A/N: I have no clue who determines pay in the NYPD. So, per suspension of disbelief and artistic license, I decided it would be the chief of detectives. If anyone knows the correct person/department, please let me know!
This chapter picks up where the last one ended, after dinner Monday.
He wasn't surprised when his dad said "Danny and I are on dish duty tonight."
He didn't know how much help he'd be, but he didn't argue.
His dad got him situated at the kitchen table with the silverware and a towel. Drying silverware was something he could do one-handed.
He was glad his dad couldn't see his face.
He took a shaky breath, let it out, winced. "I've been home three hours, Dad and I've already wanted to bolt like 5 times."
"But you haven't, Danny. That's the important thing."
He stared at the table. "Am I fired?"
"No. You'll be on sick leave until your ribs and arm are fully healed, which will take a few months. If the doctors say you're fit, you can return to modified assignment—for a minimum of six months. After that, you'll have a physical fitness-for-duty exam and a psychological FFD, to see if you can return to full duty."
"So eight months minimum?"
"Yeah."
"How much of a pay cut are we talking?"
"Don't worry about that, Danny."
He slammed a spoon down on the table.
Electric bolts of pain shot through his ribs.
Black spots danced before his eyes.
He couldn't breathe.
Guess he needed to work on his temper.
Anger and broken ribs did not mix.
A firm hand was rubbing his back.
Finally he took a shaky breath.
"Dad…we have…bills to pay, the kids'…tuition; Linda's…working fewer hours because I'm…so… messed up! What. Is. The. Pay. Cut?"
"You'll be getting your regular pay rate during that entire time."
"What? You're letting me use my hook at 1PP? Come on, Dad, don't baby me!"
"I'm not. In matters of pay, I defer to my chief of detectives. It was his decision to give you your full pay while you're on modified. And you know as well as I do that you get full pay while on sick leave."
His shoulders slumped.
"What am I gonna do, stuck at home until the ribs heal?"
"Rest and heal—physically and emotionally." His dad's hand left his back, and he shuddered. "Now, the boys want to play a game with you; get out of here!"
He'd only dried three spoons.
After losing two games of cards to Sean, he went upstairs at 7 p.m.
Linda handed him the two pills of Zoloft, the narcotic.
He swallowed the Zoloft, ignored the other pill.
"Danny…" Linda was locking the small box where it seemed she was keeping his pills. It had a code to unlock it. He didn't know the code. He didn't want to know the code.
He shook his head. "I don't like it, Linda! It makes me loopy and nauseous. I'd rather deal with the pain than the side-effects."
"How about an ice pack for your ribs?"
He nodded, swallowed.
"I'll be back."
He grabbed her hand. "Don't leave, please!"
He didn't think he'd been alone—not when he was awake, anyway—in ten days.
She leaned down to kiss him. "Hey, I'll be right back, Danny. Five minutes tops."
He couldn't breathe.
Jack was talking to him. Where'd he come from?
"Dad! I'm doing this really cool science project for the science fair tomorrow, wanna hear about it?"
His son talked about batteries and lemon juice and he didn't-know-what, and he was still actually breathing when Linda came back with the ice pack.
"Finish your homework," Linda told the teen.
Danny hugged him with his good arm. "Thanks, kiddo. Love you. Sleep tight."
"Love you too, Dad. We're glad you're home."
He left, and Danny slowly lay down. He was way, way too tired to get in pajamas. He groaned as he tried to get the ice pack in the right place on his ribs. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
Her finger was on his lips. "No apologies, Danny. No more. You're here, and you're alive. That's all that matters."
He nodded. "Dad said I'm on sick leave until everything heals. I'm going to go batty, Linda!"
"Danny, you need to rest. You're still recovering from the concussion. Do you honestly think you're up to sitting at a computer screen for 8 hours a day, watching video surveillance?"
He shook his head, winced. No, he didn't think so. Just the fluorescent lights in the house were hurting his eyes.
Linda got up, turned the overhead light off, then sat down next to him. She patted her lap, and he scooted over.
He sighed as she ran her fingers through his hair, rubbed his throbbing head.
"I'm scared, Linda. I'm scared of the thoughts and the memories that are going to be running around in my head if I'm stuck at home for months."
"I know. I'm here. You're not alone, Danny. What's the safety plan you and Doc came up with? If you start to feel overwhelmed, what do you do?"
He swallowed. "Read a book, do something with Dad or Pops or the boys, talk to you or Dad, call Doc or Padre. That's from like low-level freaking out to if I start…thinking about…"
He couldn't say the words.
"I'm tired, Linda. I'm so blasted tired. I can't…"
She leaned down, kissed him. "Shhh, Danny, just rest. I've got you."
He fell asleep, and dreamed of his boys and punching bags and his crying family and the men in his unit staring accusingly at him.