These days

He closes the door to his apartment and sighs, leaning back against it. The idea of a whole week off seems like an outrageous luxury. He hasn't had time off in so long.

But that's what they're getting. Don had told them he didn't care who died, no one was coming in for a week. He figures that had more to do with the fact that Robin's back in town than anything else.

Part of him is relieved that he doesn't have to go in tomorrow, and the other part is hoping that someone really important kicks off so he can have something to do with himself.

He turns and locks his door, turning all the bolts before he pushes the chain into its slide. He didn't use to do them all up, and he recognizes that the precaution is probably something he needs to deal with, but these days – these days –

It was all he could do to keep going day to day. He'd made it here, so tomorrow would just have to take care of itself.

He sinks down on the couch, too tired to move. He needs to, he knows. He needs to get up, shower, eat something. But he's so bone deep tired that he can't quite manage it now.

When he wakes up, five hours later, he manages to get himself showered and in an actual bed, but food is just too much work. He sleeps again, realizing he's missed Saturday, but he still hasn't taken the edge off of the exhaustion that seems to sink down to his marrow. It doesn't seem physical, not quite.

He felt restless and edgy, as though he's just about ready to fly to pieces any minute. That was no surprise, this was the first time off he'd had since he'd got out of the hospital. He'd kind of expected this crash, it had happened when he'd gotten back from Afghanistan too.

He picks up his phone from his nightstand, looked at the messages. One from Don to everyone, Dinner. 7. Tortellis. Monday.

He'd been expecting that. Don usually took them out for dinner after a tough case.

He texts back his response and then scrolls down, seeing a voice message from Jake, telling him to call him back. He realizes he must have missed his weekly call in and sighs, then hits the call button. Jake's been a little on edge ever since that whole mess, and he doesn't blame him.

Jake's understanding, and maybe that's the worst part. His brother's voice hits him in all the wrong places, and before he knows it he's sniffling and crying. He hasn't cried in years, and Jake's asking if he's all right and he's sort of choking, "Yes."

Jake doesn't respond for a minute, then finally he says, "Colby. Colby – Jack. Listen to me for a minute. You need to get some rest all right? I don't want you going in today."
"'M n-not. We're off until next week."
"Okay. Good. Lie down and get some more sleep, and I want you to call me in a few days and we'll talk about this some more, all right? You okay with that?"

"Y-yeah."
"Okay. Go to sleep."

He manages to put in an appearance at the dinner, but he feels so shaky that he isn't very good company. Don offers to walk him out, and once they get there, he stops him with a hand on his shoulder, "This stays private between you and me, all right? I just want you to think about seeing someone. You seem like you need someone to talk to."
"Don – I – "
Don stopped him, "I just want you to think about it, Colby. There's no pressure, it's not like this is affecting your job or anything. It's just as a friend, that's all."

He takes the card.

He tries to sleep but can't, his whole body tense and aching. He drifts off and wakes in pain, his heart pounding and his stomach rebelling. He barely manages to make it to the bathroom to throw up. He manages to rinse his mouth out in the sink, then looks up and sighs.

Shirtless, it's easy to see the marks life's left on him. David was staring on Friday, he knew. David saw the scars on his chest and the insides of his arms, but not the rest.

David didn't know where to look.

There were the other, faded marks, from the defibrillator on his chest where they'd had to restart his heart in the hospital. They were more a difference in color than anything. Already fading away.

On the top of his left hip, the Iliac Crest, he knows it's called, there is a short spray of scar tissue from the bullet he caught in Kunduz.
The top of one shoulder is spangled with small, round scars that aren't from terrorists or Lancer or criminals, but instead a parting gift from his foster father. They are still red around the edges, might always be, because apparently, tobacco leaves stains.

It only happened once. He knows that. Knows that most times, nothing like that happens to foster kids.

When people ask him why he joined the army so young, he is often tempted to just pull down that sleeve and show them. He never does though. He'd never even told Jake, but the man had found out when he'd stayed with him that first week. His brother had been helping him peel a shirt off and his eye had been caught by the circles. He hadn't said anything, just traced them gingerly, and looked up, telling him, "I'm so sorry, Colby."
It wasn't Jake's fault. He'd been fourteen when they were all split up. There hadn't been anything he could do, and once he was old enough Colby was nowhere to be found. Next time he'd seen him, he'd been holding the papers for a military emancipation.

He's suddenly overcome by anger, at who he's not sure, and before he even thinks about he brings his hand forward and slams it into the mirror, shattering his reflection and slitting his palm open. He swears and grabs a towel, then just stands there, panting, for a long minute.

He sinks down against his cabinets, and sighs, leaning his forehead against the cool wood of the cabinets and sighs.

It wasn't this bad after Afghanistan.

Oh, it was bad, there's no mistaking that. There were nightmares, and if he recalls correctly, some drinking, but there was no hitting anything. No slitting his hand open on mirrors.

He puts his palm to his mouth and sucks to get rid of some of the pain, tasting copper. He'd probably need stitches.

The card Don gave him is on his dresser, the number clear, and he picks up his phone and calls his handler at NSA first. The man's there wholly in a supportive role now, just to help him with his pension, or doctors, or anything else he needs. He tells the man what he wants, and he tells Colby that that's no problem, go ahead and call.

He's not such a bad guy. He doesn't know who he is, or where he is, or even his name, really, but he always answers when Colby calls, even if it was just to calm him down when everything was falling apart on him.

The next phone call he makes is harder. It rings enough times that he thinks about maybe hanging up. But he grits his teeth and waits it out and jumps six inches when he gets a real live voice and not a voicemail machine, "Hello, Dr. Bradford? This is Colby Granger. Sorry to call so late, but I'm a friend of Don Eppes, and I was wondering if you had the time –"