A/N: Pronunciation guide: ADIC is "A-D-I-C". A-Dic is "a dick".
Thank you Anaid for your review!
"K" is for Koi
"Alright," Don said, forestalling another outburst from Mr. Eppes. "I want Colby on my team. I don't wanna let him go." He looked at each of his teammates. "But I don't wanna keep him if things aren't gonna improve posthaste. That's not fair to Colby.
"And after yesterday … hell, after the last two weeks, I'm done not being fair to him."
Don turned slightly, rubbed his mouth.
"I went to Wright last week, asked him about seeing the video. He got back to me yesterday."
David didn't like the sound of this. His stomach gurgled, flipped over on itself. He had too much going on in his head, too many thoughts and emotions to reconcile and go through to add … this. He'd tried begging off today's gathering at Charlie's, needing time and space to sort out everything, but Don nearly took his head off for suggesting it. Now that David knew why, he was even more certain he didn't want to be here.
For their parts, Alan, Charlie, and Amita looked on uncertainly but said nothing, trusting Don to explain.
"Wright agreed. The Director agreed." Don let that sink in. "They want Colby to stay. We're under orders to watch this video, but it has to be returned tomorrow.
"So here's the deal: if after yesterday, if after watching this you still can't trust Colby, I'm gonna let him go. DC wants him. Hell, they're fighting each other out there over who gets him. If I can't keep him here, at least I know they want him there.
"And I'll tell you now: if you make me lose him, I'll be taking some time off, head out to DC with Colby and make goddamn sure they're gonna treat him right.
"But if you decide you can trust him to watch your back, things change now. No more ignoring him. No more treating him like he's the enemy. No more leaving him to the whim of the office. We want him, we make sure he knows it. We make sure that building knows it. Clear?"
To his credit, Don glared at each of his agents, not just David, though they all knew he was the worst of them all.
"Dad, Amita … go. I'm sorry for kicking you out, but I don't have what I need to watch this at my apartment. Charlie, I don't know what this shows"—Don gestured with the tape—"how bad it gets, but it hit the ADIC, the Director, men and women high up in the FBI and DOJ hard. And they don't know Colby, not like we do. You may as well be part of the team, but I won't make you stay."
Charlie looked troubled and a little freaked out, but he said, "Colby's my friend, Don. If you think this will help him … if this gives me some insight to help him … I'm staying."
"Me too," Amita said firmly. "I've helped Charlie enough with his cases and I've consulted with you guys without him enough to make me just as much a part of the team as he is."
David wasn't surprised. What did surprise him, though he wasn't quite sure why when he recalled the whole 1960's conversation, was Alan's quietly fierce, "I'm not going anywhere, Donnie. That boy deserves all the support he can get."
/1234567890/
David almost made it through the whole video.
He wondered what the hell Kirkland did to him for Colby to show no visible sign that the video camera wasn't a clue that something was horribly wrong. But maybe he recorded their face-to-face meetings—handler and mole—so that if anything happened to Kirkland, Colby'd be exonerated of treason; Kirkland looking out for Granger from beyond the grave.
Maybe Carter and Lancer did the same. Or maybe Lancer's memory really was failing. Or maybe the sick son of a bitch wanted to watch the video over and over, enjoying everything he did to Colby, enjoying Colby's fear and pain.
Not that Granger gave up much of anything.
What he did give up made David want to kill Lancer. But how did you kill a dead man?
/1234567890/
Colby didn't struggle when Lancer first zip-tied and then duct taped his wrists to the arms of the chair, when they duct taped his ankles to the chair legs. There was no point. He was alone, unarmed, and outnumbered in hostile territory with no way to escape. His energy would better go to centering himself to withstand the torture awaiting him.
David swallowed hard. He didn't want to see this. He couldn't look away. He heard somebody bite back a moan behind him.
/1234567890/
"Why don't we start with something simple—something I already know—like your op name?"
"Arabian Nights."
"Stalking Horse," Lancer chided. He slapped Colby's arm below the rubber tourniquet, raising a vein.
"Lesson number one: you can't lie, and I don't bluff."
Rapid blinking was all the distress Colby showed as Lancer injected a syringe full of something into his vein.
The fact the op had an official name hit David like a sledgehammer to the solar plexus.
Colby had been undercover, trying to find a mole. The danger he was in went up exponentially with each person who knew his mission. He had been alone—or nearly so—for two years.
David knew all this. Somehow putting a name to the op drilled it into his skull.
What had he done?
/1234567890/
Muscles and tendons stood out in Colby's neck as he tried to breathe. The only sound in the living room of the Craftsman house in Pasadena was Colby fighting to draw breath on a Chinese freighter that had been recorded weeks ago. It didn't make it any less painful to watch now, even knowing the outcome. In the video, Colby didn't take his eyes off Lancer. In the living room, David couldn't take his eyes off Colby.
Lancer's voice—explaining what he'd injected into Colby, what it did—barely registered with David as Colby arched his back into the back of the chair, trying to externally expand his chest to aid his breathing.
Sitting behind him, Carter fidgeted, as if he was bored with watching—with listening to—his old Army buddy struggle to suck in enough air.
David wanted to kill him too. How could he sit there and do nothing?
Colby's face was getting red from the exercise of breathing. David's own chest was starting to ache, and he had to keep reminding himself he could breathe.
Lancer was still droning on, but David wasn't sure how much Colby was picking up because all his effort and concentration was going into drawing in air. There was something in his eyes that might've been desperation.
David didn't know how much more he could take. He didn't even know if he meant Colby or himself.
Perspiration broke out along Colby's hairline, and David found himself wiping his own face. Colby slouched a little in that goddamn chair, head down, his breathing painfully labored.
Carter got up behind Colby, walked to the other side of the cabin. David wanted to scream at him to do something, to stop this before that final needle came out. He wanted to yell at Colby, tell him they were coming. He wanted to shoot every one of those sons of bitches, empty a clip and then some into every one of those bastards. He wanted to get Colby out of there.
"Think of what you'd do in my position," Lancer cut into his thoughts, "multiply that by five, and you'll understand what I'm willing to put you through."
Colby glanced at him. His labored, rasping breathing continued and sweat broke out in the hollow of his throat.
Where the hell are we? David wondered. This was the slowest frigging rescue in the history of rescues. But if it had been left up to him … if he had dragged Don or Megan back, made them doubt Colby as much as he did, there'd have been no rescue.
Colby never would've made it off that freighter.
Hurry up, goddamn it. Hurry up!
/1234567890/
"Do they know my name? Have they been watching my contacts? How much of my network is compromised?" Lancer repeated. Again.
On screen, Colby was sweating in earnest from the exertion of breathing, drops and beads broken out across his forehead, his cheeks. His hair was wet with it. He had somehow gotten a measure of control for the tendons and muscles weren't quite as rigid in his neck, though his breathing was no less effortful and still filled the living room.
"Kirkland never said, and I never asked."
It was said quickly, a little breathless, getting it out on an exhale so as not to compromise his already compromised breathing. They were the first words Colby had spoken since being injected.
Behind him, just barely in the camera's view, Carter cleaned the wound on his head. As if that was the most important thing going on in that room, as if his buddy wasn't tied to a chair enduring pharmacological torture. It took all of David's self-control not to shoot the son of a bitch, video image or not.
"That's not what Kirkland said when I asked him."
"I know Kirkland. If you tortured him, he didn't tell you anything."
It was too long of a statement, David knew, for Colby's voice was quieter and the strain in it evident; it broke toward the end.
Lancer leaned into his face, to hear him or unnerve him, David didn't know, but he wanted to grab the bastard by his throat and bodily throw him away from Colby. "That's right."
Yeah, Kirkland had held out against Lancer, didn't give up the mission. No. He gave up Colby instead. That's why Lancer knew his name, knew about the phone. Sinclair couldn't make himself hate Kirkland or want to kill him too though—the man had betrayed Granger under torture.
And David? He'd needed no coercion at all to sell out Colby.
Then Lancer was readying another syringe.
"Quinuclidinyl benzilate. It produces akathisia, intense desire to move. It also amplifies pain receptors so that even a pinprick will feel like you're being stabbed."
He emptied the syringe into Colby's vein, and David wanted to kill him with his bare hands.
"Also causes hallucinations and a loss of mental and physical control," Colby added.
"Good." Lancer put a hand on Colby's shoulder, as if praising him for a job well done, but David didn't miss how heavily his hand came down; the son of a bitch was trying to hurt Granger. "Then you'll know what to expect." He turned and walked away.
David worried through Colby's revelation. The certitude in which he spoke made him wonder about the three years of interrogation training Colby had had. Had they used quinuclidinyl benzilate in the techniques he'd studied? Had his instructors actually injected him with it, so he'd know what it felt like, know what was coming, know how to combat it? Which was something David just couldn't begin to contemplate right now, that somebody in charge had used this drug on his partner, no matter their intentions. They did it with tasers in Quantico and every PD across the country so was it even a stretch to imagine they'd do the same for non-lethal doses of drugs?
On screen, Lancer struck Colby and Sinclair remembered the faint bruise on his cheek he'd seen while he stood outside Granger's ICU room, separated by David's anger and a pane of glass.
On screen seemed to answer David's question for Colby gave no sign of hallucinations or akathisia other than an occasional tightening around his eyes, an opening and closing of his hands. There was no loss of mental control. And he made no sound of the agony torquing through him as Lancer and one of his goons did things to his body that would've normally been of little consequence but with the quinuclidinyl benzilate in his system, ratcheted it up to nearly unbearable levels. David could see it in Colby's face.
But Colby didn't scream. And he didn't talk.
David shook with impotent rage to the soundtrack of Colby's breathing and somebody quietly weeping behind him.
/1234567890/
Lancer blew out a breath. "Do they know my name?" He sat behind Colby, hands laced behind his head, resting after what he'd done to his captive. Despite his relaxed appearance, his composure was slipping. His tone proved it.
Score one for the home team, David couldn't help but think. Colby's already bested you and you know it, you sick bastard.
"Your name, your dog's name, your grandmother's name. Everybody knows everything."
Colby's voice was strained—from pain, from breathing—and he spoke fast because he didn't have enough breath to say it. But he had been quiet during Lancer's demonstration of how well quinuclidinyl benzilate worked and he needed an outlet now, David knew, though he cringed at his partner taunting the psychopath torturing him. Colby's breathing was labored, the effort showing in his neck.
Lancer got up. Three men stood beyond him, indifferent spectators to Colby's torture, awaiting orders. His next words evidenced his incipient impatience and nascent anger.
"The last syringe is potassium chloride, the finisher in a lethal injection cocktail. If I can't know what you know, then it's really best for me that no one else does."
David's gut clenched.
Colby became focused, intense. He was still perspiring heavily from the effort of breathing, from pain. Sweat plastered the hair to his head. David recognized the look on his face: Colby'd settled into defiance mode. It was beyond obvious to him that Colby wasn't giving up anything.
"What it comes down to is do you want to spend the last hours in unholy pain just so that you can die?"
There was some sadness in Colby's expression, a touch of fear, but overall resolved—he would not break—and David felt his heart fracture.
"Granger. Don't do this," Carter tried to reason with him. How could that stupid son of a bitch think for one moment that Colby would betray his country? "It's not worth it for some secrets no one will care about six months from now."
David watched Colby's concentration waver the longer Carter yapped, and his expression easily told him that Granger was fed up with Carter. His next words proved it.
"Dwayne, I really wish somebody else had pulled me out of that fire."
"Why?"
Colby was breathing fast and hard and paused while he gathered enough air to answer.
"'Cause I hate owing you."
Colby was right: David knew him. Because Colby hadn't lied about what was important to him, about who he was, only what he was doing.
On screen, Colby's expression showed his determination to not give Lancer and Carter what they wanted, his willingness to die, resigned that his team wasn't coming for him, that he had lost it all.
We're coming, David silently promised his partner. Hold on, Colby, we're coming.
/1234567890/
"THIS IS THE FBI—SHUT DOWN YOUR ENGINES. PREPARE TO BE BOARDED."
David's heart leapt at the look of relief—even joy—flooding Colby's face.
The recorder picked up the sounds of automatic gunfire.
C'mon, c'mon, David silently urged his self from all those weeks ago. As if he could alter the outcome now, change the past so what came next didn't have to happen.
On screen, Colby's attention went to the side of the camera, to something out of range. His head suddenly bowed, but not before David saw the relief die, replaced with grief, sorrow, loss … then, almost worst of all, acceptance.
"What are you doing?" Carter demanded.
"What I said I would."
Colby closed his eyes, bracing for pain, for death. He didn't want to die; it was clear in his expression. But better death, no matter how close to a reprieve, than to betray his country.
David couldn't take anymore, couldn't watch Lancer stab the needle into Colby's chest, couldn't watch himself and Don, couldn't watch Colby stop breathing or the aftermath. He bolted from the living room and out into the bright California sunshine that he found an affront to everything he'd just witnessed.
His agitation got him out of the house—though Colby's breathing still filled his head—but his legs turned to rubber as everything hit him at once and Sinclair dropped heavily onto a bench overlooking the koi pond before he fell.
What was wrong with him?
He'd derided Carter for trying to get Colby to sell out his country like he did, but didn't that make David a hypocrite? He'd once thought Colby did exactly that.
Had accused him of it.
Had refused to believe anything he said after that. Even when Colby called Don for help, telling him what was going on, David thought he was a liar trying to redirect their attention and resources. David wanted to report him to the A-Dic, fugitive recovery, the US Marshals, even the LAPD.
He laughed humorlessly, and the koi swam tranquilly along.
Megan, though, Megan spoke up for Colby as soon as Don told them what Colby had said. As if she'd been waiting for such an announcement since Don handcuffed Colby on the exterior stairs of the oceanside safehouse. As if she never fully bought what Ashby was selling. And, hell, she probably hadn't. She was a profiler.
If the team's profiler was the first one to proclaim Colby's innocence based on a hurried conversation with the team lead, shouldn't that have been enough to convince David? Otherwise, what was the point in having a profiler?
Don had watched that damn confession a hundred times, something just not sitting right with him. In the end, he trusted Colby, trusted his gut.
Even Charlie, who looked for the answers to everything in the absoluteness of math, had told them they didn't need it; the answer was in their hearts.
And David? Hell, if it'd been up to him, Colby'd be dead. Either Lancer would've tortured him to death on the freighter and dumped his body in the ocean or—so much worse—he would've taken him all the way to China to face even more torture. Either way, a good and honorable and brave man would've died a horrific death.
David shouted, screamed his frustrated, tangled emotions into the empty sky. The koi scattered, sending ripples over the surface of the pond. David brought his fists down against his thighs. Once. Twice. A third time.
He had almost killed the best friend he'd ever had. And for what?
Because he didn't know Colby? Because Colby had lied?
Bullshit. Colby said it yesterday—the video proved it—David knew Colby. Colby had never lied about their friendship, about what David meant to him. No. David had denounced Colby, not the other way around. Colby hadn't betrayed David but oh God had David ever betrayed Colby.
And then, for good measure, David made Colby's life as miserable as possible since he came back, made Colby doubt himself and believe he deserved to be treated like crap.
But did that stop Colby?
No. He still tried to make it up to the team—to David—proving he could be trusted; that the past two years meant something, that they were real.
Of course they were real. If they weren't—if Colby hadn't been giving himself to his team all along—he sure the hell wouldn't have stuck it out at the office with the reception he was getting.
Damn it all … David should've welcomed him back with open arms, should've rejoiced that he was still alive. So why didn't he?
He dropped a rock into the water, thinking about it, and the koi swarmed around the ripples, searching for food. Disappointed, they slowly dispersed.
All at once, David knew. And it nearly broke him in half.
He'd long considered Colby his brother—had even called him that—but it took awhile for his mind, for his heart to catch up with his mouth. Colby was his brother. They shared a bond and affection on par with what Don and Charlie had. It wasn't just something meaningless David idly said; it was something he felt all the way in his core, rooted fast and hard in his soul. Colby was his brother. It didn't matter they had different parents. Didn't matter they weren't raised together. And it sure as hell didn't matter that they had different colored skin. Colby was David's brother.
And when Colby confessed to being a traitor, the grief and sense of betrayal, the feeling David should've seen something, could've stopped it, had overwhelmed him, had hurt in a way he'd never experienced before. How could this man, his brother, he gave such unswerving trust and loyalty to, gave his love to, have betrayed him like that? He chose Colby as his brother. But that clearly meant nothing to Granger.
That's what David concentrated on, the negativity, swearing to himself that Colby would never hurt him again, that he'd never been his brother. That he needed to suffer for what he'd done to David.
And nothing Colby did or said could breach the walls David put up against him. Colby kept trying, and David just kept right on punishing him.
Because apparently Lancer hadn't been cruel enough.
So David kept knocking him down … and Colby kept taking it. Because that's what brothers did.
That's what brothers did.
David swallowed hard several times, but the saliva still flooded his mouth and then bile surged up and he found himself leaning over his knees, throwing up into the decorative rocks surrounding the bench.
He recalled Colby's face and posture when David didn't get him a sandwich, when Don told them not to tell Colby about going to Charlie's, when David told him he wasn't worth it.
That had him dry heaving, tears stinging his eyes. How could he have said those things, done those things to his brother? His mental turmoil almost drove him to his feet, but Sinclair knew his legs wouldn't support him. He scooted around the bench, away from the vomit, and closer to the koi pond.
What had he done?
A silvery metallic shimmer caught his eye. It was a koi with black dorsal markings swimming alone, as if it had been ostracized by all the other koi. Like Colby.
Like Colby, the poor fish was suddenly attacked by the other koi. The ten typical white and red ones chased it into some sort of shelter made up of rocks and plants along the far bank and then placidly swam away while the twelfth, catching David's eye because its coloration was different, went the other direction. It was black and yellow and it neither attacked nor defended, just uselessly took up space. David hated it immediately.
Still, he couldn't help but draw parallels between the koi pond and the FBI office: the metallic silver and black koi was Colby, the black and yellow one David, and the ten white and red ones represented all the agents who took free shots at Colby day in and day out.
To deal with it, Colby mentally retreated; today to the point he barely spoke unless spoken to. Colby-koi physically retreated; out of sight, out of mind.
He knew it was stupid, knew his mom would smack him upside the head for being so superstitious, knew it was irrational, but David couldn't help but feel that whatever happened today in the koi pond would somehow affect what happened in the office come Monday. If Colby-koi could go about its business undisturbed by the other fish, then Colby would be just fine.
"C'mon, c'mon," David softly urged Colby-koi.
The other fish meandered about, and David's eye was drawn to them, fractionally easing his inner tumult. A silvery glint drew his attention where Colby-koi emerged from its shelter and ventured nonchalantly through the water.
"Atta boy," David murmured.
David-koi lazily circled until it fell in alongside Colby-koi.
David held his breath, waiting to see what would happen. Would David-koi prove more loyal than David himself, more patient and kind, more worthy?
He blew out his breath as the pair cut through the water and David didn't notice anything wrong until a white and red koi darted in, striking at Colby-koi. The others quickly followed suit. All but David-koi. It did nothing.
Colby-koi's head arched one direction, tail thrashing another. It shot forward, the others giving chase round and round the pond until they abruptly broke off and wandered away.
"What's the matter with you, you frigging cowardly bastard?" David snarled at David-koi, who patrolled the far side of the pond. "He's your brother. Don't just sit there and watch. Help him."
David knew he was too invested in what happened in the koi pond, that he was placing too great of a weight on what a bunch of fish were doing, but he couldn't help it. No more than he could help watching for any silvery flash.
"C'mon, buddy, give it one more chance."
He wondered if it was fair to ask that of Colby-koi, of Colby himself. But he needed to. Needed to know Colby wouldn't give up on them, despite how they'd treated him. Needed to know Colby wouldn't give up on him. Even though David gave up on his brother first. Needed to believe Colby'd forgive him.
David-koi broke pattern and started coming towards David. Colby-koi followed a little to the side and below the black and yellow and David started to smile when David-koi spun around, biting the silvery side. Colby didn't flee, didn't fight, barely seemed to move as David struck again and again and again.
Colby put up with it, would allow David to kill him simply because it was David, his brother, so he'd try to give him whatever he wanted. Even his life.
The other fish joined David-koi, bombarding Colby-koi, whose body spun and jerked under the onslaught of blows.
"No!" David shouted.
/1234567890/
The first words out of Alan's mouth upon seeing Don's team gathered in Charlie's living room along with his brother and Amita right when Don was about to begin were, "Where's Colby?"
He looked inquiringly at his eldest son and there was a faint challenge in his tone.
Don sighed. "He wasn't invited. We're—"
"Right. That's right." And Alan's voice was biting. "It's … what did you say? Oh yes—I remember. Awkward having him around."
He pierced each of them with a glare and the look he turned on Don took his breath away. Never had his father been disappointed in him before; not even at the worst and lowest points of his relationship with Charlie but that was the only way Don could describe Alan's expression now. Disappointed with hints of anger and even shame.
"Alright," Don said briskly, too aware of how spectacularly he'd failed Colby the past couple of weeks to feel hurt or angry at his dad's honest opinion. It was no different than what he himself felt. "I want Colby on my team. I don't wanna let him go."
As he continued, Don watched pride and the always present unconditional love overtake Alan's countenance. It gave him hope he was doing the right thing by Colby.
When the video was over, he clung to that proffered hope with everything he had. It hadn't been a happy video, nor had it showed a resolution. But oh God it gave Don some insight into just what sort of man was Colby Granger.
The sound of weeping finally drew him from those last turbulent moments on the freighter (though the screen had long since gone black)—where the EMTs from the medevac chopper worked frantically over Colby's still body before Don himself a lifetime ago finally noticed the red light and turned the damned video recorder off—reminding him he was a son, a brother, a friend in addition to a team leader. And that civilians had just watched the sort of depravity one human could inflict upon another. Upon someone they knew and liked and cared for.
So he tried to get a handle on his emotions, and then he helped the others with theirs. Through it all, he was acutely aware of David's continued absence. When everyone was as alright as could be expected after watching something like that, Don went in search of him. Silently Megan and Liz went with him.
He wasn't prepared for what he saw when he found David out by the koi pond.
All ten of the white and red koi lay scattered about the yard; one of them was still in the long-handled fishnet where David had evidently dropped it next to a shovel at the edge of the pond. The man himself cradled the metallic silver and black koi to his chest, which left the black and yellow one as the fish Sinclair was methodically stomping. Not that the color was distinguishable anymore.
"What the hell are you doing, David?"
David glanced up. "Nothing."
He didn't stop. His shirt was wet from holding the koi and it had to be cold, but Sinclair showed no sign he was bothered by it. Blood and fish scales and bits of bone and guts splattered David's shoes and the hem of his jeans and turned the grass into a grisly death scene. And the smell! Don had smelled his share of dead bodies, but fish rotting in the hot sun—fish guts in the hot sun—was something he could've done without. It didn't seem to faze David one bit.
"Dad and Charlie will be so glad their koi died for such a good reason."
Sinclair looked up again. "You can tell them I'll replace them tomorrow with koi who aren't murdering backstabbers like these sons of bitches."
Don glanced at the girls and saw the same level of concern he was feeling reflected back at him.
"Hey, David, I think it's dead," Megan opined, nodding at what was left of the koi under David's feet.
David grunted noncommittally and kept stomping.
Ooookay. Don felt a bit unnerved. Facing a blood-spattered David wearing that face made Don wonder if he'd somehow wandered into the Twilight Zone. For a crazy moment, he glanced around for Rod Serling.
"You know you're not supposed to eat them, right?" he remarked. "They're ornamental, not food."
David's head whipped up and the menacing look he fixed on Don made him shrink back carefully, as under the eyes of a wild, man-eating predator. Don was now wholly unnerved. He fleetingly wished he had his gun.
"I'm burying him," David growled. He held the silver and black koi tighter.
Don glanced at Megan; she was the profiler. She slowly shook her head. Alrighty then … koi were off limits.
"Look, I'm glad you're still here," Don tried. "We need to decide what to do about Colby."
David's eyes narrowed. "What's to decide, Don? We tell Colby we want him back. We beg him to forgive us. We bust the heads of anyone in that building who so much as looks at him sideways."
And Don realized David was no longer angry at Colby; no, David was pissed … mostly at himself. David remembered Colby was his brother and God help anyone who forgot that in David's presence. Don thought he'd better give the ADIC a heads-up because all it'd take Monday was just one person to say something even remotely critical about Colby for that rage to slip its leash. But Wright said he wanted Colby. Merrick too. Well, Colby was accepted and welcomed back on the team, so they'd all better prepare for the wrath of David.
"Why, Don? What did you think we were going to do?"
Sinclair's voice was guttural and dark and completely unlike anything Don had ever heard from him before. He took a couple steps toward Don, something terrifying shifting in his face and Don really hoped one of the girls was packing heat.
Holy shit. Don amended his previous thought: he wasn't sure even God could help the stupid son of a bitch who uttered a word against Colby.
"Hey!" he said sharply. "Take it easy, David. We all want Colby back. Stand down." He flung one arm out toward David, the other unconsciously going for the gun that wasn't at his hip.
It took David several moments, several deep breaths to begin to calm down. "Okay … okay. I'm okay," he said, raising his head.
"Alright?" Don checked anyway, tentatively closing the distance between them and clapping David on the shoulder.
"Yeah, man. I'm okay." Sinclair shook his head. Shaking away the anger or shaking some sense into it, Don didn't know but he was glad to see it. "Sorry about that," the black man added sheepishly.
"Nah, man, don't worry about it."
"You going to stop by Colby's this weekend?" Megan asked, biting her lip. She glanced between David and Don, and she looked like she wanted to say more.
"No," David answered immediately, and Megan visibly relaxed. "No. I see him like this, he'll think I'm going to kill him. I need to work through some things first."
Don quickly smiled. You think? he thought irreverently but didn't dare say out loud. Instead he said, "You gonna work it out by Monday? Because if you need—"
That dangerous thing was back in David's eyes. "Monday's fine, Don."
"Okay. Great." And Don meant it. He was finally getting his team back. After the past two weeks … hell, three now since it was already Friday—especially after yesterday—it felt good to know he hadn't lied to Colby today.
"Hey. I'll help you find a place to bury your koi," Don said, picking up the shovel.
Someday, he decided, when Colby wasn't under the stress and tension so prevalent this last week and David wasn't in guilt-driven hyper-protective mode, he'd ask David just what the hell happened out here at the pond with all the koi.
For now, he wisely shut his mouth, knowing the first time Colby saw this David coming to his defense that all would be right in his world. He couldn't wait for Monday.
A/N: This is one of my favorite chapters. Please leave a review and let me know what you thought of it!