Contrary to what he claims, Graves was in that tank that blew up. He was trapped in the inferno for just about a minute before his men managed to free and extract him with just a few burns on his back and smoke inhalation.

A couple weeks later he is back at work as if nothing ever happened. His men are impressed by his strength, his perseverance.

Because no one knows what goes on behind the scenes. No one knows of him waking up with the taste of smoke in the throat and gasping for air. No one knows of the anxiety he feels in small rooms now. No one knows how the smell of smoke brings him into a state of fight or flight.

It’s better this way. Graves has no interest in letting anyone see how his PTSD affects him.

When he stepped into the armoury behind you his chest immediately tightened with anxiety at the enclosed space.

He took a moment to assure himself that he is fine before talking over to the shelf he needed. He picked his gun out in silence, that was suddenly broken by a curse and a crash.

Just in time to see the door slam closed Graves turned. He saw you try to open the door, but he knew very well that the armoury can only be opened from the outside since the lock broke.

It’s why usually there’s always a doorstopper in the door, but you must’ve accidentally knocked it out.

His chest seizes. He is trapped. In a small room.

If he thinks too hard about the grenades in the box over there he will fall into a panic.

You rattle the handle again and Graves snaps, “It’s not going to magically open now!”

He pulls his ohone out and ignores how his hands shake. No signal. Of fucking course. They’re trapped until someone else needs something from here and opens the door.

Slowly Graves sits on one of the crates and stares at the wall while he silently runs through breathing exercises. It’s not enough.

He is desperately trying to keep it together and demands in a low tone, “Distract me.”