A/N: Thank you Dinogal95, max2013, Penny Blossom73, SiouxAnne3, Anaid, and Guest for your reviews!

After today, we'll be back to the Sunday schedule. This chapter is 1000+ words longer than what I'd thought, but I wanted to post it anyway, especially given how short "W" was. I didn't think you'd all mind. ^_^

"P" is for Punish

Colby only took a couple small sips of water before setting the bottle aside on the coffee table in front of the sofa. He perched on the arm of the couch and as they'd all seen how his muscles coiled when they got too near him and how he jerked keeping track of them when they moved (nearly giving himself and Don whiplash), they kept close together and tried to stay still. Not bunched, which seemed threatening, but not so far apart where he had to continuously monitor them. It was worse than a sucker punch to Don's gut.

He didn't know if it was because Colby wasn't trusting anyone right now (and who could blame him after more than six weeks?) or them in particular. Hell, it could even be because he was confused after being in his head for so long but, realistically, they just didn't know how long he'd been like that before David finally got through to him.

Whatever the reason, Don didn't like what he saw, and a slow, creeping fear began inching up his spine. Colby kept his head bowed and when he looked at them, he wouldn't make eye contact. As if he was afraid of what he'd see. Because of what he'd seen too much of back in June. But dammit! If he'd only look now, he'd see something altogether different.

Don didn't like how little water Colby'd drunk either. The man had to be thirsty, with lips that dry, chapped, and bloody and eyes that sunken. Yet he'd barely touched the water. Was it a matter of trust or something worse?

He was frightfully pale, and Don didn't think it was completely due to the lack of sun that the almost nonexistent freckles proved (had the sons of bitches not even let him out in the exercise yard once during these forty-one days?). Colby looked haggard. He looked worn: worn out, worn down, worn around the edges. He hadn't spoken since those two small words to David, as if they'd proven too much. Or maybe getting himself up off the floor and stumbling to the sofa—backing them off with a look that twisted Don's insides all to hell, a combination of fear and anguish and sad resignation—had taken what reserves of strength he'd had left.

What had brought these changes on, Don wondered, and how much could be laid on Seymour and how much on the team? It wasn't supposed to be like this. They'd found Colby; they were supposed to be giddy with relief, delirious with joy. He was supposed to be … well, Don didn't honestly know, but not this.

Hot moisture blurred his vision, and Don realized how much it all hurt; hurt to the point where he started wondering how he'd missed Colby becoming another kid brother.

"Colb?" Don said quietly. "Why what?"

He had to know exactly what Colby was asking so he could—so Megan and David could—come up with an answer that hopefully didn't seem inadequate to all that he'd gone through.

Why did it take you so long to find me?

Why was this done to me?

Why am I here?

Why me?

Why did you leave me? Don's diabolical mind couldn't help but add because there was something that might be broken in Colby that was breaking away pieces of Don's heart and, oh hell, didn't he have enough to handle with one little brother?

But after these last desperate weeks to find him, hadn't Colby become the FBI's little brother? All of them taking on the role of big brother or sister because someone had taken one of their own, taken him from their own building and locked him up, doing God only knew what to him.

Well, God and Colby's jailers. And Colby himself. But might as well get the answer from God as from Colby because Granger was the master of (snarky) understatement, especially when it came to his own damn health or wellbeing. When it came to something happening to him.

I don't matter ghosted through Don's thoughts, and he rapidly blinked back tears.

There was so much he needed to make right with Colby—that they all needed to make right with him—but first Don needed to know what was going on in Granger's head.

"Why did you come today?" Colby asked the floor. He glanced up, sad eyes briefly sweeping across each of them. "Why couldn't you have waited until tomorrow?"

There was a forlorn despair to the questions that made Don think swallowing razor blades would be less painful.

"Have you come to punish me? Is that why you let me back on your team? So I'd know what betrayal felt like?"

Colby's eyes briefly met Don's before skating away, and Don wished with all his might that the tone held even a hint of the accusation of the words. There was nothing in Colby's voice, and that scared Don most of all.

"Is it your turn to interrogate me?" Colby asked when all they could do was stare at him in horror.

How bleak had Colby's outlook become for him to equate the team—his team—not with rescue but with punishment? This frame of mind was worse than Don's nightmares. Was it these past six weeks that so distorted it, or the three before them?

"Have you come to kill me?"

"Kill you?" David's voice was thick, as if he'd swallowed sand.

It was more than Don was capable of; his throat and chest constricted, tight bands of liquid fire squeezing unbearably, and he had to turn away.

Tears freely fell down Megan's face and she seemed frozen watching Colby, and Don wondered how much of that was what was happening here now and how much of it was memories of her DOJ assignment. Fricking hell. Like Don wasn't worried enough about Colby, now he had to be concerned with Megan too. Son of a bitch. He should've sent her with Liz rather than making her witness this.

It wasn't over.

It got worse.

Because Colby wouldn't look them in the eyes, wouldn't look at their faces long enough to see what was there. He heard David's words, but not the question, not the grief.

He took it for confirmation.

"Please," Colby whispered, beseeching them, his tone giving away his emotions at last. "Give me to MacDonaldson … let him sh … share me with Rico. I can goad them into killing me. They'll make me suffer … they'll punish me for you. Please … don't kill me yourselves. Let them."

Don's throat closed so air was barely making it through; there wasn't even space to allow his vocal cords to vibrate, making words impossible. He couldn't tell if those were tears on David's face or if his eyes were blurry with his own.

Oh God….

He thought … Colby thought….

Don threw up into his mouth, swallowed it back. It'd been a long time since a crime scene bothered him, since blood and death affected him. But this? His junior agent begging them to let someone else kill him for them made him more than physically sick. It made him sick all the way to his soul, and he felt completely unprepared for any of this.

He couldn't pretend not to be disturbed that Colby wasn't objecting to his own death but found tiny comfort in that he didn't want the team to do the actual killing. Did that mean—

It had to mean that there was still something here; that on some level, they still meant something to Colby. So how did they convince him that he meant something (everything) to them?

(And who the hell were MacDonaldson and Rico? His mind jumped to one conclusion about them sharing anyone and if he was right, well, there would be lethal force used here today alright and Don couldn't get distracted from the real issue—gaining Colby's trust—so he filed it away. For now.)

No one said anything. Don bet Megan and David were as incapable of speech as he was.

Colby sighed wearily, bowing his head. "I'm sorry," he whispered, though the sound carried in the deathly stillness of the breakroom. "I know I don't deserve that mercy."

He looked up, looking around him for the first time since they'd brought him in, his brow quirked in bemusement. "I … um … I can take you to my cell. It'll be easier to clean when you're done with me." He swallowed hard, returned his gaze to the floor, and softly admitted, "They have things down there you may find useful."

His voice wavered and it was more information Don filed away, and oh God, he was a breath away from falling on his knees.

"Colby." David sounded like he was choking.

"Please." Colby's soft voice carried in the horrified quiet, making sure it'd haunt them for the rest of their lives. "Please don't make me watch."

David reached Colby in two strides and crushed him to his chest, but Colby wasn't lost this time and flailed in David's arms. David didn't let go, holding fast, clasping the back of Colby's neck. He murmured something to the top of his head, and Don turned away, turned to Megan.

"Are you okay?"

She glanced at him. "No," she said honestly, swiping her eyes.

"Why don't you go … get some air or something?"

Megan levelled a glare at him. "No."

Don rubbed helplessly at his mouth. "Alright, just … if you need a break, just go, okay?"

The planes of her face may have settled into anger, but the effect was ruined by the unabashed tears.

"We're not going to kill you, Colby," David said, letting go and stepping back. "We're not going to hurt you."

Colby sat rigidly on the arm of the couch, and David took his chin and tilted Colby's head back to meet his eyes. Don didn't miss the flurry of expressions crossing Granger's face at the handling, even with how gentle it was, and it was just something else he filed away for later. David didn't miss it either for he dropped his hand and ducked his head, trying to catch those wretched green eyes.

"Hey. We're not going to hurt you," David affirmed, adding, "We won't let anybody hurt you. You're safe, Colby."

"That's what I thought on the freighter," he said softly, and Don didn't know what to do. "When I heard FBI."

Yeah, Don thought impotently, bitterly, and look how that turned out for Colby.

"Is that why you pulled me off?" He gazed in Don's general direction, avoiding his face and eyes. "To punish me?"

"No, Colby." Don forced the words through the constriction in his throat. "We talked about that, remember? When you came back."

Colby twitched his head, and Don realized it was as close to a shrug as his shoulders allowed and he wanted whoever had done that to his junior agent alone in an alley. There'd be no body to find when he was done, certainly no forensics to link that place to a missing person or to Don himself.

"You watched the confession."

"Yeah, buddy. A lot."

"Because I wasn't worth the effort to come to the prison to talk to. Or to dig deeper into my story." That approximation of a shrug again while giving Don a glimpse into how he saw the situation, and Don couldn't believe he'd blown it even back then, when the shit hit the fan. "I thought at least one of you would wonder, would look closer … I thought I'd earned enough trust for that.

"I was wrong."

"Colby, man," Don tried because he couldn't stand Colby's devastation; he rubbed his mouth, checked his watch, tried to find inspiration from either habit. "I just … I don't know. It was a lot to take in … it hurt, okay? But it did for you too." He ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "Look, I can't change what happened. I wish the hell I could. All I can tell you is that I'm sorry. I can't undo what I did—or didn't—do. I can only try my damnedest to make it up to you. If you'll let me. Please, Colb."

Colby finally looked at him, but the euphoria died almost instantly. Colby was looking through him, eyes glassy and barren.

"Didn't matter anyway," he went on, as if Don hadn't said anything, voice lacking emotion or accusation and somehow that made it more gut-wrenching. "I still couldn't tell you."

But would he have? If Don had started questioning sooner, if he'd gone to Northcom Regional Confinement Facility and asked Colby then, instead of thinking of him as a traitor and disregarding that he'd ever known him, would Colby have admitted to his assignment then? After being in lockup, alone? Now they'd never know. Don thought the guilt of not following through might never stop plaguing him.

"Colby," David started, and Granger turned toward him.

"You stuck by Ben Ellis," Colby reminded him. "You believed in him enough to look closer into the murder charges, you didn't give up on him. You had faith in him, even with how things ended the last time you saw him."

David's face worked, eyes over-bright in the artificial light.

"You never doubted I betrayed the US, that I could. You never doubted I was a spy for the Chinese. You never thought something else could be going on, that there was anything to investigate further. Never gave me the benefit of the doubt. Never believed in me. Why?"

David wordlessly shook his head, looking ashamed and distressed, and Colby said,

"Is it because I'm not from the old neighborhood? Because you haven't known me for a couple of decades? Because I'm white?"

"Colby, no … it wasn't like that."

Colby nodded, as if he expected the answer. "Because it's just me," he said quietly, "and I'm not worth anything. I don't matter."

He said it as if they'd proven his point and in a way, Don supposed, his gut churning, they had and he'd give anything—absolutely anything—to go back in time and change how he'd handled the whole goddamned fiasco from the start, all the way back to when Dwayne fricking Carter became a suspect in a murder investigation. Anything to not let his guy ever come to this conclusion.

"I know you're mad at me … that you think you don't know me … that I betrayed you," Colby said to David, to all of them, as if they still thought any of that, and Don felt sick and appalled and he didn't know what the hell to do. "I'm sorry you feel that way. I've only ever been me around you. I'm sorry I hurt you."

"Colby, no—"

Granger shook his head, did that little twitch again. "I wish you would've let me die on that freighter, David. I wish Dwayne would've left me to burn in that Humvee. Hell, I wish my dad wouldn't've talked my mom out of an abortion at the eleventh hour."

Don didn't know what hurt the most: the hopelessness of Colby's words, the rawness in his voice, or that he'd had to process what his mom did to him without anyone to help him. David was right: that bitch didn't deserve Colby. But they hadn't helped him either.

"You think I don't know everyone would've been better off without me?" Granger continued, and Don shook his head, denying the words, trying to deny Colby's belief.

"Colby, stop. That's not true," Megan said, and there was nothing professional or detached about her now.

But Granger didn't.

"Punishing me when I had no say in any of those situations—blaming me for them—isn't going to change anything. I'm sorry for living. I don't know what else you want me to say."

Don felt woefully inadequate as Colby verbalized his desolation, and he suddenly wished his dad was here. But Colby was his guy, his responsibility. And he'd already blown it with him more times than he could count. Practice makes perfect, he thought, and hoped with everything in him that it was true.

Because they'd found Colby, but he was still utterly lost to them and frankly Granger talking like this freaked him the hell out and scared the crap out of him. Somewhere in the furthest reaches of his mind, Don wondered if they had to worry about suicide or a reckless pursuit of death in his job. Colby loved life so for him to talk like this … he had to have given up all hope, given up everything; given up.

Goddammit; no.

Colby looked in David's direction. "I would've left, man," he said softly, and Don selfishly wished he'd stop talking because Don didn't know how much more of Colby's pain he could take; how much more David or Megan could take; didn't want to know how close Colby was to the raggedy edge. "You didn't have to have me arrested." Colby's glance took in all of them without catching anyone's eyes. "But that's on me. You made it very clear you didn't want me around, and I didn't take the hint. I'm sorry I forced you to take such actions." A twitch of the head. "I learned that here at least."

No wonder Colby thought they were only here to punish him. He didn't think they'd abandoned him; he thought they'd done this to him. Oh God….

"Hey, hey wait … wait a minute, Colby," Don said, trying not to be sick. He nudged David back and settled on his haunches in front of Colby, trying to meet those green eyes and wondering how they wound up playing this game again. "We didn't have you arrested."

Colby sat stiffly, fiddling with the sleeves of his tee, his fingers wrapped around the cuffs. His eyes glanced off Don's face.

"You told me it was best for everyone, especially me."

"Oh God … Colby. You thought…."

Don couldn't articulate his horror. For nearly seven weeks, Granger'd assumed this was what the team wanted, that he was where he was supposed to be. He swallowed bile—maybe more—stricken.

"Colby, no," he said, reaching for his wrist, but stopped at Colby's flinch. "This wasn't … not this. Listen, Colb. That Friday. What we were doing … we watched the video. From the freighter. Not had you arrested."

Colby met his eyes for the briefest of moments and before Don could feel good about that, Granger said, "Did you want to see what Lancer used? Were you looking for ideas?"

"Colby—"

"They used drugs here a couple times. Not Lancer's. They might have more downstairs if that's what you want."

"Colby, no." Don grabbed him by the shoulders, ignoring the way Colby's body stiffened, and gave him a small shake. Anything to get through to him (filing away the detail of the drugs, a cold pit in his stomach, wondering what the hell they'd done to Colby out here). "Because if we understood, we could welcome you back. Stop waffling and get over ourselves. You deserved to have us behind you, Colb. That's what I was trying to make happen."

Colby was silent, then whispered brokenly, "Everyone saw it?"

"No, man. Your team. Get us over it, we'd get the office over it."

When Colby just stared dejectedly at the floor, Don added, "Dad, Charlie, and Amita watched it too. They wanted to understand, they want to help you."

He gave Colby's arms a final squeeze (déjà vu all over again because it was like gripping stone, and had that tension left Colby once in the past few months?) before letting go and stepping back out of Colby's personal space.

Colby briefly shut his eyes. He looked up somewhere over Don's shoulder. "So, you're here because you feel sorry for me, not because you want me." He said it as if it explained everything, and Don wanted to pull his hair out in frustration. "Punish me or not, leave me or not; I don't need your pity."

"Good," David said, "because I don't feel sorry for you."

Colby's eyes snapped to him, and David nodded. "That's right. Actually … there is one thing. I pity you for your brother. His reaction when he first found out about your spying gig was fine, but then he got his panties in a wad and took it out on you," David said, his features imploring. "Whereas me, I won the lottery jackpot when it came to brothers. Mine is … mine's my hero. And I hope one day he can forgive me." David's voice cracked.

Colby's brow furrowed but after a couple of moments, he shook his head. "They arrested me in the garage. There was a surveillance camera right there." That head twitch as he starkly admitted, "I figured you made a tape of that recording since you weren't able to see it live."

Don didn't know what affected him most: that Colby thought so little of them or of himself. But wasn't that the lesson they'd taught him? The FBI, his team, his family. He learned it and ran away with it, wouldn't believe anything differently. And that wasn't so terribly dissimilar to how they'd reacted to him when he finally came back after the freighter incident, not wanting to hear anything else because he'd been spying on them.

"No, Colby," Megan said hoarsely. "The cameras were turned off as soon as you exited the elevator. They were down for fifty-one minutes."

Colby blinked rapidly. "You're here," he said slowly. "You knew where to find me."

David sat on the coffee table next to the water bottle. "Not until this morning."

Confusion chased longing and despair out of Colby's expression.

"US Marshals interrogated you day before yesterday," Megan answered his unasked question. "One of them—Clint Chavez—knew who you were. He went to all of California's Marshals, their AD and Director, and then ours."

It was obvious the name meant nothing to Colby, not that Don thought it would. Chavez had made it clear he didn't personally know Colby.

They let him digest that for a few minutes, Don hoping they were finally getting through to him that they weren't here to punish him, before he said, "We've been looking for you for the past five weeks."

"It's been six," Colby said in a small voice that made Don want to hold him and shield him from the evils of the world, the way he used to do for Charlie when he was little.

"We didn't know you were missing that first week."

"You don't miss what you don't want," Colby said, head lowered.

"No, Colby. We thought you were on vacation."

That surprised a quick look from Granger, and he almost met Don's eyes.

"I had a signed off vacation request form." Don swallowed hard. "We thought you needed time away from us. To think. Or that you were checking out DC. That you were leaving us."

Colby seemed overwhelmed. Don could understand. Granger had lived with what he thought was truth for forty-one days and then was told it was wrong and offered a new truth by the very people who led him to believe the original truth in the first place. No wonder he was bewildered. No wonder he still didn't trust them. Colby had drawn himself up, leaning back slightly, leaning away from all of them. Emotions slipped through his remote barrier, telling Don how exhausted, how close to the limit his youngest agent was.

"If you're not here to punish me or kill me, why are you here?"

It killed Don that rescue still never occurred to Colby. That he thought so little of himself, of his worth. That he thought he somehow didn't deserve to get out. That he thought his team would come and explain everything to him, and then leave him there. And because that wasn't bad enough, there was a thinness in Colby's voice, of something frangible that had Don coughing to dislodge the lump in his throat.

"To take you home, buddy."

Colby's shoulders rolled forward as he sagged on his perch. He looked as if they'd just deceived him. Don didn't understand and did a rapid mental run-through of their conversation, trying to find what they'd done or said to make Colby think that.

"You'd rather my mom kill me," Colby said hollowly.

Don didn't know where this resistance to believing them came from; did they do something here to reinforce it or was it all on the team? Granger thought punish over saving and how long had that been going on? They'd abandoned him when he came back from the freighter, left him to come to his own conclusions, which his mother gleefully shaped, leaving him to decide on justifications for all of it. I don't matter. God damn it.

"It's poetic. She never wanted to bring me into this world; it's good of you to let her take me out of it." Colby sighed noiselessly. "At least I know she won't keep me around to punish. She'll kill me and be done with it, which is probably better than I deserve. After everything. Thank you for that."

That was too much, and Don felt nauseated, sure he'd throw up this time (filing away still more, and he was at a loss as to how to help his young agent).

"No," Megan said, crying, and it seemed impossible that the hope of the SUV had shattered into this nightmare.

"Not her home," David said gruffly, touching Colby's knee to get his attention. "Yours. Your apartment, brother. Pasadena, not Idaho."

Colby seemed to fold into himself. "It's not mine anymore," he whispered to his knees. "Rent's late. Michael wasn't here to take care of it."

For some reason, for all the ordinariness of the problem, especially given everything else they'd learned at Seymour, it seemed surreal. And maybe the only thing they'd be able to fix today, but Don'd be damned before he left Colby like this; they'd tackle all of it, get Colby back. Save him this time, for good, even if it was from himself.

"Don't worry about it, Colb. David handled it."

"We really are here to take you home, Colby," Megan said at the same time, setting the duffle bag on the seat cushion next to him. "After a visit to the hospital," she qualified with a tremulous smile.

He was nodding again, as if something had been clarified, and Don wanted to yank his own teeth out at Colby's next words. Words that proved he had no confidence in his worth and none in them either.

"You want your money back. That's why you're here. You'll—"

"I don't care about the money," David interrupted fiercely, abruptly standing and taking a couple steps. "I don't want it back. The only thing I want back is my partner, my best friend. My brother."

Colby looked at him and Don had the impression he was really looking at David, finally seeing him as he was now, not the memory of all those weeks ago. He couldn't help the flare of hope and didn't try to stop it.

Don took David's place on the coffee table, tilting his chin up, drawing Colby's focus. "A lot's happened while you've been missing," Don said and went on to tell him about Friday June twenty-second and their efforts to find him since then, about the meeting with Wright and Chavez this morning (that was only this morning?) and the car ride here, keeping to broad strokes, aware it was a lot to take in and not wanting to inundate Colby with too much information all at once. David and Megan jumped in and filled in details as they thought of them, following Don's lead and not getting too in depth.

It didn't seem to have worked for Colby remained silent when they finished, fingering the sleeves of his tee and appearing overcome.

They gave him several minutes to collect himself, but Don saw the trembling he tried to hide, the waning strength he tried to mask, and his heart did a little somersault that did unpleasant things to his stomach.

"Here, man, drink some more." He held the water bottle out and waited silently for Colby to take it.

Their commentary seemed to have fractionally mitigated Colby's distrust, or maybe that was Don's imagination, but eventually he took the bottle and took a sip, keeping a wary eye on Eppes. Don reminded himself Colby'd spent nearly seven weeks thinking his team had him locked away and they'd spent the three weeks before that laying the foundation for it. And goddammit anyway, it started even before then, back when Colby spent five weeks at Northcom cut off from everyone and no one on his team had bothered with him, reeling from hurt and anger and trying to work through it, and who'd been there for Colby? What was he left with? Nobody and nothing. Clinging to a mission he was having doubts about with a handler he no longer entirely trusted.

Shit.

They'd all seen people falsely confess for various and sundry reasons but never once thought that could be Colby. Even with his background in interrogation techniques giving him an edge in withstanding questioning, even with how quickly he confessed, they just took it and never looked deeper into it. He knew Colby was versed in counter interrogation techniques, but Granger'd never used any of them. Just went from denying, from deflection to confessing in what? Less than ten minutes? Less than five?

Why the rapid confession? (Why hadn't Don bothered to ask before now?) Because Colby knew time was of the essence. He had to hurry the process along—no matter how much it hurt him—in order to intercept Carter and stop the CIA from making good their deal with him, otherwise they'd lose him to China and lose any chance they had of finding the mole in their government.

I come from five generations of duty, honor, following orders, Colby had told Megan the day it'd all gone to hell. And what had they done? Spit in his face and forgot that they knew Colby Granger.

Don swept both hands through his hair. Son of a bitch. They'd all ruthlessly screwed Colby from the beginning.

Hindsight was 20/20 but what good did that do Colby now?

Colby set the bottle back on the coffee table with a hand that shook. Don frowned. There was barely any water missing, certainly not enough for what he'd consider a normal swallow. What the hell was up with that? Should he get a soda instead? At least it'd give him calories and sugar and at this point, Don had to believe empty calories were better than none.

Granger drew his feet up onto the couch, shoving them under the duffle bag, and it occurred to Eppes that he was cold. Rage spiked in him that Franklin or Olsen or whoever the hell took Colby's shoes and socks in the first place.

Megan must've noticed Colby's move too, for she said, "Let's see how good Johnson packed," and unzipped the bag, rummaging through it. She pulled out a pair of shoes, which she set next to the duffle, and socks, which she dropped on top of it.

Was this something Chavez had noted in his meetings and reports or was this part of Wright's assumption that they couldn't rely on Colby's clothes still being around? Don didn't know but was grateful for Johnson's foresight in packing them.

Megan hesitated, then threw her arms around Colby. He stiffened in her hug, and Don had to fight the urge to shove her away from him.

"We've missed you, Colby," she said huskily, squeezing tightly, before releasing him and backing up. "It's so good to have you back."

She lifted a hand toward his face or head. Colby lurched off the arm of the couch and would've face-planted if David hadn't caught him.

Megan froze, her smile faltering.

Colby, breathing heavily, scrambled away, glancing anxiously between the three of them. He leaned his hands on the back of the couch and Don thought he was going to bolt, until David put more space between them.

Don wondered what the hell that was about but adding that to what he'd already filed away, especially the part about MacDonaldson sharing with Rico, a small, terrible suspicion quickly formed and mushroomed and goddammit; hadn't Colby suffered enough without that too?

"I'm sorry, Colby," Megan said contritely.

Colby shook his head, not quite looking at any of them.

Before it could get (more) awkward, before Don could come up with a way to ask, David moved them past the moment.

"Hey, man, you ready to get the hell out of here?" He nodded at the duffle bag. "Change your clothes, and we'll go."

Colby looked from the duffle to the door, back in their general direction, and down at the bag again. He swallowed thickly. "I can't."

"Colby." David sat next to Don on the coffee table, letting Colby keep the barrier of the couch between him and them. "You're not under arrest. You don't belong here. You were never supposed to be here. You don't have to stay. You're not staying."

He spoke calmly and patiently, and Don found himself staring. For these past several weeks, he'd seen David explode if anyone had the gall to come within five feet of him, shout if he had to repeat himself, bite people's heads off for hesitating even a moment before telling him something. That David was well and truly gone (hopefully forever). He had his best friend back and while something was definitely wrong with Colby, he was safe here with the three of them and that was all David needed.

Don had been wrong: it wasn't Colby's world (or at least not just his) that'd be righted with David's forgiveness. It was David's. Hell, it was the team's and with them, the entire LA branch of the FBI.

"We're not going to punish you, brother. You don't deserve that, Colby. You never did."

Colby shook his head. "It's not that." He glanced at them, back down, and Don realized he wasn't leaning at all; he was holding himself up. Then he saw minute shivers passing through his arms. Colby worried his bottom lip between his teeth, did that head twitch. "I … uh … I can't. My, um, my shoulders…."

"That's okay," David said, voice achingly gentle. "How about I stay and help you while Megan and Don wait outside the door? They won't let anyone else in here."

Colby licked his lips, indecision plain to see.

David radiated patience, an almost physical presence that grew out around him, reminding Don of the quiet oasis of Colby's desk in the squad room just this morning.

Taking a shuddering breath, Colby looked up, looked into their faces. His lips pressed together, his brow lowered, but he went from face to face, meeting their eyes, his own probing. Don felt the hot sting of tears but didn't try to veil his emotions. He needed Colby to see his sincerity. There was a palpable weight behind that gaze, and Don wondered if he'd be found wanting or not.

Colby took his time, searching their eyes, their faces, reading what he could in their body language, their expressions (Don wasn't really sure, but he was content to let Colby take as long as he needed), looking for something, and he prayed the younger man'd find it.

Prayed too that whatever had happened here, whatever the team had done could be undone; that they could earn Colby's trust; that they could get him to see them as friends, as family and not as instruments of punishment.

Colby briefly lowered his head, before he resolutely looked at David and said, "Okay."