He hadn't been in Doc's office in over three weeks.
He rubbed the back of his neck as Linda parked the car. "I don't know why Doc didn't just cancel the session. He could have called me tonight, done a phone session." He knew he was whining, but he did not want to walk inside that building.
"Doc's running on a tight schedule today. He wouldn't have asked you to do this, Danny, if he hadn't thought you were ready."
He tugged at his sling. "Maybe Doc just thinks I'm ready and I'm really not. I mean, I've only been home for a week."
"Just a second." Linda got out of the car and made a phone call.
A few minutes later, Doc came outside. He was carrying two coffee cups. "Hey. Thanks for calling me, Linda. I left my waiting room unlocked for you; coffee's hot. The door to my actual office, where I keep patient files, is locked. I'll call you when we're done."
"Thanks, Doc." Linda kissed Danny and left.
Doc got in the driver's seat, handed him a cup. "Hot cocoa."
He took a sip, set the cup on the dashboard. "What are we doing?"
"We're having your session in the car. Thank you for accommodating my schedule and agreeing to come here. I know it wasn't easy, and I'm proud of you for doing it. I'm not going to force you to come inside, but I would like you to tell me why you're afraid to come inside."
He kicked the door, cursed as that sent a shock-wave of pain through his ribs and arm. "I'm not afraid, dammit!"
"Danny, we both know you default to anger in order to hide other emotions. What are you afraid of?"
He looked out the window. "What if it happens again? What if I have a flashback and bolt? I'm not going to survive another trip to the roof."
"You're afraid you'll act impulsively, in the heat of the moment?"
He took a shaky breath, let it out, nodded.
"And what are you supposed to do if that happens?"
"I don't know, Doc! I've got a f-g safety plan, but it's not gonna do me a bit of good if I'm mentally back in Fallujah and I don't remember I have a safety plan!"
"When's the last time you had a flashback?"
He had to think about that for a minute.
He didn't think he'd had one in the psych ward—not one that he could remember, anyway. And in the week he'd been home…
He turned to look at Doc. "I…I think the night I crashed the car."
"So…it's been 17 days. Do you think the increased dose of the Zoloft is helping with the flashbacks?"
He shrugged. "Maybe."
"Were you able to do your homework assignment?"
He nodded, picked up the notebook from the floor.
He held it out, but Doc shook his head. "I'd like you to read it to me."
Great.
This was gonna be embarrassing as heck.
He squinted as he tried to read his right-handed writing.
"Jack told me…that he's proud of me because I have a really cool job, I help people, I teach him and Sean sports, I don't check his math homework, and I used to be a soldier. And because of my job I make a difference in people's lives."
He sighed, closed the notebook. "Or I used to. But he…he also said he'd still be proud of me even if I couldn't do my job."
He hadn't written that down.
"Interesting that Jack added that." Doc reached out and took the notebook from him. "Would you still be proud of yourself if you couldn't work as a detective anymore?"
Well, that was an easy answer. No. More like hell no.
He sighed. "Why does that sound like a trick question?"
"It's not. Just give me an honest answer."
He stared at his feet. "No," he said very, very quietly.
"You've been on the job, what, almost 20 years?"
"Eighteen." He tried to swallow the words down, but they came, unwanted, "Minus almost twenty months in Fallujah."
He stared out the window. He was not going to cry, dammitall!
"I didn't realize you were in Fallujah that long."
"I'm done talking about Fallujah."
"You're the one who brought it up, Danny."
He kicked the door. "Dammit, Doc!"
It sent a shock-wave of pain up his arm and into his ribs.
He couldn't breathe.
He jumped at the hand on his back. "Take a breath, Danny."
He tried, and couldn't.
Again.
Finally, he took a shaky breath. "Happy now?"
"Can you tell me how you're feeling right now, besides angry?"
"Pissed?"
"Nope, that's the same thing, and you know it, Danny. Tell me one thing you're proud of that you did in Fallujah."
"I've told you everything, I've told you I don't blame myself for my buddies' deaths anymore… There's no f-g reason to talk about Fallujah ever again."
He tried to undo his seatbelt but his hands were shaking.
"Where are you going, Danny?"
"I can't talk about this, Doc! I'm done talking about it! Leave Fallujah alone or I'll…I'll…"
A firm hand was squeezing his good shoulder. "Okay, okay, I won't make you talk about Fallujah anymore. Here, take a sip of your hot cocoa."
He drained the cup, crushed it in his good hand. "Are we done, Doc?"
"Almost. Would you still be proud of yourself if you couldn't work as a detective anymore?"
He shook his head.
"Why not, Danny?"
"Because that's…who I am. It's all I know. I…I don't know what I'd do without the job."
"You've heard the saying 'Work to live, don't live to work'?"
He nodded.
"Why do you think you throw yourself into work the way you do?"
He shrugged, winced.
Doc looked steadily at him. "I'd say it's a good way to avoid facing all the thoughts and feelings that come with post-traumatic stress."
"You know, Doc, I'd been doing a pretty damn good job trying to ignore the fact that I had post-traumatic stress, until…"
He shook his head. He wanted to say Until you walked into the precinct and figured me out in 5 minutes. Instead he said, very quietly, "Until I caught the case with Corporal Russell."
"I know. And you know that putting work before everything else is not a good way to live your life."
"Feel like you've said that to me before, Doc. So what, if I don't get my shield back, I sit around and go crazy?"
"No, you find another purpose. I think you will get your shield back, Danny, but regardless of whether or not you do, you need something to live for that is not the job. So…without the job, what do you have left in your life?"
He sighed. "My family?"
"How do you think they would react if you couldn't be part of the 'family business' anymore?"
He looked out the window. "I'd be letting them down if I never got my shield back, or if I turned in my shield."
"Do you really think you would disappoint your father, your sister, your brother, your wife, your boys…if you gave up the shield for the sake of your mental health?"
He nodded.
"If your family had to choose between you resigning, or you being alive, which would they choose?"
"They…they'd want me to be alive."
"That's right. What about you, Danny? If leaving the NYPD were the only solution to better mental health for you—I'm not saying it is, but if it were—would you put in your papers?"
The mere thought of never working another case, never again feeling the adrenaline rush of chasing down the bad guy and cuffing him, never again looking a victim in the eyes and telling him that his assailant would never hurt him again…scared the crap out of him.
He wanted to say an infuriated hell no, but what Doc was really asking him was Do you want to live? Are you willing to do anything—even resign from a job you love—if it means you stay alive?
"I…I don't know."
"Which brings us back to: What are you going to live for, Danny?"
It was a simple question.
The answer was choking him.
He swallowed hard. "My family. Staying alive so my dad doesn't have to bury another son, so my boys grow up with their dad, not…not like Tommy Russell. I…I have to stay alive for them."