A/N: Thank you Dinogal95, twobrothers, max2013, Anaid, Penny Blossom73, Guest, and SiouxAnne3 for all your great comments and reviews; they truly make my day.
PennyBlossom73, yes, cookies and milk for you! For the Fightin' Side song, it is; for your wondering, yup, good catch!
Pronunciation guide: SHU is pronounced "shoe"
"X" is for Xanthosis
Xanthosis, a noun, meaning a yellow discoloration of the skin from abnormal causes, Colby thought dully, staring at the fading yellow … no—no … xanthosis was a noun … xanthic? xanthotic? (were either of them real words?) … one of them had to be an adjective. C'mon, Granger, pick one. Xanthic, then, Colby decided, exerting control of the one small thing left him—what to call the fading yellow … no, no, no … xanthic bruises covering his body.
Funny how the newer, more vivid bruises almost faded against the xanthic background of old bruises, giving his skin that particular look of xanthosis.
He would've smiled if his lips didn't hurt so much; split, cracked, and bleeding from being so dry. From dehydration.
Would Megan be proud of him for reading the Word-A-Day desk calendar she'd given him for Christmas last year? Would she be impressed he used the word correctly in a sentence? Had he, though? Colby couldn't say.
Did she think of him at all?
Did any of them?
Did they wish they'd caused his xanthosis before they had him arrested?
Colby sighed.
Xanthosis … from abnormal causes. He supposed bruising extensive enough to cast a yel—xanthic—discoloration qualified as an abnormal cause. Did the person who founded the word have that in mind when he named it? Or she.
How did that work anyway? Founding a word?
His lips twitched, sending a deep fire through them. Funny the inconsequential things a mind could dwell on to avoid reality or thinking of other things.
Forty days. Six weeks. Today was August first, and Colby was still alive, condemned to hell with no end because only death would end it. Condemned because of his own will—the will to fight; the will to live against all hope, all reason. Somehow that betrayal hurt more than his team's, his family's. But it wasn't his team. So, Colby exercised that will, threw it against the pain to control if not overcome it while they broke the rest of his body because he wouldn't go back in his head. At least not yet.
He'd boxed up the small, blatantly stupid and naïve part of himself that didn't believe he deserved this, any of this; that didn't believe he'd driven his old man to kill himself; that still thought if given enough time, he'd have been able to earn the team's forgiveness and trust again; that part that still wanted to be an FBI agent, that thought he had the greatest job on Earth. He added the memories of the team—back when they were his team—before the Janus List outed him; added the laughter, the friendship, the acceptance, the belonging, that elusive sense of family, the good times and bad. It was the bad that taught him he wasn't alone, that he had people he could rely on. Before … well, before he gave himself up for the greater good. He boxed it all up and built a new compartment around it, to protect it. Protect the man he'd been, the man his dad could've—would've—been proud of. It was all Colby had left of him, his only legacy. He had to protect it … protect that innocence, no matter how foolish or futile it seemed.
For his dad.
It was the reason he couldn't go back in his head: he didn't want to contaminate that one refuge with what he became, with what it turned out he was and too much time there now would destroy it. Colby needed it intact for later.
When death was closer, he wanted to lock himself up inside that chamber, surrounded by all that was good in his world, all that he had left … even if they were only distant memories. It would be enough.
He was close now, Colby could tell. There was a coldness in his extremities, as if his system was shunting all blood to life-sustaining functions only; he swore he could feel the veins clogged at his ankles. But then, he was having trouble tracking and keeping his thoughts from scattering, when they weren't so convoluted he lost the thread entirely, so he couldn't even be sure of what he was feeling. The only thing stuck in his head—because it'd been forty days of repetition, which created a habit—was to refuse to answer their questions.
His whole body hurt, a general achiness punctuated by sharp, stabbing pain and dull, burning pain that flared when he moved, so Colby kept as still as possible. He had nowhere to go anyway. He wished the headache would go away, but it'd been persistent for the past day or so. He wasn't sure.
All at once, he became aware of whistling and scuffing on the stairs, and he knew it was Olsen. He refused to examine how readily he identified the approaching guard without even seeing him and what it said about him, about the situation. Colby pressed himself harder into the back wall, trembling.
They'd taken away his blankets and pillow, until they were done with him for the day when they gave them back, a new technique to make him beholden to them, to get Stockholm syndrome to set in so he'd want to tell them everything he knew.
To hell with that. Though he missed the tee…. Granger shook his head. He'd give them nothing.
They'd stopped asking questions after releasing him from the submission position. Whether because they'd given up getting answers from him or because they'd try again after they broke him, Colby didn't know. What he knew was that the warden and Olsen especially got off on dominating him, on patiently and carefully whittling away his dignity, at what made him human. They splintered his self-respect, stamped on the little pride that had survived the fallout of abandonment and rejection. They treated him as an animal, as an object, as it. They degraded and dehumanized him, even taking him yesterday to interrogation on the leash, letting the US Marshals gawk at the barefoot inmate walking on a lead, nothing but a dog. Colby had felt his cheeks flame from mortification through the whole thing, kept his face averted and eyes lowered so he wouldn't see the contempt, the superiority in their eyes (after seven days, the collar's edges had folded enough to allow more freedom of motion—Colby used it to keep his head down).
But there was no one to speak for him, no one outraged on his behalf. The FBI had given him away, the team had given him to the warden to do with as he pleased.
"C'mere, pet." Olsen stood in the cell doorway. He held chains in both hands; one Colby's leash, one his belt. It only functioned as a belt now when they took him for interrogations.
He'd barely been able to move his arms and certainly not lift them after his stint in the stress position, leaving one shoulder dislocated (they'd since broken the other one) and neither of them working right, so they did away with the belt, though the handcuffs stayed on. He had no hope of raising his bound hands behind his neck, let alone manipulating the buckle of the collar. They found a better use for his belt.
"Come. Here."
Colby tilted his head back against the wall, meeting Olsen's gaze. He wasn't giving in, and he'd do what he needed to to end this stalemate. He didn't move. Defiance proved to them—to himself—that he was strong enough to take whatever they could come up with, strong enough to force them on the offensive. They hated his disobedience.
It wouldn't be for much longer now. Colby figured a couple more days, four at the extreme outside, and it'd finally be over. He couldn't wait. He just had to keep on keeping on to disguise his deteriorating condition, to make them push him too far.
"Get your ass over here now, Bright Eyes."
Granger rolled his eyes. As if.
He knew what was coming. He gathered his fraying strength, mustered his concentration so he wouldn't accidently say anything, tightening his arms against his body, and prepared to endure violence. Xanthosis, he thought, focusing his mind so he wouldn't attempt a retreat, a noun, meaning a yellow discoloration of the skin due to abnormal causes. Xanthosis—
Olsen reached him in three long strides, face twisted in fury, snapping the leash onto the collar ring, and dragging him away from the wall.
"You better start learning obedience, pet," Olsen ranted, flogging Colby, the chain belt striking flesh in time with each enraged word. "When I tell you to come here, I mean come here now, you stupid son of a bitch! Not when you decide to move your lazy ass."
Colby curled on his side as well as he was able, his back stiff and barely bending from his time in the stress position, from the concrete floor he spent most of his days and all his nights on. He tried to duck his head under a partially raised arm, but the muscles were so torqued and stressed, his shoulder so screwed up, he moved each only a couple of inches.
"You better start listening, Bright Eyes. I'm getting sick of repeating myself."
Still the belt came down, one blow for every word, until the heavy lock caught one of the wounds on Colby's back just right and he bit his forearm in front of his face, sinking his teeth in hard, to keep the scream in.
But he hadn't spoken or made a sound in his jailers' presence since they'd taken away his long-sleeved tee yesterday after the US Marshal interrogation for having the audacity to bleed on it outside of his cell. He pointed out he wouldn't've bled on it if they left him alone. Out came the baseball bat and they'd broken his shoulder. So, he quit talking.
They hated that. Hated his silence more than the songs, more than the insults, more than his smartass remarks. If Colby had known that he would've gone with that strategy from the beginning. Their hate made them reckless of his health, heedless of what they were doing to him.
Or, hell, for all Colby knew, they'd had enough of his recalcitrance and were ready to kill him and be done with it.
He wished them the best of luck.
"Now. Come. Here."
Olsen didn't give him a chance to disobey, hauling him over to the bars by his leash. Colby coughed harshly, tried to swallow past the ever-tightening choker, but he didn't want to spit out what he felt in his throat. Didn't want them to see what they'd done. They might end it now only to pick it back up after they'd provided more medical assistance that Colby just didn't want. He thought that would break him. Let Olsen think it nothing more than irritation from the choke chain. Granger hadn't pinpointed the cause himself: either a damaged lung with a microtear from one of his beatings or a virus or infection taking up residence in his beleaguered body or maybe all the above. He only had to hide the symptomology for a couple more days. He had to.
Quickly and efficiently, before Colby was aware of what was happening, Olsen had the belt locked around his waist, cinching the handcuffs in place. He knew he should worry about that, but his tired mind got caught on the fact that Olsen had done this too long too, to be that competent at it.
The guard wrapped the chain leash once around a bar, holding the excess, and stepping on it where it came out from the bar, keeping Colby on his knees with his face nearly on the floor. He set a bowl of water under Colby's nose.
"Drink it," he snarled.
Colby wanted to. Oh God he wanted a drink of water so bad, and it was right there and all he did was stare at it, fixated. They'd started giving him water only if they were there, taking it with them when they left, just another power trip for them, just another way they stole his humanity. The only way he could drink was out of a bowl, as if he was an animal, while they leered over him, making him degrade himself in their eyes (and his own), making himself vulnerable, making himself less than human, on his knees in the presence of men.
Tears of frustration, of rage, of humiliation, of pain, of exhaustion filled his eyes, and he wasn't in a good mental place or emotional state to deal with any of them. He hadn't had anything to drink in two days, though, since they'd started this game and he was so thirsty…. Colby blinked and with a massive effort, shifted his attention from water to xanthosis.
He'd broken skin with this newest bite, tearing flesh, raw and still bleeding. Teeth impressions shaped xanthosis, and the xanthic backdrop swallowed the dark bruises.
He tried to lick his lips, pretend he had moisture anywhere, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he found himself leaning over the water. Olsen pulled up on the leash, readjusting the foot stepping on it, taking away any slack. Colby couldn't back away from temptation.
Xanthosis, a noun … discolored … no, no … yellow discoloration of … of—
And then to his shame and embarrassment, he demeaned himself by sticking his face in the bowl, slurping water until he drank all he could without lifting the bowl, without using a straw, without having a muzzle.
Olsen took the tension out of the chain, letting Colby sit back on his heels, his reward for obeying, for being the thing they made him out to be. He stroked Colby's head—because what domesticated animal didn't like that?—while self-loathing and self-disgust consumed Colby.
How could he have given them what they wanted? He doubted the water would affect how much time he had left, but he'd given in. He let them win. The only thing he'd allowed himself to give them was his life, because it was worthless anyway.
The FBI, his team, his family taught him that, and he'd finally learned. They only reinforced it here, taught him nothing new.
He wished he could forget what he'd done. He wished they'd kill him. He wished he'd die.
He was too weak. They would break him. Letting them win proved it.
No.
He only had to suffer a couple more days—no more than three—and then it'd be over. For good.
Colby could do that. He had to.
Just a little water didn't mean he was indebted to them. It didn't fix everything that was wrong. It didn't mean he'd failed (again). It probably wouldn't even be a setback.
Not with how much they enjoyed subjugating him.
"What a good job, Bright Eyes," Olsen sing-songed. "Who's a good pet, hmm? Who's such a good pet?"
It was probably meant to be mocking but was too gleeful to be anything other than gloating, and Colby felt sharp self-revulsion. The stroking turned to pats on his head.
They'd proven his family, the team, the FBI right about him: he wasn't worth anything, was so weak he deserved to be discarded.
Olsen thumped his ribs. "Alright, pet, now that we finally got water in you, let's try some food."
He secured the leash around the bars and disappeared into the other room, the noises telling Colby exactly what he was doing, what was coming. He didn't lift his head to watch.
Olsen returned momentarily, taking the chain back in hand, stomping down hard on the portion coming from around the bar while pulling up the slack, forcefully putting Colby over his knees, lowering his head to the floor. He slid a bowl of dry kibble mixed with canned dog food under Granger's nose.
Colby clamped his mouth shut, turning his face aside. The rank smell almost made him gag.
"C'mon, Bright Eyes. That's premium shit. And you know what's going to happen if you don't eat today."
He did. But he wasn't going to eat it.
After they'd added the collar, with his hands secured to his waist, eating meant bending nearly in half and stretching his wrists painfully against the restraints. It was exhausting and uncomfortable. After the stress position, Colby couldn't do it and quit eating. They dumped his food in a bowl so he could eat like an animal, and he refused it, even when they removed the belt. Franklin smiled and inserted a stomach tube instead—like what Colby'd seen working summers on farms around Winchester for deworming horses, only it went down his throat, not up his nose. They pureed his food and used a 60-cc syringe to fill his stomach. They'd broken his wrist in the resultant struggle and done something else to the other one; he didn't know what.
He hadn't eaten since.
Two days ago, the dog food had shown up; they decided they didn't need to waste human food on him. They warned him then what they'd do if he didn't eat it within a couple of days.
The guard pulled on the leash while pushing on the back of Colby's neck and stepping on the chain as close to the collar as he could, forcefully lowering his head. Colby felt the cold, wet canned food against his cheek and nose, touching his lip, and turned his head further. With his forearms braced against his thighs, he pushed up with his back, raising his face slightly.
He wished they'd just break his neck with all the pulling and jerking they did, but they tried to be careful, sometimes grabbing a fistful of hair, and the choke chain was thin enough it'd snap before his neck. He wished it wouldn't.
Did he really deserve this for spying on the FBI? For feeding false intel to China? For being a triple agent? Or was it nothing to do with that? Was it just because it was him? And he wasn't wanted because he'd never been wanted.
But … no. No. Something was wrong about that, but Colby couldn't figure out what and that thought, that conviction, slipped away and another took its place.
Was it just punishment for the sin of being born?
Grief stung Colby's eyes and he felt himself slipping into a compartment, unable to deal with it, until he remembered that last one, his saving grace. He wanted to be there when he died, his refuge, making death peaceful, no matter what his body went through. He wasn't close enough yet, so Colby thought xanthosis.
Xanthosis … a noun, meaning … he pulled out of his head more, back to reality … meaning a yellow discoloration … yellow … from abnormal causes.
He softly sighed. Fully aware of the pain in his knees and shins, the tops of his feet, even his hips from being held at his food dish, Colby squeezed his eyes shut tighter. He wondered how long he'd been kneeling here. Breathing had started to require more effort. Ironically, his ribs felt better, more stable.
Okay, okay … he could do this. He only had a couple more days left. He could endure it because there was finally an end in sight, giving him strength—giving him hope—that oh so soon it'd be over. Colby smiled.
"I used to think you liked pain," Olsen remarked casually, and Colby's eyes snapped open. "But now I think Zach's right—you're just stupid. Dumber than a box of rocks."
Still holding Granger in place, Olsen adjusted the excess chain and swung the tail of it, striking Colby a couple of times with it.
"No? Nothing to say?"
The leash struck again and again, and Colby did his best to ride it out. Xanthosis, a noun, meaning a yellow discoloration of the skin from abnormal causes, he thought against the pain.
The chain stopped, and Olsen said, "Guess who came back yesterday? MacDonaldson. Got all the wire pulled out of his jaw now. You know, he still has a hard-on for you. How 'bout I bring him down with me next time, let him spend a little one-on-one time with ya? You're just about in the perfect position for him." He slapped Colby's ass.
Colby flinched and couldn't stop the small sound of protest.
"Don't worry, Bright Eyes." There was laughter in Olsen's voice. "I like women, thank you very much. MacDonaldson, though … well, he likes pretty boys. 'course, they're not so pretty by the time he's finished with them. That don't stop him from riding 'em harder and faster. He'll use 'em all up if he's allowed. And I bet to get you trained all proper, Zach will allow." He leaned into Colby, bending to speak close to his ear. "Mikey's asking about you. He'd love to spend the night down here with you. What should I tell him?" He waited a beat or two while Colby struggled to get his quickening breaths under control. "Nothing? So, you have no problem if I bring him down with me tomorrow?"
He did, but he wouldn't give away anything else. Besides, how much worse would MacDonaldson be? Colby couldn't protect himself, couldn't fight. He wouldn't want to live after MacDonaldson finished with him. But he didn't want to live anyway. Maybe he could get MacDonaldson to up the timeline; he was a mean son of a bitch with a surly temper, and Colby didn't think it'd take much to provoke the guard into killing him.
He almost told Olsen to try it. Almost. Colby shivered. He didn't want to go through that; didn't want to take the chance MacDonaldson wouldn't kill him when he was finished; didn't want to risk Franklin giving him to MacDonaldson to share with Rico and his friends. Didn't want to risk living afterwards.
He couldn't—wouldn't—take that chance. He was a coward, so Granger said nothing.
"You don't want to say anything to me," Olsen taunted, "that's fine. I bet you'll scream for him. Maybe I'll stay and watch, at least the first couple times; I bet you scream real pretty. 'course, he'll find other uses for your mouth right quick and you won't be able to talk, even if you wanted to."
Colby thrashed backwards, straining against the chain, grunting at the pain in broken bones and tight, inflexible muscles, but went nowhere.
Olsen laughed and sat on Colby's back, keeping his foot on the chain. Colby trembled under the additional weight, turned his face into the side of the bowl; he felt canned food smear along his cheek.
"Since you're sub-human, we should give you a tattoo," Olsen remarked. "I'm thinking on your left forearm. Anything to say to that?" He tapped Granger's back while he waited. "No? Great. Then I'm thinking we do a series of numbers. Maybe 06232007 or maybe 06282007 might be more accurate. Hmm … I like 06292007. That's when you became mine. Oh, I know. We'll do 08022007. We'll immortalize the day you become Mikey's."
Xanthosis, a noun, Colby reminded himself, refusing to take shelter in a compartment from just words. He knew he was human, knew he had certain inalienable rights as a human. They couldn't take that away from him—in words or deeds—at least not in the time he had left. He wouldn't falter. Not when freedom was so close.
"Since you've no objections to that, I'll see if Zach has any branding irons. I bet he does. Hopefully, he'll have enough we can brand you multiple times for your multiple owners. That way, you'll never forget you're owned property."
Silently, Colby shook his head. Xanthosis, a noun, meaning yellow discoloration—
"How's he doing today?"
Franklin's voice penetrated the haze in Colby's head—from dehydration, hunger, pain, sleep deprivation—and he startled.
"He drank all his water." Olsen leaned over his shoulders, retrieved the food dish, standing as he did so.
"Did he now?"
Franklin sounded pleased, and Colby hated himself for causing it.
"You praised him?"
"Of course." Olsen sounded vaguely insulted or offended. "Even rewarded him for it."
The foot finally stepped off the chain but before Colby could move, fingers hooked under his jawbone, raising him until he was upright on his knees. His legs were numb, feet cramping, and Colby couldn't scramble to his feet even if he'd been allowed. By the time the spasms passed, the hand was resting under his chin, the chain swinging casually so close to his head, he could feel the breeze of it.
Instinctually, he wanted to escape the pressure. Intellectually, he knew what Franklin wanted from him and why. Part of Colby wanted to defy him just for the sake of defiance, but his head already hurt and thinking was challenging enough as it was and he just wanted a respite from pain, never mind adding more, so he did what was expected and turned his face into the warden, pressing slightly into him. The next pass of the chain sailed through where his head had been and continued there in rhythmic persuasion. Colby blinked rapidly. They could think what they wanted; it meant nothing to him.
The hand under his chin moved up to pet his head, and Colby gritted his teeth. "That's it, pet. Bet that water tasted mighty fine, too. You'll get more tomorrow, all that you want." The hand tilted his chin up, forcing him to meet the warden's eyes. "As long as you behave yourself, that is. Think you can do that, Bright Eyes?"
Colby wanted to bite him, but he wanted to keep a fresh assault at bay for as long as possible even more. He almost said something, but remembered they hated his silence, so he kept it. He thought about showing his teeth, but that let them win, acting like the animal they treated him as. In the end, he stared at Franklin, letting the anger that'd been buried under what they'd done to him, under what he'd done to himself show. He didn't need to do or say anything else to show resistance.
The chain tightened around his throat, and Colby refused to break eye contact, even tilting his chin to hold it. Until Franklin smacked him in the back of the head and the jarring brought on a coughing jag. The choker loosened and by the time the fit ended, Colby slumped back on his heels, spent.
He wished they'd give him water now. It didn't mean they'd trained him, only that he was thirsty, and it'd help soothe his throat, no deeper meaning hidden away.
"He didn't eat," Olsen reported, "and we've been standing here for forty-five minutes. He never said a word. Not even when I told him I'm bringing MacDonaldson down tomorrow night."
Franklin's heavy hand came down on Colby's head, bending it in a submissive position, but he didn't have the energy to fight it. "We'll hold off on that for a couple more days, since he drank," he decided. "If he hasn't eaten on his own or spoken by Saturday, then we'll give him to Mikey. Maybe take him up to the SHU on Sunday, so Rico can have a turn. You'll need to watch, though, make sure they don't kill him."
"Gladly."
Somehow Colby's cheeks flushed as they casually played with his life, as if he'd no say in it, as if he was something they could do to and with whatever they wanted. He thought with all the indignities and injustices he'd suffered for the past forty days, he'd be inured to it.
"I'll string him up and get his stomach tube ready, you chuck that in the blender with … hmm … try a cup, cup and a half of water. We can add more kibble or water if needed to get the consistency right."
"Yes, sir."
There was no mistaking the enthusiasm in Olsen's voice.
Xanthosis, Colby thought, mentally bracing himself for what was coming, a noun, meaning a yellow discoloration of the skin from abnormal causes.
/1234567890/
David stared at Colby's desk. Forty days. Well into the sixth week. Another day down, another night looming ahead. And what did they have to show for it? Jack squat. Where had all their investigative effort led them? Nowhere.
He was still out there. And they had run all their leads to ground.
The other two guys in the cubicle studiously avoided looking at David, at the empty desk.
No. Not empty.
It was almost a presence in and of itself. Not haunted, though (because Colby was still alive, wherever he was). Just never letting them forget, reminding them of the one who belonged there. As if there was a chance in hell that they'd ever forget. Somehow it had become the repository of all things Colby. Sometimes, if David tried hard enough, he could see his partner sitting there, swiveling his chair around to say something.
Forty days.
Where…? What…? David was too tired, to heartsick to complete those thoughts and decided he'd had enough and gave up trying to ignore the emptiness, the stillness over there that didn't belong.
Don and Megan were in their own cubicle across the aisle. If they needed him, they could pull him back. No one else in the building would dare approach David there.
So, he gave in and rolled his chair across the short—yet impossible—distance right up to Colby's desk.
It was almost exactly as he'd left it when he left work on June twenty-second.
The desktop and its contents were dusted nearly daily, the team taking better care of it than their own. The repaired tower and keyboard had yet to be used. They were Colby's. They were ready to welcome him back, ready for him to come into work.
His Word-A-Day desk calendar was opened to the last day he'd been here: xanthosis, a noun, meaning a yellow discoloration of the skin from abnormal causes and suddenly David missed Colby so much his eyes and throat burned.
Back before the Janus List (which David hated as much as 'nothing'), Colby had read the day's word to David and then utilized it as much as possible, usually in a single conversation. Some of those discussions got so warped it was impossible to tell what they'd started as, just so Colby could practice that word. David smiled in fond remembrance, even as he felt his face working.
But Colby hadn't shared with him, hadn't gotten into one of those ridiculous conversations with him since they arrested him outside the oceanside safehouse. He'd obviously kept reading them after the freighter incident—xanthosis proved it—but he hadn't mentioned them to David.
And why would he?
David had gone out of his way to show Colby how much he wasn't wanted, how little David thought of him.
To say he was an idiot was the understatement of the century.
He'd give almost anything to have one of those wacky conversations again, to be graced with that smile, to see that wicked gleam in his eyes. To know where he was, to know he was safe.
Xanthosis, he read again, because Colby had read it that day and he just wanted to be close to his brother and that word and this desk were all that he had left.
To the right of the monitor, they had set Colby's Army picture, the one Johnson had taken to the JFTB, even leaving the small inset, the one of Colby and Carter, in place: it was a photo of Colby and therefore it was precious. David stared at it a few seconds (or minutes or hours, it was hard to say; sometimes, he'd get caught up looking at it, at Colby, back when David knew he was alive, knew he had survived and come home safe and sound) before straightening it.
To the left of the monitor was a picture frame that had shown up a week or so ago, and David picked it up. The central photograph was of the team—Don, David, Megan, Colby, even Charlie—taken at the Eppes house. It was right after Colby had used Mexico for the first time, things going south fast, and it'd been such a near thing, barely getting him out, though not unharmed. But it could've been so much worse, and they knew it. After the hospital had patched him up (the rest of them hovering in the waiting room, intimidating everyone else there, their anxiety making them all less than pleasant to be around, with guns and the smell of fire and fear and remembered anger clinging to them; David still thought the hospital'd discharged Colby expediently just to get rid of them), Don had invited them all over to his brother's. It'd been a celebration—they were all still alive, doing this thing that they loved—and it was an excuse to keep Colby near—the doctor had told them he needed to be monitored overnight—but mostly they were just so grateful to have gotten him out, to have the proof in front of their eyes, that they didn't want to let him go, because even then he'd been such an integral part of the team, of David's life. Mr. Eppes had taken the picture out on the patio, not quite as formal as Colby's Army photo, but close, and David suspected Don had been more scared than he'd ever let on, that he wanted a visual reminder that they'd all made it home at the end of that harrowing day. They had smiled for the camera, though, giddy with relief.
There was a small photo inset in this frame too, of David and Colby, after Colby's heroics in the field and at the plate had made David the winning pitcher of an FBI baseball game (Don had had to sit it out with a bum elbow). They were grinning broadly, toasting the camera with their beer bottles, David's arm slung casually over Colby's shoulders. They'd been so relaxed, not a care in the world that day.
When was the last time he'd seen Colby smile like that? When was the last time he'd even smiled in David's company? Or let his guard down?
Before xanthosis, that was for damn sure.
And now? David knew Colby had to keep his guard up, wherever the hell he was. It'd been forty days….
But they didn't have a body, so he wasn't dead. He wasn't. He needed them to find him, and he'd need a hospital, but he wasn't dead. He wasn't. Please.
David's vision blurred as he gently touched the glass over the image of Colby's face, fingers sweeping feathery soft over to the snapshot, doing the same. He just wanted his best friend back. He had so much to tell him, to apologize for. But mostly he just wanted his brother; wanted to know he was alive, that he was safe.
He carefully placed the frame back on the desk, tenderly touched the glass again. They all did it, touching his face, as reminders, as luck, to feel like he was near, that they hadn't lost him forever (the team did; no one else dared touch anything on that desk). David smiled sadly. How would Colby react when he came back and they touched him constantly, seeking reassurance, the live man replacing the paper image? He'd probably put up with it for a time, David decided, before the smartass comments started, and his chest suddenly ached with a sob. God, he missed his brother.
Had been missing him ever since Charlie decoded frigging Ashby's frigging message. Even as he'd rotted in prison, even as they'd hunted him and Carter, even as David'd voiced every misgiving he had, he'd missed his brother. Missed him when he came back, by rights a hero, but David treated him as some guy who pretended to be his partner, pretended to be his friend; couldn't be bothered to give him the time of day.
He'd felt hurt, felt betrayed and wanted Colby to feel it too.
But in actuality, David had been stupid and petty. He'd watched Granger carefully when he returned, ready to prove he'd been right all along, that Colby was nothing but a two-faced liar. What happened was Colby didn't behave any differently, acted as he'd always done, changed nothing. He was just Colby, the same man he'd been when he was assigned to their team. The only thing that changed was how David treated him.
Because he'd never lied about who he was. Never lied about what the team, about what David meant to him. Sinclair knew it now, had known it for weeks already and God, he just wanted to tell Colby that. To apologize, to welcome him home, to tell him how much he'd missed him.
But he was still missing, and David choked on another sob.
It was hard to stay positive, to keep the faith that they'd find Colby (it'd been forty days and oh God what was he going through while he waited on them to find a clue?). David just wanted to find him alive; he knew well was out of the question, they all did, knew he'd need medical assistance—how could he not after forty days?
But he wouldn't give up on Colby. Not again. He'd done it once, when some old man had read his name in a voicemail, taking it at face value and never looking deeper into it. Oh no, not David. He'd believed it and acted accordingly, giving up on Colby, on their friendship, on their brotherhood. Just. Like. That.
Really, couldn't the current situation be traced right back to that one emotionally made decision? So that everything Colby was going through now was on David.
He was smart enough—and honest enough—to know he didn't hold sole responsibility for how Colby had been welcomed back after his release from the hospital. David smothered a bitter laugh. Oh yes, "welcomed," if welcoming meant cold shoulders and derisive words and ostracization.
What David wouldn't give to go back and change it all. What he wouldn't give to show Colby he was happy to see him, glad to have him back, thrilled that he was alive. To let him know how much David had missed him.
God! He just wanted his brother back.
"Hey, man," Don said quietly and clapped Sinclair's shoulder. He left his hand there for several moments, to show that he understood, to show solidarity, the same way he used "brother" with David and Colby and whomever: FBI agents united against whatever.
Not how he and Colby used it: re-affirming their relationship with each other, reminding the other he'd always be there, that they could get through anything together; us against the world.
Until David screwed it up, screwed Colby, leaving them both paying for his lapse in trust.
He took a shuddering breath and composed himself, blinking away tears, and reminded himself they had no body, so Colby needed him to get his shit together to find him. His eyes took in xanthosis again and a desperate longing filled him to go through all those words from xanthosis to the current word with Colby, so sharp and sudden it hurt, and David took another moment to wipe the tears from his eyes.
But Colby didn't have time for this, so David turned away from xanthosis.
The other guys had left the cubicle and Megan and Don had appropriated their chairs, rolling them up tight with David's. And Colby's. If everyone knew not to approach David at this desk, it'd take only one thing—they'd found Colby—to dare interrupt the three of them here.
Don didn't waste his breath on platitudes or asking if David was okay—clearly he wasn't and hadn't been for six weeks and wouldn't be until the owner of that empty chair was sitting with them—and said, "We're too close to this and it's affecting what we're doing. We need to stop focusing on Colby and—"
"You're giving up on Colby?" David cut him off, unbridled anger surging to fill the empty places in his heart. "You're calling off the investigation?"
Shock and fury lent volume to David's voice, and he didn't care he was yelling at his boss. He'd be damned lucky if that was all he did. David tensed, making to leap to his feet and get in Don's face.
For his part, Don remained calm and for a second, David hated him for it. He wanted to beat the shit out of somebody (preferably whoever had Colby), release some of this anger, fear, and helplessness, and all he needed was a target who showed him even a little hostility. But Don only checked his watch, glanced around them, and rubbed his mouth.
And David hated him for that too, for not showing more emotion that Colby was missing, for being able to let it out with such simple gestures when all David wanted to do was unleash violence with his fists, with bullets, with explosions, leaving dead bodies in his wake until he found his brother. He knew he was being unreasonable, knew everyone dealt with stress differently, knew Don was just as worried as he was, he did (a tiny part of his mind marveled at how Don was handling this, how he wasn't letting his emotions control him, so different from his reactions during the Crystal Hoyle case), but he needed an outlet and until they found whoever'd taken Colby, everyone was fair game, and his target now was Don.
"No, David, that's not what I'm saying."
Don waited a few beats, waited for David to readjust his chair, unball his fists. Megan smiled sympathetically at them both.
"It's been forty days, man," Don said quietly. "Don't you think we need to try something different? We owe Colby at least that much."
It was so unexpected—that someone else counted the days—that the anger couldn't hold on, leaving David stupidly staring at Don. He thought he was the only one…. Oh God … did Colby know how long it'd been? Did he know it'd been forty days? Was he wondering where they were? Or, oh no, did he figure they weren't coming for him, that he was on his own? Why would he think anything different? Not with the way David had been treating him, with how he'd left things with him.
Did Colby think … did he think they'd left him, abandoned him the same as his family?
David was caught between erupting in red rage and descending into black despair and giving into panic. No, no, no, no….
"This case has too many convenient coincidences, starting with the first one," Don said resolutely, the direction such a left turn that the riotous feelings plaguing David couldn't carry on and he found himself intently listening, settled in a way he hadn't been in over three months. "Colby requesting a vacation at all." Don held up a hand, ticking off points with his fingers as he talked. "Stewart going on one the same day Colby was supposed to be back. Stewart getting killed in a campground in Podunk, South Dakota, but his cell, cash, cards, and car were still there. The garage's cameras going down when Colby stepped off the elevator." Don spread his hands.
Yeah, now that David thought about it, the whole thing was rank with coincidences.
"Who was driving the van?" Megan asked abruptly and there was something unidentifiable in her tone that sent chills through David. "We know Stewart was here—we have him on other cameras during those fifty-one minutes—so who the hell drove Colby out of here?"
Don nodded, a slight smile teasing the frown that his mouth had been set in for six weeks. David got the impression he wanted to praise Megan for thinking, but this was as far as he could go.
"Right," was all Don said about it. "And remember when Colby left the security checkpoint? Stewart was on his cell, typing, doing something at any rate, before he caught up with Granger."
That's true, David thought, seeing the security footage in his mind's eye, and suddenly he got what Don was saying.
"You think Stewart had inside help. From somebody within the FBI."
David kept his voice low, and Don glanced around again, making sure there were no eavesdroppers, but it was Wednesday evening, closing on night, and not even a presidential order could get anyone close enough to listen when the three of them were at this desk. Not that there were many people still around. But Stewart had had inside help so everybody not gathered at this desk were suspects.
"I had Charlie and Amita working on trying to isolate what Stewart was doing, but he knew where the cameras were and how to keep reflections from giving away his activity." Don rubbed his neck, seeming strangely embarrassed, and David thought of Colby. "Something didn't sit right with me, no matter how much I watched it … until I got it."
David realized Eppes must've watched that security footage as obsessively as he'd watched Granger's confession, and Sinclair had been oblivious to it. Shit.
"I had Amita grab these stills from the surveillance recordings."
He angled two 8x10 photographs David hadn't even noticed until then (thinking he really needed to get some sleep, then deciding that could wait until he got his brother back) for him and Megan to see. In the first photo, a cell phone lay face down on the desk between the keyboard and monitor. On the back of it was the logo of the company contracted to provide security for the building. Stewart's work phone. The second photo showed the back of the cell he was using after Colby'd left. There was no decal.
"A burner phone," David breathed.
"And that phone wasn't in Stewart's possession in Podunk."
Don let that sink in for a few moments, meeting both Megan and David's eyes before he went on. "We need to take Colby out of the equation—just for a minute—and look at this objectively. What do we have now?"
"The inside man," Megan said, tilting her head and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "is familiar with what Charlie can do. What he's done for us."
"He killed Stewart to cut off loose ends and took that burner phone," David took up the thread, "to cover his own ass. And may not be a 'he.'"
"True. He or she would have to have access to the security cameras and to vacation request forms. He'd have to be familiar with Granger's writing, at least his signature." By the sharpness Megan's eyes and voice were taking on, she was focusing on the case at hand and didn't give one iota about political correctness.
"ADIC signed off on the request," Don reminded them. "Or he's appeared to have, anyway."
"So, the highest probability," Megan said, and David vaguely wondered if there was anything they did for the FBI that wasn't influenced somehow by Charlie, "would be IT, admin, and the ADIC's office."
"Right," Don agreed. "So, we go home, get something to eat, get some sleep, and meet back here tomorrow Colby-early." Don smiled thinly, a predator with prey in sight, and David couldn't help but answer in kind. "We'll start in Wright's office and go from there."
"Why not now?" he demanded.
"I saw him come back a little while ago," Megan explained. "He had some US Marshal and a couple suits in tow."
And they'd need the office empty to conduct the type of search they intended, the kind that could potentially cost them their jobs and freedom, and the FBI a whole lot of embarrassment. But if they'd done something to Colby, if they were the reason behind his disappearance that'd be the least of their worries, David'd make goddamn sure of that. There'd be no escaping the fallout once he was done.
As they pushed their chairs back in place, David's eyes found xanthosis, but he met it staunchly, the hope of a lead keeping him from being overwhelmed by everything that word had come to represent. He'd go through that calendar with Colby yet.