He’d excused it as age starting to get the best of him, the undiagnosed adhd he never got looked at, that it was because he was behind a desk more often than he was on the field even since the last incident that almost got him killed.

A whole myriad of excuses as to why it never wanted to leave him alone.

The suffocating feeling, the tightness in his chest and the constant sighing he hardly ever acknowledged, constantly needing a body double to do basic things on worse days.

Was the PTSD finally getting him, too?

“Sorry, I— I feel one comin’, just give me a minute..” Graves’ voice came out strained, choked up almost, his feet moving on their own to step back and lean himself back against his desk with a sharp, shaky breath in. His brows knit together tightly when it doesn’t seem to go away, his hands quickly licking up a tremor when they raise to hold his face and rub at his eyes.

He’d called you to his office to talk about an upcoming job, yet here he was, having a panic attack infront of you all because you’d mentioned that it’d be nice to see him on the field again. “Fuck— Sorry, lieutenant, I—i don’t know what’s gotten into me-” You hear him stumble on his words as he apologises, even if he didn’t necessarily needed to, as his breathing begins to pick up.