He flinched, tried to look anywhere but at Doc; but Doc's eyes were boring holes in him, and reluctantly, he looked up at the younger man. "I'm sorry you're in so much pain, Danny."
The sympathy in Doc's voice broke him, and he looked away.
He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but he couldn't. His lips were moving, but no sound came out. He took another, slower, sip of tea.
"Danny, depression and PTSD lie to you, make you believe things that aren't true. You told John Russell, didn't you, that all that anguish inside him—feeling that his family would be better off without him—was a result of the combat, of the PTSD? Similarly, all the despair inside you—feeling that you don't deserve to be alive—is a result of your depression…and the depression is lying to you. Have you thought about that?"
He shook his head.
"As hard as it is for you to believe this right now, Danny, you deserve to live. When Linda gets here, I want to talk with both of you about how to handle the pain safely."
"Homework," he muttered. "Always homework."
"Well, I wouldn't be a good teacher if I didn't give my student homework, would I?"
The teasing tone in Doc's voice tugged at his heart. Against his will, his lips curled into…was that a smile? "Guess not. Can I…have a minute, Doc? Just to sit here and not think?"
"If you need to, yes. But I don't want you to get stuck in your head, Danny; don't go spiraling down any dark holes."
"You can't spiral when you've already drowned," he muttered.
Doc rose, and he shuddered. "I'm not going anywhere, Danny; I'm just going to put some music on, and finish putting away these files. Do you like classical music?"
He shrugged. "Put on whatever you want."
He had always thought classical music was quiet and calm and relaxing; but the CD Doc put in started with the clash of cymbals, and kept up the peppy tones for too long. Must be Doc's attempt to not let him be too alone with his thoughts.
He wasn't sure how long the clashing overly-cheerful music had been going on, when he heard a knock on the door.
Doc rose from the filing cabinet. "I'll let you and Linda have a few minutes to talk; then I want to talk to both of you. Is that okay?"
He shrugged. Doc walked over to the door, opened it. There were a few whispered words, and then Doc slipped out of the room.
His boys ran in, and he cursed. He hadn't known they were coming. They didn't need to see him like this. He stood up as they ran towards him.
"Dad! I haven't seen you all day!" Jack exclaimed, and tackled him.
"We had a fire drill in school today! It was awesome!" Sean yelled, and he shushed him.
"Are you okay, Dad?" Jack asked, looking up at him with worried eyes.
He pulled them into a bear-hug. "I love you. I love both of you so much," he whispered thickly. He released them, cleared his throat. "Get outta here. Behave for your grandfather."
They ran off, and he realized he was shaking. Then Linda's arms were around him, and he buried his face in her shoulder.
His face was wet when he finally pulled away. He swiped at his eyes, stumbled blindly towards the couch in the corner. "Th…thanks for coming," he whispered.
"Of course I came, Danny." She sat down next to him, took her hand in his. "What happened?"
He shook his head. "I can't stop thinking that…I should have been one of the guys we lost in Fallujah. I shouldn't be here. I don't deserve to be here." He let out a shaky breath. "I almost skipped Doc, but I…I didn't want to disappoint you, after you told me you're proud of me for going to therapy. And I was…I was really scared of what I might do if I had an hour to kill."
Another, shakier breath. Telling her this would scare her, but he couldn't keep it from her. "I almost walked out on Doc five minutes into the session, but he…he said if I left then, he'd have me admitted for a 72-hour psych hold."
She gasped, but didn't say anything; just squeezed his hand.
He let out a shaky breath. "You and the boys…talking with Doc…not having my gun… are the only things keeping me alive right now."
She released his hand, slipped her arm around his back. "I'm here, Danny. Okay? I'm not going anywhere. I'll do whatever you need me to do. If you think you shouldn't be alone, we'll figure out a way to make sure you're never alone." She rubbed at his back. "I'm not going anywhere," she said again.
He nodded, let her hold him as they both listened to the calm music now playing on the CD.
There was a knock on the door. He pulled away from her, sat up. "Yeah?" he called.
Doc came back in, turned the music off, and moved his chair so he was facing them. He sat down. "Danny, can you tell Linda what your trigger was?"
He blinked, confused, and Doc said, "You told me about two things that happened this week, both of which touched upon a deep-seated fear you have. That fear, combined with memories of Iraq, is the main thing that pushed you to the brink tonight."
He leaned his chin in his hands. He couldn't look at Linda while he said this. "Fighting with Jamie, and then with you…" He shook his head. "The thought of losing you, losing my family…scares the hell out of me. Without…without this family, without you…I could have been another Michael Oates, another John Russell."
She reached for his hand, forcing him to turn to look at her. He cursed when he saw the tears in her eyes. He'd made her cry, and it was all his fault. "I'm not going anywhere, Danny. I got mad at you because…I was scared of losing you. You've been so distant lately…I know it's because you're in pain and you don't want any of us to worry about you…but I'm so afraid the pain's going to swallow you up."
She reached for his face, and he realized vaguely it was wet—again. Dammit. He pulled away, swiped angrily at the tears.
"What can I do to make the pain go away, Danny?"
"I don't know," he whispered. He swiped at his eyes again, looked over at his psychologist.
"I wish I could tell both of you that I had a magic formula to ease the pain." Doc shrugged half-heartedly. "Unfortunately, I don't. But I can give you some strategies to help deal with it."
He half-listened as Doc blathered on about grounding techniques and distraction and reaching out for help. He was reaching out, dammit! What did Doc think this therapy session was? Playtime?
"There's a saying, and it might sound like a platitude, but don't sue me just yet, Danny. The saying is 'Suicide does not end the chances of life getting worse; suicide eliminates the possibility of life getting better.'"
Next to him Linda flinched.
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
"You tell me, Danny."
He glared at the younger man.
Finally, Doc spoke. "I can tell that you're angry, Danny. Can you tell me why—what are you feeling underneath the anger?"
He cursed. This would be a lot easier if Doc would just yell at him, tell him he didn't deserve healing and he was a waste of time.
He stood up, took an angry turn around the room, then stalked over to the window. "That blasted phrase…what if it takes too long and you…Doc, Linda, my family…get tired of helping me, get tired of waiting for life to get better?" He swallowed hard. "I guess I'm scared stiff that you'll leave me to deal with the pain on my own."
"I'm not going anywhere," said a voice in his ear, and he flinched. He hadn't heard Linda stand up, hadn't noticed she was next to him. He was definitely losing it. She slipped an arm around him, turned him away from the window. "Come sit down, Danny."
He followed her back over to the couch. "I'm not going anywhere either, Danny. I will help you however it is in my power to do so. But you need to do some things to help yourself—not by yourself, not in isolation from therapy and from your family—but for times when you're alone and you realize your thoughts are spiraling."
He shook his head, looked up at Doc. He couldn't even drive himself home; how the hell was he supposed to help himself? "What's the homework, Doc?"
"I want you to make a list of five things you like about yourself, and five reasons to keep living. I want you to do this without any input from Linda; and don't spend more than ten minutes, total, on both lists. Linda, I'd like you to make a list of five things you like about Danny, and five reasons your life would be emptier without him; again, no input from Danny, and no more than ten minutes. Then compare the lists and talk about them."
"Come on, Doc, five things I like about myself? I'm not a teenage girl with self-esteem issues! And how the hell is that gonna help?"
Doc didn't react to his outburst; he just continued, calmly, "I want you to keep all four of these lists in your pocket. The next time you start thinking that you can't handle the pain and that suicide is the only answer, read over those lists. Will you do that for me?"
He sighed. He didn't want to let Doc down. "Yeah, sure," he whispered.
Doc rose. "I know tomorrow's Valentine's Day, and you two have a quiet weekend planned; but I want you to check in with me on your lunch break; give me a quick call or text. Will you do that, Danny?"
He nodded, stood up. "Thanks, Doc."
"You're welcome, Danny. I'll see you Monday."
"Yeah," he whispered, and followed his wife out of the office.