Title: Je t'aime
Author: discoxwithxme
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Fandom: CSI
Rating: R
Warnings: Attempted suicide (or is it attempted..?)
Disclaimer: Do not own.
A/N: Holy crap, I finished a story. This is totally awesome… Anyway. I hope this can live up to the expectations… I think it’s reasonably okay, but then again, I am constantly degrading my work, so… x) I just hope you guys like it!
Dedications: Nikisha, because she is just amazing and I love her to death. Carrie and Taylor for basically the same reasons, and for reading this offline. Thanks guys for the offline support! (: I owe you one.
A/N 2: There was another song intended to be used here, but I cut it out at the end because I decided that I wanted to use the story’s “theme” song instead. Also, the lyrics I used at the end of Scenes One and Two are in order, but there are certain verses and/or bridges I cut out on purpose because I didn’t want to use the whole song; so I used the parts that stood out the most.
Summary: I know you'll come in the night like a thief, but I've had some time alone to hold my lies inside me.***
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Part One: Light Up
"Jesus" - Brand New
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"There is no remedy for love but to love more."
- Thoreau
It's cases like these that make him remember. Rubbing his temples in an unconscious reflex to remove the apprehension and fear from his mind, clutching the handle of his kit tighter in his right hand, stumbling back a bit on the soles of his feet; yeah, this is what it feels like. This was how he felt when he saw his first dead child.
He's not sure if you ever really properly adjust to seeing dead bodies. He's sure that eventually, you compartmentalize to the decomposing flesh, rotting corpse of an adult and possibly young adult; but he wonders if one can truly adapt to stumbling into a crime scene where a little six year old girl lays dismembered, dirty and violated on the grimy concrete of a back alley. He knows it's hard to see a teenager dead on the street, or in a car, or on the couch in some house, but he's sure that it's a child that really sticks with you like super glue. All you want to do is shake your fingers until it falls off and floats down to the floor, where you sweep it up later.
He's been a CSI for going on four years now. He knows that he should be able to handle this better, because they've gotten tons of cases, and he's seen tons of dead bodies, and one-fourth of them were children between the ages of one and nine.
So when he steps out of the Denali at 3131 Las Vegas Boulevard South, grabs his kit and walks around to the back of the club, pads into the alleyway behind the club and approaches the body, he's quite surprised when he reacts so violently to the sight of the little girl on the concrete ground.
Maybe he should have expected his reaction, but he's not sure what he's supposed to expect anymore, so he doesn't ponder on it. Because he knows he's a CSI. He knows he's seen too many dead children. He knows that he should be able to handle this now, because that's what's expected, and that's his responsibility. He's the face of hope. He brings relief - albeit small, but relief all the same - to parents and family who he has to interview on the worst day of their lives. He's here to catch the asshole who wants to mutilate, depreciate and violate men and women alike. He's here to try and bring some form of consolation to the millions of people who everyday are faced with the tragedy of losing someone. It's what he does. It's his responsibility, his duty. It's a tough job, and a lot of the time, he sits at home on his couch and wonders just why he's doing this.
Yes, the job can be rough and gruesome. But someone has to do it. And he's glad that it's him, and not someone else, because the sense of satisfaction he gets when some molester is hauled off to spend his life in jail, with shitty food, horrible bunking and the constant anxiety of being ass-raped if he moves; that makes it all worth it at the end of the day. Maybe it's a little selfish to want to put a bunch of no good, disgusting homicidal maniacs in a small, cramped cell, but he couldn't care less. Because he wants to, and it's not just a want. It's a need. He's seen what the world is capable of. He's experienced first hand how cruel and cynical the world can really be. He knows that people are ruthless and destructive.
Even with all of this knowledge, the sight of that little girl, dismembered, violated, and filthy, laying strewn across the muddy concrete haphazardly; it sends needles through his skin and nails into his eyes. He can feel the thick burn growing behind his retinas, the steady pressure in his sinus cavities, the tremors racking throughout his body as a heart-wrenching sob is repressed painfully. He has to handle this. He has to withstand and be strong. Because it's his job, and it's his responsibility. And if he was to just drop all of that because of one case, what would he be?
Human. He hears the soft whisper in his mind, trying to speak to him, console him. It makes you human.
He is human. All of those nights he spent crying quietly in his bed after his first molested child case should prove that. The small, thickly leather-bound portfolio he has stashed under his bed, full of pictures of every case he's ever worked with a child involved, with detailed reports on how the family's doing, and tons of information about the children; that should say how human he is. He cares. He just doesn't care openly. Because he can't. He's not supposed to.
It's only when a warm, large hand lands softly on his shoulder, radiating heat even through the Kevlar vest, that he realizes he's been crying. And it's only when that warm hand's counterpart reaches over and slips the kit from his hand, sets it on the ground, and pulls him into a strong, comforting embrace, that he realizes he's shaking and sobbing and he's lost control. He can't lose control, because it's the only thing he has left. Control over his emotions, control over what he says, what he thinks, what he does. He's worked hard at keeping control of everything. His world used to be so free and disorganized, always a mystery and full of spontaneity. But everything changed after the beating. He had been slowly heading towards a bit of a maturing, but after being beaten nearly to death, he realized that he was of the age to really grip his life and hold the reins, for once. He'd been too reckless, too carefree, too laid back. His life had escaped him and taken on a mind of its own.
This embrace was dangerous. It was telling him that it was okay for him to breakdown, okay to feel, okay to become overwhelmed with emotion. It was okay for him to let go of his responsibility and duty for a minute. Perfectly fine for him to just take a step back and take a breather. This embrace was promising him things. Things that he had come to file under 'Impossible' in his brain. He'd worked so hard to contain everything, to be like the rest of them. They could handle it all so well, they were so good at the job. He wanted to be like them. He wanted to show that he was okay and that he could be just as good. Because he was just as good. He knew that he was good, for a Level One.
And this embrace was whispering things to his conscience. It was seductive, tempting and risky. Let go, it whispered. Just feel. Let it come. He couldn't. He wasn't supposed to, and he couldn't.
You're not like them, the whispers continued. You don't have to be them. You don't need to be them.
He doesn't need to, he has to. Does no one understand?
The embrace has not let up. The warm, strong arms are still wrapped around his shaking form, holding him close. His mind registers vanilla and a warm, melting-kind-of cologne that held a hint of musk. It was cozy and familiar. It reminded him of a sunshine-bright smile. It struck chords in his heart that were rusty and out of tune. The little box he locked his heart inside was being dusted, slowly polished. This wasn't supposed to happen.
He pushed out of the embrace, rubbing habitually at his eyelids. "I'm fine." His voice was ostensibly hoarse, and he winced. "The stench really got into my sinuses. But I think it's clear now." He didn't wait for a response, didn't even look at his consoler's face. He turned around sharply, leaning to the right to pick up his kit, and headed for the body, pointedly ignoring the soft 'Greg' he heard behind him.
He didn't need consolation. Because he could do this. It was what needed to be done, and he was going to do it.
Even if it tore away the last of his sanity.
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He was sitting in the surrounding silence, deafening him with everything unsaid. He was on his couch, immobile, staring ahead without really seeing.
It usually took a week for the nightmares to subside. He was almost convinced that the rest of the team had noticed that he didn't get sleep for a week after each case involving a child, but after nearly a year had passed by and no one had said anything, he became confident that no one noticed, and if they did, they didn't care. He still came in and got the work done; no harm, no foul. But sometimes, he wished that someone would notice. He wished that someone would just say something about it, because he couldn't do it himself. He had to hold on to his dignity. He was strong, and he could do this. As long as he kept telling himself that, he believed it would really work.
If someone would just bring his reactions to light, throw it out into the wind, really say it aloud and catch both party's attention, then he could talk about it. Because he wasn't admitting to anything. They already knew. It wasn't like he was telling a secret or letting anything out. It was already known. There was nothing to hide. And he could say something. He could just scream and thrash and cry, just feel and ache and throb and breakdown.
But until someone else noticed, he couldn't. Because he was strong. And he wouldn't crack under self-pressure.
There was a gentle knock on the door into his apartment, and he debated on whether he really wanted to answer it. If it was one of the team--and he knew it was--then this was important, because most of them would be in bed now. Because they were smart, unlike Greg. Who was sitting here, on his couch, in the dim lighting of the lamp his Grandmother had given him years ago which sat on the stand beside the couch, contemplating whether or not to just down the little bottle in his trembling hands.
He just wanted to sleep, truth be told. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good night's sleep. He didn't get sleep when there were cases with children, and he really didn't get a lot of sleep during any other case. He knew it was because he was slowly breaking down, and his body couldn't handle it anymore. He had kept too much in. But he couldn't let it out. Because if they could do it, so could he.
There was a brief moment when he wondered if any of the others sat at their homes, in the confined solitude of their bedrooms, crying because of a particular case. He wondered if any of them really broke down occasionally, but did it behind closed doors and quietly, so no one else would know or find out.
He wondered if Sara would run over to Grissom's and seek his comfort. If one could really consider Grissom comforting. He had his moments, sure, but Grissom wasn't exactly the person who could wrap you up in a hug and rock you to sleep, murmuring about how everything was going to be okay. Because Grissom wasn't like that. Grissom was awkward with people, but he understood them. And that was powerful. And destructive, Greg mused.
He wondered if Catherine and Warrick sought comfort within each other's arms, too. He knew how they felt about each other, because who didn't? He was sure a blind person could see how vibrantly their affection shone. He wasn't jealous, per se. He was so happy that they had each other, even though they had been impossible to get together for the longest time. But when they both finally conceded and gave in, it was one of the happiest days he'd ever experienced in the lab (or night, whatever).
The pill bottle shook violently with his hand as his mind conjured up the already willing masochistic picture of Nick in some nameless woman's arms. He wasn't stupid. He knew that Nick was straight. How could he not be? Everything about the man screamed heterosexuality. It was fine with Greg, really. He knew that you couldn't have them all. But as you got older, you really started to notice how you didn't have a lot of time left to find someone. And when you got the chance to fall in love, you should cherish it and never let it go.
But he had to let Nick go. Because Nick was not his, and Nick never would be his. Nick was owned only by himself, and probably some nameless female that Greg had no interest in discovering. He didn't want to think about the way they probably came together at night, and after their sweaty, heated tussle, they lay panting and cuddled together in a mass of bed sheets. Greg didn't want to think about that. Because every time he did, a little piece of him screamed in agony, and he felt another sliver of his sanity slip away. He wasn't sure how much of it was left.
That would most likely explain the pill bottle in his trembling fingers.
He knew it was the easy way out. He knew it was stupid and childish. He was a man, and if he was going to out himself, he should shoot himself or hang himself or something more violent and messy, rather than overdose on sleeping pills. He knew that this was the most demeaning and humiliating way to commit suicide. Because who really thought about the people who overdosed? People classified them as losers, people who could only bring themselves to take the least painful way out. If they were really suffering, they would have blown their brains out with a shotgun, or slit their arms so deeply that the blood covered the porcelain white tub in a mural of deep red that was as messy as their thoughts.
He knew that if anything, people would frown upon him. They'd tsk and shake their heads. They'd forget about him in a month or two. He'd be just another lost soul, just another helpless cause. Just another countless suicide victim. The anonymity gave him a sick rush, and he let it wash over him.
The responsibility, the duty, the pressure and stress; he was tired of it all. He was so exhausted. He was too worn out to hold on anymore. His mind was too bloodied from the internal battle to heal itself. His heart was torn up and withered on the floor. He couldn't bring himself to pull it all back together again. How many times has it been that he's had to do that? Too many, he thinks, too many.
There's another knock, much firmer, much louder. He realizes it's probably about the fifth one, but he makes no inclination to get up and answer it. He doesn't want to talk to them. At one point, he wanted them to care, wanted them to involve themselves in his life and ask all of the personal questions he needed to answer. But now, he doesn't want them here. He wants them to stay home and tend to their own lives. Because it makes it all so much easier. There's less of a chance of him living if they don't interfere. And he doesn't want interference. He can't afford it.
He lets the knocking fade as he continues to ponder. What would he write, if he wrote a suicide note? Who would he address it to? Is there any one specific person he would leave it for? Who would he want to find it? To read it? To find his body, cold and lifeless? Dead, just like most of the people they meet on a daily basis.
He knows the answer to all of those, but he doesn't want to say it. He doesn't want to think it. Because it's wrong, and it hurts, and he has no more room to hurt. He's too full of pain and anguish to allow more pain to set in.
The smile that slides across his face is not one he's used to using. He's used to the fake smile that he gives everyone at work and everyone he interviews, the faux-consoling smile he has to give families when he tells them that their daughter, brother, son, father, mother, grandchild is dead. This smile is foreign and new. It's stiff and more of a grimace, he supposes. He doesn't really know, he can't see it.
If he was honest, he'd tell them that it all started around the time Nick was being stalked by Nigel Crane. The sudden possessive, protectiveness that crept upon him was overwhelming and unexpected; he was momentarily stunned. He wasn't stupid, and he knew what kind of feeling it was. He knew why he was feeling it. It wasn't like he'd really liked men before. He'd had his drunk flings with men, and the one guy he'd fooled around with in college, but as far as boyfriends went? Nah. He didn't do that, or so he thought. But then there was Nick, and his world wasn't the same. It was confusing and delirious, occasionally upside-down and inside out. Everything was different and deliciously exciting. He wasn't used to feeling that way about a man. It was so odd and he loved every second of it.
After a while, he realized that his feelings were a problem. Because even though Nick occasionally flirted back, most of the time, Greg had the inkling that Nick was trying to let him down nicely. All of the times that he had thrown out obvious innuendo, hinting at something for just the two of them, and Nick had brushed over it like it was nothing, not even noticing Greg's eager attempt to get the man's attention. Nick never seemed to understand that Greg had fallen head over heels in love with the man, and it was an all too quick one-way trip to nowhere. Greg found he didn't have any brakes.
And he could remember distinctly the day he had hit the end of the trip. The day that he had emerged in a bleak, velvety darkness, void of feeling. Nick had been mentioning to Warrick about some hot girl he was dating, and how things were getting pretty serious. He was thinking about taking her to Dallas one time soon. Warrick was all for it.
That was the day Greg had stopped smiling. It was the day his mind stopped registering happiness. Because the earth-shattering realization that Nick was serious with some girl, Nick had never truly been flirting with him, and Nick was never, ever going to be his, hit him so hard that he had barely made it through his front door when he collapsed on the floor and cried. He had balled up and cried for quite a while; too long, he says now. Way too long had he lain on the floor and cried over Nick. His heart, already fragile and dependent upon others' opinions, had broken into thousands of crystalline pieces. He tried to sweep them up. He hadn't really succeeded. He often felt himself stepping on a piece of glass, cutting himself and leaving a faint mark.
Maybe it was because his body was covered in proverbial scars. Maybe it was because he'd just had enough. Maybe, he was just too tired to fight it anymore. He couldn't keep up the charade of tough, strong CSI Sanders. The cocky, happy, laughing attitude he used to have had died, and despite tons of attempts, he couldn't revive it. It was useless, a failed chance.
Maybe it was because he knew that he'd failed. He'd failed them all, himself included. Maybe it was the sting of failure. Or maybe it was the pinch of relief that he had failed, and he no longer had any obligation to keep it all up. He'd let everyone down; he was no longer expected to be who he wasn't.
Maybe it was because he didn't know who he was anymore. Maybe it was because his CD cases had collected so much dust, most of them looked grey now. Maybe it was the fact that his coffee hadn't been pulled out of his stash in over two months. Maybe it was the fact that he had lost his shine somewhere along the way. Eventually, the shimmer in his eyes had faded. It was just a dull mocha now, like cold coffee. Funny how the one time his favourite thing mirrors his life in some funky analogy, it's cold, vacant and tasteless. Weak, dull, bitter. Like bad coffee. He hated bad coffee.
It could be that he's just decided to do something because he wants to for once. He's not doing it because he needs to, or because he feels he has to (he knows he doesn't, and probably shouldn't - and maybe that contributes to it, too), but he's doing it because he can, because he wants to, and because no one is here to stop him. For once, there is no reprimanding waiting for him when he's done. It's just him. It's just his consequences, his and his alone. The hum of contentment that floats through him at that thought is kind of comforting, but it doesn't alter anything.
Because he's still ignoring the knocks at the door, and the voice that's now flowing through the wood. The soft, concerned, intoxicating Southern accent that's reaching the tips of his skin and the depths of his soul, almost making him stop, run to the door and fling it open. Almost.
He gets off of the couch, sets the pill bottle on the smudged glass coffee table and pads barefooted into the kitchen. He picks up the pen and pad on the counter, treads back to the couch and sits down gently. Sets the pad down on the coffee table, leans forward, breathing out slowly, moving his hand with pointed determination. Because this letter, it has to be perfect. It has to be direct. Because he knows he'll find it, and he'll read it.
So, this is what it's like to write one of these. I never really pictured myself sitting down to write one. Is this how they do it? Do they sit down and write a letter, actually plan it out before they commit the act? I wouldn't know, I never really asked anyone. Most people who've done this aren't around anymore to answer my questions, anyway.
When it comes down to writing this all out, it's hard to figure out just what to say. Maybe it's because words can never be as descriptive as the human mind is. And maybe it's because I'm shaking, despite my attempts to be strong and write this out.
I don't want anyone to think that I did this because of someone else. Because for once, I didn't. This isn't specifically about someone. There isn't some random girl who rejected me, and I'm so pitiful that I couldn't take it and had to resort to drastic measures. I'm better than that. I hope you all know that. If you didn't, well, you know now.
If you really analyze the situation, you could say that this is because of someone else. And I know you will analyze the situation, all of you will, because it's what you do, it's what you've been trained to do, and it's what you're good at. It's your job. And sadly, no matter what we do, our job can never really leave us, can it? I should know. I have a portfolio underneath my bed of every single child case I've ever worked.
There goes my train of thought again. Anyway. Where was I? Oh, right. This note.
I know that you're probably wondering why I didn't just do this in person, if I took the time out of my day to sit down and actually write a fucking letter about this, but you have to try to understand: This isn't as easy as it looks. It takes a lot for me to admit some of this.
I tried to be like you. I tried to be strong and responsible. I tried to be faithful to my duty. I tried to do it for them, and for you, not for me. Because if I was real with myself, it wasn't what I really wanted to do. I wanted to be me, but I knew I couldn't. Because the real world didn't have room for Greg Sanders. So I toned myself down. I made myself try to behave and act like all of you. Because it was the right thing to do. It was what needed to be done.
I thought it would work. I thought that if I addressed the situation in a more mild-mannered, focused way, I could obtain this sense of respect and value I couldn't find in myself originally. But that sense never came. I tried harder, doing anything and everything I could. But it didn't work. I was lost.
I tried to handle it all carefully. I guess I was balancing precariously on the proverbial edge, eh? I thought I had it all under control--well, that's a lie. I knew I didn't have it under control, but I thought if I acted and appeared like I did, maybe it would ease the pain. It didn't. Of course it didn't; what was I thinking? This isn't a novel, it's not like I can write or think something up and it happens.
This is life, and life is hard. And it sucks sometimes.
I know this for a fact. They say that every time you fall in love, you should treasure it. Because there is nothing else in the world like being in love. Love is the most powerful, confusing, breath-taking feeling, and there is nothing that will ever be remotely close to it. Well, I tried treasuring it. But is it wrong to treasure something one-sided? I was treasuring a non-existent relationship, and it felt kind of awkward and stalker-like. I didn't feel right. Because if the other person didn't love me, then what was I doing? I was imposing myself, being selfish and holding on to feelings that were of no use to anyone. I tried to let it go. It didn't work.
I learned that the feelings were always going to remain. Instead of brooding, I observed others' relationship. Sara and Grissom tried to keep their relationship a secret from everyone else, but we all knew. I knew that at night, Sara would go to Grissom's house, and they'd spend the night together. I knew that Catherine and Warrick had each other, even if they wouldn't admit it at first. I knew that they were the happiest I'd ever seen them when they finally got together, and it made me happy, too. Well, as happy as I could be. I've already realized that I haven't been truly happy in quite a while.
It was the realization that Nick had someone else that really took its tole on me. It's hard enough to be in love with a man, but when that man is straight, in a relationship and completely oblivious to the fact that you're in love with him, well, it's pointless.
It all became pointless. My life became pointless. Not necessarily because Nick rejected me unknowingly. But the cases started to take their tole, too. And life started to rag on me. Before I knew it, everything seemed to be trying to push me on the ground and kick me until I was out of breath. Almost like the beating.
I tried to be strong. I tried to hold my own and survive. It's survival of the fittest out here, and I know that. Too bad I'm not that fit, right? Bad time to make a corny joke, I know.
The fact is... I've become too tired to deal with any of this anymore. I can't stand to just sit here and wither away... I've tried to restore myself, tried to do anything and everything just to feel something; but I can't. It's just not there anymore.
There was nothing any of you could have done. Sometimes, you can't save everyone. As CSIs, we're trained to know that and realize that. You're told that there will always be some that you just don't make it to in time. You're told not to let it get to you, because you're not perfect and you're not Superman; it's just not possible to save them all. I figured that out. I hope you do, too.
As I said before, I don't really know how suicide notes go. I'm sure this was one of the worst ones, but I couldn't care less. I don't think it'll be graded or anything. But if it is, tell me what I get, okay? I hope I pass.
What do you say when you reach the end of one of these? Is it kind of a last words type of thing? I never really thought about what my last words would be... I guess now is as good a time as any.
Don't be afraid of love; embrace it. Love freely, unconditionally, unabashedly with abandon. Enjoy life. It may be cruel and gruesome, nasty and disgusting; but you only get these days once, and after that, you're one closer to none. Don't let those days slip by you in a haze. Feel every moment. Dance in the rain. Close your eyes and twirl around. Let the rain soak your skin. Watch the sunset and the sunrise at least once. It really is a beautiful sight.
Please. Tell the one you love how you feel. I know it's so overrated, and everyone says that in their last words, but really, do it. You have no idea how much longer you'll be able to say that. It's a scary thought, but don't run from fear, face it. Stand it down and glare it in the eyes. Overcome it. Concur it.
Live life as I didn't.
And even though it's useless and unimportant, tell Nicky I love him. Because I never could.
He stands up with the pen and pad, moving to the kitchen counter. He rips the paper off of the pad, folding it in a perfect half and labeling it before setting it down. He wonders if they'll see it, and decides he doesn't care. Because it's kind of like his eulogy, and it's a bit personal, and whether anyone reads it or not, he got all of that out, and a little bit of weight is lifted from his shoulders. He pads quietly into the bathroom, the knocks on the front door subsided. It's for the best.
He turns on the tub, placing the cork in the drain and letting the water fill. Silently walking into his bedroom, searching around boxes in his closet, he finds the one he wants, picking it up and taking it with him back to the bathroom. He sets the box down on the back of the commode, flipping off the top and rummaging around in it until he pulls out a slightly deformed but sharp razor. He used to collect them as a teenager; an odd collection, he knows, but he doesn't care.
He turns the water off, looking into the shimmering liquid for a couple of seconds before gripping the razor and stepping into the warm water, low-riding sweatpants and white t-shirt clinging to his wet body uncomfortably. He looks at his shaking limbs, the razor, sitting seductively in his right hand. He knows what he wants. He knows what he has to do. He's not sure how he exactly made the transition from easy, painless death to slitting his wrists in the bathtub and drowning himself; but he's not complaining.
He chastises himself for being a baby. Because thirteen year olds can do this better than he can, and what does that say about him, when he processes dead bodies for a living? He's weak. He knows he's weak, and he's always known he was weak. But this is living proof.
The sharp, slick drag of the metal across his skin stings, but it's a calming sting. He cracks open the eyes he closed when he drug the razor across his skin, peering at the thin, white line across his left wrist. It looks odd, sitting there all by itself. He drags the razor again, creating another white line. He sits quietly, motionless for a moment. This isn't how he thought it would be. It doesn't even hurt.
And then it clicks. He's not applying enough pressure. So he applies more pressure. The scratch is more developed, with a little bit of blood, but he's still not doing something right. So he swipes the razor of his wrist quickly and deeply, watching fascinated as the blood oozes forth from the straight, horizontal line across his left wrist. It's so odd, unusual and foreign; and he thinks it looks a little lonely, too. So he makes another. And another. As he gets higher, he realizes that the skin needs a different sort of treatment up here, so he tries harder and slower. The resulting hot pain that courses through his nerves and the screaming of his conscience tell him he's doing this right. And really, what's so wrong with this? It feels fine to him. The contrast of the dark red blood to his paling, white skin and the porcelain of the tub looks magnificent. Almost like art. He feels a dry, humourless chuckle at that. Associating art with suicide. He's really lost it, he thinks.
In no time at all, he's sliced up his arms so well that he's amazed you can even see the skin still. the blood is trickling in every direction, slow, thick trails of his heart pouring over his arms and down to his elbows. He rests his head back against the cold tile of the wall, lowering his arms to the water. The throb that greets him is soothing, albeit extremely painful. But he wants that. Because it's about pain. It's about bleeding out all of this.
It's how it has to be. This is what has to happen. It's not for them. It's not for Nick. It's for him. It's for Greg Sanders.
Unconsciousness prickles at his senses, drowsiness overwhelming. He feels a slow smile crawl up his face. It's probably a little creepy to smile at this, but that's okay. He's not sure he really cares, anyway.
And as his eyes droop closed, his body sinking underwater, immersing him in the warm liquid coffin, surrounding him in his pain and heartache, he has one last, fleeting thought.
***
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Part Two: Louder
“Hallelujah” – Jeff Buckley
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There was a bright, white light he hadn’t noticed before. He wondered, idly, when he had become so unobservant, but pushed the thought to the back of his head when he heard a steady, repetitive beeping from somewhere to his right. Smelled something obnoxiously strong, like bleach, Pinesol, cotton and death. Something akin to desolation and loss of hope. He felt the panic build in his stomach, chest, throat before he recognized it. The horribly bright, white light was still blinding him, seemingly burning into his mind, through his nerves and into his soul. Impairing his thoughts. Felt like his brain was being cooked, his head so hot he felt like he was on fire. Maybe the light was the luminance of the flames glaring against the ceiling. Maybe the starchy, wooly texture scraping the pads of his fingertips was not the blanket of ominous pallor that he remembers so vivdly. The off-white pall of the hospital bed sheets, covering his scarred body. The scratchy feeling of the bandages around his face, shielding it. His face, marred by shame, fear, death, unfairness. His life, endangered just because he was doing his job. Fulfilling his responsibility, staying true to his duty. He was just doing what he was supposed to do. Save lives, protect the people, find the clues, follow the evidence. Think outside the box, look for the things you’re not trained to look for. His job, duty and responsibility was to discover the hidden and undearth that which most don’t see. It was his job to stop that gang, his duty to apprehend Demetrius James, his responsibility to protect the unsuspecting victim of their violence. He had been doing his job. Being loyal to his humanity.
He could have dealt with being put in the hospital for saving someone’s life. Wouldn’t have even bragged about it, no matter what everyone else would have expected, because the warmth of saving someone’s life was enough by itself. But it wasn’t like that. Instead of being surrounded by colleagues, celebrating his heroic bravery, he was being slammed into a lawsuit and a trial by Demetrius’ mother and brother. He was a victim of the gang’s merciless and irrational boredom. Society’s monstrosity. We as people created that gang. And how do you stop society? People?
There was a sudden, sharp sting that reverberated inside his right arm, crawling slowly to his left and piercing it too; he realized, bleakly, that this was like the other times he was here. Yet again, he was hooked up to a completely unnecessary amount of machines, each one saying something else about his condition. Mocking him. Throwing his failure back in his face. He failed the team by blowing up the DNA lab (even though Catherine had told him it was her fault), because no matter what they said, it was his fault. He was working the evidence. He should have been more careful. Should have been prepared. Should have known better. He did know better.
He had failed his duty, job, and responsibility by killing Demetrius James. He was supposed to save him. He could have saved him. But he didn’t. He hadn’t. He had failed. And then they had beaten him within an inch of his life. They’d ripped his dignity from him, his control. They’d taken the little bit of what he had sane and hopeful and stomped it into bitter, fine dust. His life, soul: miniscule particles. And when it had been Sara to find him, laying there on the ground like that, the small sliver of hope he had remaining died with the rest of him.
Except that he hadn’t died. And that was the whole point, really. His soul had withered away with the remnants of his heart, hopelessly lost. He had to strain to recall the last time his smile reached his face, his eyes.
He tried to swallow, but the thick, sticky mass coating his throat wouldn’t allow it. He lay still, let the self-pity engulf his drug-induced haze. Let the faintly seared imprint of a razor nag at his skin, gnaw at his mind. Scratched his nails on the itchy wool blanket covering his body, tried to push it off of him and failing due to not enough nerve stimulation. And then there was a brief flicker of morbid hope that he had permanently damaged some—if not all—of his nerves. Because his body was burning, inflamed with a vicious heat; but he felt ice cold. Bent his knees, pulled them up to his chest and curled up into himself.
Because, out of all of his colossal failures, he had failed himself. After everything he had been through, he just wanted relief. He was so tired. Just needed to let go. Needed to pass on. Needed to die with the rest of himself. He was just a body, going through the motions. He was of no use to anyone. Especially Nick. The urge to wretched slammed him hard in the chest, momentarily taking away his breath. Clutched at his gown, dug his nails into the material and bunched it up between his fingers. Gulped helplessly for air, moisture clouding his eyes, bile slicking the thick mass in his throat. Shivers licking up his body, nerves twitching reflexively.
He felt the dizzying warmth spreading in his head, and leaned over the bed in the direction he hoped was the trash can. Let the sickly tremors rack his muscles, emptying him of the pain, hurt, anguish. He didn’t know how he was managing to vomit, because he couldn’t remember the last time he had ate or drank. He rolled over onto his back when the tremors had subsided, raising a shaking hand to wipe feebly at his mouth. Tried so hard to regulate his breathing, because he wasn’t panicking, but there was a different kind of moisture in his eyes now, and he’d be damned if he was going to lay here and cry. Cry because he wasn’t good enough, cry because he had failed and he kept failing, cry because he was head-over-heels dance-in-the-rain scream-it-at-the-top-of-your-lungs in love with Nick freakin’ Stokes, and Nick couldn’t have cared less.
The second he felt the dry heaves start to take over his senses; a soft voice broke into the heavy hospital atmosphere. “Hey.”
For the second time, he could feel the hope being stabbed out of his skin, the blade of an invisible knife piercing through the layers of muscle, tissue, and flesh and staking right into his barely beating heart. He resisted the prickles tingling the corners of his eyes, turning his head and giving the greatest smile he could muster. He saw the smile he got in return, but saw the look in her eyes too. She knew, because she wasn’t stupid, and she saw right through his weak charade.
“Déjà vu, eh?” He croaked. His voice scared him unexpectedly, startling his mind, nerves standing on end. It was so foreign, hoarse, pitiful. It sounded like the voice of a dying man. And while he desperately wanted the assurance that yes, he was dying, some part of him (maybe the rational side) saw the key word in that sentence: was. She didn’t adorn the smile she had previously dropped, and he knew that joking his way through this wasn’t going to work this time. He let the smile slide from his face. In all fairness, he thought that he had the right to not discuss the reason he was in the hospital, and he hoped that she knew he was planning on dragging that out as long as possible.
“Greg,” she whispered, or it sounded like a whisper to him, at least. That could have been because his voice was drawn to the door, where two people stood, silent. He wondered for a split second how long they had been silhouetted there, but from one look at their faces, he knew they had been there for as long as she had.
“You coulda told me we had company, Sara. I feel rude now,” he joked, trying his best to crack a Sanders Grin. “Make yourselves at home, fellas. There’s plenty of room. I don’t have the luxuries of a cooler or a bar or anything fancy like that, but I’m putting in for an upgrade, so keep your fingers crossed.” Gestured with his hands, hoping that they’d buy it. Hoped that, maybe, they’d let it go and not ask anything. Maybe they’d just brought regards from Grissom.
And you’d think, after everything that had happened, he’d know not to hope. But apparently he didn’t, and Greg felt the first pinches of frosty tension when Warrick and Nick sat down beside Sara on the faded blue faux leather couch against the opposite wall, watching him intently, arms crossed across their chests. He noted that they looked like secret service, and then in a brighter discovery (one he found particularly funny, thank you) he thought they looked like they did when they were interrogating a suspect—oh. Fear pooled at the tips of his toes, slowly washing up his legs and flooding his abdomen as he maintained eye contact with the three bodies sitting silent upon the couch. He thought the silence was the worst, really.
“You know it can’t be avoided, man.” Warrick’s baritone was slightly relieving in the fact that it was familiar. Greg felt his muscles slowly relaxing, but his mind was still on high alert. Screaming protests internally, thrashing around, wanting to escape the inevitable. He didn’t want to talk to them about it. He shouldn’t even be in this position, he reasoned. It wasn’t like he had planned on living, anyway. He had left them a damn note, hadn’t they read it? Or did they even see it? Maybe he hadn’t put in the right place. It could have been easily looked over. Maybe they thought it was a part of his mail. A little bit of him sighed in ease, because that meant that Nick had no idea about the way Greg felt. But another part of him was upset, because he had finally just admitted it, finally let it go and said it (albeit not aloud). And it was the hardest thing he’d ever had to done, and Nick hadn’t even seen it. Felt a twinge of anger, depreciation.
“We gotta ask,” Warrick says, voice a bit softer. Trying to sooth Greg, and he knows it. Warrick’s a nice guy, even if they don’t get along most of the time and sometimes Greg’s jealous, because Nick is always so great and admirable towards Warrick and Greg just wants that. Warrick’s standing up now, sauntering over to stand at Greg’s bedside, fingers ghosting the putrid rail, gripping it firmly. Like he could stop Greg if Greg tried to bolt. Where would he go, anyway? He’s lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to tons of machines, fluids pumping this way and that; just what do they expect him to do?
Sees Sara straightening in his peripheral, sees her stand up and gently close in on his other side. Places a tiny hand on his shoulder, eyes coaxing him into her gaze. She’s looking at him with that painfully delicate gaze, that one that’s saying everything she isn’t. He’s a victim, just another case.
“Don’t treat me like one of them,” he says, and his voice isn’t nearly as strong as it sounded in his mind.
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It’s quiet, and Greg muses that this feels way too familiar. The lovely nurses relented to his requests and dimmed the lighting in his room, so it’s just a soft orange glow spread across the linoleum floor. It feels too hot still, but it’s highly probable that the room is fine, and it’s just him. He’s restless, and he knows that if anyone else was in the room with him, they’d snicker and call him a child. Because he is kind of acting like one. But it’s been nearly twenty-four hours since he’s been out of a bed, and he’s getting extremely twitchy and needs something, anything to do.
He wonders if maybe he’s too lax about the situation. He’s lying in a hospital, scars going up his arm to nearly his elbow, his bathroom being processed (he’s almost positive it is, even if they said that it was just being cleaned a bit—Ecklie’s orders) and his team thinking he’s suicidal. Maybe the last one is a little close to the marker, but it’s not like there’s any point in trying suicide again. He obviously can’t even kill himself correctly. Huffs with frustration, letting his eyes wander to the ceiling. Tries to drift off to sleep, or think of something interesting at the very least, but it’s only ten seconds later when he realizes that there is nothing to think about, and nothing can save him from this most boring place of desolation. Squirming around on the bed, Greg casts his eyes around the rest of the room, praying that maybe he’ll see something remotely interesting.
Instead, his eyes stop at the doorway, where a lone figure is standing, eyes locking dangerously with his. Chocolate brown eyes, swirling like a fresh cup of Blue Hawaiian sitting enticingly on his desk. Chocolate brown eyes, flickering with a variety of emotions that matches the flickers of his lava lamp at home, on his bedside table. Those same chocolate brown eyes that he’s spent months dreaming about, years wanting, yearning for, pleading with any unseen force from above for those eyes to be focused on him for more than a necessary moment. And now they’re staring straight at him—practically through him, really—and he can’t seem to think anymore.
The figure silently walks inside Greg’s room, the door shutting behind him with a click. He grabs a chair from beside the other wall and drags it up to Greg’s bed, plopping into it with exaggerated force. He’s kept Greg’s gaze the whole time and Greg knows he should probably be breathing right now, but he’s not too sure what that’s like or how it feels. Chocolate eyes harden, and then a slow, Southern drawl shatters the tense silence. “You’re an idiot.”
Greg chokes a laugh out. “Well hello to you too, Cowboy.” Knows his laugh wasn’t too strong and probably sounded more like a gargle than anything else, but can’t seem to care. He finds that he doesn’t care about a lot anymore.
“Greg—“
“Before you start,” Greg interrupts, holding a finger up for emphasis. Nick stops, his mouth forming a line, eyes trapping Greg’s so that the younger man can’t avoid the topic. “I know what I did was stupid, Nicky. I know that I didn’t leave much reasoning behind it, and…”
Nick’s been digging around in the pocket of his olive-coloured jacket while Greg speaks, and Greg wasn’t too bothered by it until Nick found what he was looking for and retracted his hand, a slip of pearly white paper in his fist. Greg stops, stares at the paper, finding that he’s irrationally afraid of the offending object. He doesn’t know why, because he wrote it, after all, but he knows what’s coming after this, and even though he’s been wanting this confrontation for what feels like forever (because Nick was super quiet today when Sara and Warrick were visiting, and when they left Nick was the first to bolt out the door), but now that it’s here Greg thinks that he really, really doesn’t want it. Because he doesn’t want to hear the words he knows are coming, doesn’t want to see Nick’s face when Nick tells him, “I’m sorry, Greg, but I don’t feel that way.” Doesn’t want to feel the pain of actually hearing the words being spoken aloud, making them real, making them a concrete issue. He knows that this thing—this unspoken elephant between them—is a huge problem, and it has to be dealt with for them to continue to working together, but Greg really doesn’t want to listen to Nick right now. Because he hasn’t said the words yet, hasn’t vocalized his feelings for Nick, and when they’re out there, in the open, it means he’s out there too. Open, vulnerable and alone, just like he was that night ten months ago when that gang beat him practically to death. He hates that feeling, detests it more than anything in the world, and he refuses to go back to that dreaded state.
“…I’m not a child,” Greg finishes, his voice the equivalent of a whisper. “I’m not a child, Nick, I don’t need you to baby me, just as I didn’t need or want Warrick and Sara to baby me. I’m an adult, Nick, I can take this. So go ahead and lay it on me. I’m tired, Nicky,” it’s a lie and he knows it, but anything to get him out of this situation, “and I want to go to sleep.”
Nick’s just looking at him, watching him, unmoving, and Greg’s nerves are going haywire. His mind is working a thousand miles a minute, he feels like he’s going to explode with anticipation because why can’t Nick just say something?!
“No, you’re not a child, Greg,” Nick starts, and his voice is low and predatory, and Greg’s heard it before, it’s the one he uses when he’s trying not to get angry with a victim, and damn him to hell because Greg is not a victim—
“But you sure act like it sometimes.” And that was like a slap in the face, really. Greg’s eyes snap from the paper to Nick’s, and the ferocity in them is like a rush of cold water over Greg’s skin. The hair on the back of his neck prickles and stands up, and he unconsciously crosses his arms over his chest—but not without a little wince of pain, because he still has IVs in his arm and they tug when he moves his arms.
“I just… I don’t understand…” Nick tries and fails, sighing in frustration and throwing his arms in the air. They fall back down and Nick puts his head in his hands for a long moment, breathing labored, his shoulders shaking slightly and Greg’s never been this scared in his whole life. And then Nick’s hands tear away from his face, slamming on the bed beside Greg’s thigh, and the look on Nick’s face is enough to cause a ripple of crushing pressure throughout Greg’s diaphragm. His cheeks are dusted a light red, eyes rimmed the same colour, irises shimmering with unshed tears, lips gently chapped and Greg’s breathing has become shallow, because why, oh why is Nick so beautiful?
“How could you be so stupid?!” Nick yells, and it’s relatively loud in the 14 hour silence Greg has been sitting in, and he starts, hands reflexively twitching and taking abundant purchase of the gown covering his heart. Nick flies out of his chair, the item scooting back quite a bit across the linoleum tile, a loud scrape echoing throughout the room. Nick’s panting, completely livid and staring Greg down as if Greg was a murder or something. And he knows he shouldn’t, really, really knows he shouldn’t, because he knows what Nick’s like when he’s in this mood, and it is not wise to spur him on, but Greg cannot help the surge of self-righteousness that courses through him. Because he isn’t a murderer, and how dare Nick look at him like that, like he’s harmed someone or like he’s molested a child?
“How could you be so blind?” Greg snaps. “You’re a CSI Level 3, after all, Nick. Aren’t you supposed to search for clues? Pay attention to your surroundings?”
And Nick’s leaning forward just an inch, hands tightening around the material of the blanket on Greg’s lower body, eyes dark with anger and frustration and something else Greg doesn’t recognize, and that excites him more than it should.
“That’s just it, Greggo. I do pay attention, more than you know! Maybe you’ve been the one not noticing what’s right under your nose.” Nick’s voice is low again at the end and he’s daring, just daring Greg to retort, to say something smart, to be a smartass.
“Me?” Greg knows he just shrieked but he doesn’t really care, because Nick’s leaned in just another inch closer and Greg can almost smell Nick’s cologne and something roughly Nick.
“Yes, you! God, Greg, you’re so oblivious to everything! Did you honestly not see?”
“See what? How could I see anything, Nick, when you’re always so guarded? You never let anyone in! You’re always Mr. Macho, like you have a point to prove or something! Maybe if you just dropped your guard and actually said something, Nick, I’d have a better idea of just what the hell you’re talking about!” Greg’s voice raises an octave at the end and his hands drop from their protective position above his heart to his lap. He watches Nick’s eyes lose a bit of their anger, the frustration dimming down, but that thing that’s still undetectable is shining brighter than ever, and the little, rumpled pieces of Greg’s heart are beating faster now than they were before.
“Got you,” Greg says, and it was probably the worst thing he could have ever said in this position. “Look, Nick, why don’t you just go back home to Whatsername in your bed and leave me be—“
“Can’t you see?!” Nick’s outburst once again catches Greg off guard and he jumps, shrinking back into his bed a bit. Nick’s standing up straight again, his hands running down his face, breath heavy and obviously agitated. Hands run through his hair, tugging at the short, brown locks.
“I—“
“It was never about her, Greg!”
“What?” Eyes boring down into his, and Greg can’t speak. Can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything. Nick’s just standing there, looking at him, one hand in his hair, the other tugging at his shirt collar, sliding into the pocket of his jeans. His eyes are dark, holding Greg’s gaze. Greg can feel the increase in his body temperature, his blood pumping faster, adrenalin running high. He’s hopeful again, and he knows he shouldn’t be, knows that is the worst thing he can be, knows that this is Nick—Nick Stokes—standing here before him, the straightest man on the face of the planet (besides Warrick, and maybe Grissom too), all Texan bred and Christian family, and there is no way, absolutely no way that Nick could be implying what Greg is achingly praying for.***
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Part Three: Slower
Scene One
“Run” – Snow Patrol
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“He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”
- Wuthering Heights, page 80.
Flash.
“Stats?”
Flash; slower this time.
“Patient received a gunshot wound to the chest, piercing through the 1st thoracic nerve and leaving the body. Severe blood loss; the partner tried to stop the bleeding by applying pressure to the wound but failed. Heart rate is decreasing rapidly.”
Flash, again, but this time faster and in more succession.
“How long ago was he shot?”
Shot?
“Approximately twenty minutes.”
Who was shot? Where was he, anyway? All he could remember was being at the crime scene, digging around in the trash bins because Warrick was fussing about his “new shoes” and not wanting to get them dirty… Oh, light flooded the place suddenly. The owner had turned on the backlights. Only, it hadn’t been the owner, it had been the perp… Warrick had said something (what was it, now?), and he hadn’t moved fast enough… The suspect was about to get away… He had to stop him… There had been a sudden movement, and then the suspect’s car had crashed through the garage door, heading toward he and Warrick way too fast for them to stop him… But he had tried anyway, and Warrick had told him not to…
“Patient’s name?”
They were wheeling somewhere. He was on some type of cot or something. Lots of ladies around him in white aprons or something like that, wearing weird face masks… Was that a doctor beside him? He needed to tell them who he was; needed to figure out what he was doing here and clear up this misunderstanding. He hadn’t been shot…had he?
“Nick Stokes.”
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“So.”
Greg’s eyes flicker up to her face, tracing over it: the soft, angular features; high cheekbones; analyzing, critical periwinkle (at least, he thought it was periwinkle, but it was such a grey-blue that it could have been grey) eyes that shine with years of experiences that Greg feels are both repressed and anchoring; silky blond hair that radiates in the light and soothes in the dark. Her hair swings from the high ponytail she has it in with every motion that her head makes, chest rising slowly with steady breaths, fingers digging around in her pocket for something that Greg has no idea about, but will momentarily. Just as he suspected, she pulls her fingers out of the front pocket of her jeans in success, a slender white stick hanging between her index and middle fingers precariously. He recognizes it as a cigarette, and he finds himself correct when she places it inside plush, bright pink lips and digs around in her other pocket for a lighter.
He sits quietly, immobile in the uncomfortable wicker chair, scanning over the room listlessly. He’s been in here what feels like tons of times, even though he knows it’s only been about six or seven. The clock on her wooden mantelpiece ticks, and it’s the only sound in the room save for the rustling of fabric as his counselor digs around inside of her pockets. The blinds on the window have been closed, so the only light is what’s filtering in through the blinds covering the large glass wall on the left side of the room. The rest of the walls are filled with various pictures and paintings, and there’s even a bookcase on the right wall. It’s kind of pretty, because the dark brown of the bookcase looks nice against the hunter green (he thinks it’s hunter green) of the walls-
And he’s going to stop this conversation he’s having inside of his head before it gets even weirder than it already is. He snaps back to the present when the flick of a lighter catches his attention, and he watches, fascinated, as she holds the little transparent aqua-coloured lighter up to the cigarette in-between her lips, cupping her free hand around the flame and the butt of the cigarette. After a second, she drops the hand and takes a long inhalation, dragging it out as much as she possibly can before she exhales slowly, the smoke billowing from between her lips and gently floating throughout the air around her. It twirls upwards above her, curling up in itself before dissipating against the asbestos-covered ceiling. He watches it disappear, mesmerized at the odd tranquility of it all. The smoke was so soothing, in some unknown way, with the anonymity of it, and the foggy texture that reminds him of days passed when he used to lose himself in the crowd of people in nameless bars, just moving to the rhythm pumping through the too-big speakers, just feeling the music as it came. He remembers those days, when he was free and alive, when he used to live just to live, when he used to feel everything as it came and didn’t worry about the consequences. He was a little reckless, but, heck, he was young, he had all the time in the world. He used to just live the days as they came, laying back all relaxed and taking things in stride. He was carefree and calm (well, as calm as he could be since he’s always been rambunctious and hyperactive), smug and cocky, happy and alert. He had a good time back then, and he never let rejection get to him.
But then, he was a lot of things before he was ensnared in the trap that is Nick Stokes. Because Nick Stokes, while both breath-taking and exciting to look at, is like a Venus flytrap. He’s gorgeous and striking on the outside, luring you in to touch him, feel him, be around him; but once you make that fatal mistake of stepping too close: you’re caught, trapped, with no way of escape. Because there is no escaping that which is Nick Stokes and Greg gave up on the idea so long ago. He knows, now, that once you submit to the temptation of Nick Stokes, you never fully pull away.
“Want a smoke?” she asks, her honey-laden voice breaking the silence like a thick butcher knife. He looks up to meet her gaze and shakes his head.
“Don’t smoke,” he says, and his voice sounds hoarse and foreign, again, and he’s all too aware that she notices. Notices, but doesn’t say anything. She never does. She just listens, which is painful in and of itself. He’d rather she just spoke, drowned his senses with her voice, sweet like honey and molasses; rather she just told him he was a freak and that he had no chance with Nick. Because, seriously, he’s tired of everyone giving him false hope on things that he knows are out of his league. He wants – hopelessly – for someone to just tell him that, no, Nick is never going to be his. He needs the hope that burns deep in his ribs to die out and slither away like the last of his sanity did.
She nods her head, slipping the lighter back into her too-tight jeans, pulling out the other cigarette stashed away in her pocket and setting it onto the glass coffee table. She leans back on the couch, eyes fixated on Greg’s form as she takes languid drags from her cancer stick. He shifts restlessly under her gaze, fidgeting helplessly and trying desperately to think of something witty to say. Because he knows what she’s about to say – ask, really – and he wants to run away, wants to do anything to stop her from doing it. Because he doesn’t have an answer, and she knows that, and why is she doing this to him?
“So why are you here, Greg?”
He flinches, because he knew it was coming, and she sees it but doesn’t say anything as usual. It’s a game they have, he notes: he squirms and wiggles away from her gaze, her questions, her double entendres, her all-too-true statements; she remains quiet, just sits there and waits and watches. She never asks him of anything, just stays silent and omniscient. It’s scary in a way, yet at the same time it’s reassuring, because he knows that she knows, and that’s both confusing and comforting.
“I don’t know,” answers Greg.
She snorts, extending her right arm and dabbing the cigarette in her hand, the butts falling off in a sensuous swirl as they drop infinitesimally down toward the ash tray on the coffee table. “Liar.”
“I am not!” he yelps indignantly, flopping backwards into his chair with a dramatic cross of his arms. She smiles sweetly but remains silent, the only sound in the room the mocking tick, tock of the clock on the mantelpiece. Greg huffs, turning his head away from her and focusing his eyes on anything, anything but those omnipotent orbs fixed on him. He knows all it will take is one look—just one look—at those sparkling periwinkle irises and his whole wall will crumble down around him. Which is completely unfair, because it took him a long time to rebuild his wall, and he’s not going to go out without a fight if it has to come to that.
“Greg,” she says gently, as if talking to a child, “it’s not your fault.”
“Well of course it isn’t,” he snaps, adamantly avoiding her gaze. “How in the world would it be my fault? It wasn’t like I was there, or anything. Even though I should have been. But of course I wasn’t, so there’s absolutely no way in all the seven seas it could be my fault.” He knows, without having to even really clarify it, that she’s shifted her position and her feet are resting on the floor now. Her bare feet. Because she’s just like that: completely comfortable around him and his thousands of issues, utterly okay with the fact that he’s a mess of epic proportions; totally and undeniably not bothered with the idea that he’s lost his marbles and he can’t seem to gather them again.
“So why do you feel that it is?” she asks, digging around in her pockets again. Pokes her tongue out of the left corner of her mouth, curling it upward as she rummages around in the tight confines of her jeans.
He doesn’t have an answer to that one, and she knows it, the twit.
Shifts around uncomfortably in the wicker chair, scuffing the toe of his worn-out sneakers on the carpeted floor. The clock ticks slower now, it seems, and he hates every little noise it makes, because it resembles the pounding of his heart all too similarly and that’s just too much for him.
“He didn’t read the letter,” Greg whispers, so soft that the words caress the wind and swoon flippantly, like a little girl pining after a new doll. Lexi stops moving, her lithe hand closing around some foreign object in her pants.
“Are you sure?”
“Am I sure?” he asks incredulously. “He came to my hospital room with it still folded, he never mentioned a word of it, he hasn’t brought it up in the time since my little fiasco, and nobody has said anything!” Greg lifts his head, glaring at her fiercely—and he knows it isn’t her fault, but he has no one to blame and he just needs to throw the fire on someone else.
Lexi doesn’t move.
“Greg?”
“What.”
She smiles, and the audacity that she has to smile in this predicament appalls Greg beyond words. And when did he become such an angry person?
“Just tell him.”
And it’s such a simple sentence, but the meaning behind it is so powerful that Greg is left momentarily speechless. Because he doesn’t know what to say to that, either. There’s so much he needs to tell Nick, but, really, what could she mean? And maybe he knows what she’s talking about, but at the same time he’s not sure, because didn’t he write a note? And did no one read the damn note?!
“You know what I’m talking about,” she murmurs, yanking her hand out of her pocket. A stick of gum is balanced between delicate fingertips, and she rocks it back and forth as she waits for him to answer.
“I…I can’t,” he breathes, dejectedly. “I already tried, and I chickened out so I wrote a note. Which obviously didn’t have the desired effect,” he grumbles, slouching in the chair. “Maybe I should have called and left a voicemail instead. Would have been more dramatic. I could have even added some flourish or something to make it exciting.”
She snickers, trying to hide it behind her free hand, but the snickers turn to giggles before she can stop them, and in just a few seconds she’s bubbling over with mirth, clutching at her sides and falling back onto the couch. Which, by the way, why isn’t he on the couch? Isn’t the patient supposed to be the one on the couch?
“Oh, Sandy…,” she cries between giggles, “you’re so clueless.”
“Hey!” Greg fumbles around beside him, finds a pillow in arm’s length and grabs it, launching it at her shaking form. He succeeds in hitting his target and whoops in victory, throwing his hands up in the air and dancing in the chair.
She holds the pillow to her chest for a couple of minutes, breathing slowly as she tries to come down from her high. “Greg…,” she asks breathlessly after an apprehensive silence.
He’s quiet, and she knows why, so she doesn’t press. They sit in quiet relief for a couple of minutes before he opens his mouth, and the words that tumble out are both unexpected and relieving.
“It’s been one week. One week and four days since I last talked to Nick Stokes. One week and four days since the best thing to have ever happened to me walked out of my life. One week and four days since I let him walk away. One week and four days since I lost Nick Stokes. One week and four days since my heart stopped fully beating, since I lost all passion for anything and everything. One week, four days and thirty-seven minutes since I stopped breathing fresh air. Because now all I breathe is polluted, thick, dirty oxygen that gets stuck in my lungs and suffocates me. Because I can’t breathe without Nick here, without him in my life. Because I…,” and he stops, voice catching and breaking in his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort to swallow some thick lump that isn’t really there. He stops, eyes watering and clouding over and suddenly he can’t see anything, and that’s more annoying then spilling his first coffee in weeks this morning; more annoying then getting back to work only to find out that he’s not allowed on any cases until he completes ten sessions of counseling and a psychiatric evaluation; more annoying then being shut back into the lab, like he’s some failure, like he’s that little brother who just can’t get anything right; more annoying than knowing that everyone around him looks down at him with pity and sympathy, like he’s some victim of some heinous crime, and they tiptoe around him like the smallest word will set him off on an emotional tangent and he’ll try to blow himself up.
Lexi merely watches him through understanding, too-caring-for-her-own-good eyes and Greg feels the walls crumbling inside of him.
“…I can’t live without him, Lexi. Nick Stokes is my air, my water, my sustenance, my heart, my soul, my everything. He completes every single part of my world; like the perfect clog to the rest of the machine. He fits in like the missing puzzle piece: filling out the picture. He’s just it, Lexi, and I can’t do this anymore, not without him. He’s not in my life anymore and in a way, neither am I.” Greg sniffs just a bit too loud and quickly covers it with a feigned cough, covering his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. He looks away, again, refusing to look at Lexi because he knows that if he does, he’s going to cry. And crying is absolutely not allowed. He just has to put this behind him and move on. There will be others; there’s more fish in the sea, they always say. This is just a phase, it happens to everyone. There’s no reason for him to feel this miserable, because somewhere in the world someone else is going through the same thing (though maybe not completely because he’s not quite positive that there’s some other man in the same predicament about another man, but hey, who’s he to say?). This happens to everyone. He just needs to suck it up and bear it; smile and flash his teeth and pretend that it’s all okay. Because Nick isn’t his, Nick never will be his, and that’s just how it is. There isn’t anything he can do about it.
“Greg,” says Lexi, and this time the sincerity and daintiness in her voice is gone; instead there is a firm, no-nonsense tone to her voice that makes him shiver and glance up at her in fear, like he used to with his third grade math teacher Mrs. Bauhnsen. “I’m going to tell you this one time, and one time only.”
He nods reverently, and she represses the urge to snicker at his child-like obedience.
“You’re an idiot.”
Greg can’t help the sudden slam of nostalgia that crushes into his chest. “You’re an idiot.” He shivers, again, but this time it’s not from fear. “Why?” he asks, picking at the seams of his jeans again. “Because I wrote a letter when I tried to commit suicide and no one read it? Because I fell in love with a guy who will never-–”
“-–No,” Lexi interrupts, blonde hair bouncing behind her head as she shifts again, “you’re an idiot because you’re sitting around, yapping away about all of your problems to me and droning on and on about how amazing Nick is and how much you love him—“
“—Excuse me—“
“—when you could be with Nick, in the hospital, taking care of him and showing him just how badly you need him,” she finishes, and it’s so tender with affection that he feels his body warming a bit. She eyes him cautiously, waiting for a reaction besides his leg bouncing nervously and the constant gnawing on his bottom lip he’s had going for the past hour; and when she receives none she continues. “Greg?”
“Yes?” he mumbles back so lowly that it’s barely intelligible.
“Go to him,” she whispers, and it’s all he needs to hear before he’s up out of his chair and through the door.
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It hasn’t been quite long enough since he’s been here, and the quiet but consistent reminder of nearly two weeks ago bears down on his shoulders invisibly as he walks the corridors, searching for Nick’s room. The nurse at the front desk said he was room 143, and so far Greg is positive he’s seen every number from one to infinity but no 143. He side-steps around an elderly couple with quick precision, mumbling a “pardon me” as he passes. The fluorescent bulbs above him flicker and buzz in a particularly satanic fashion; the carts full of bed sheets, pillows and pillow cases, scrubs, other various hospital garb and atrocious looking food pass by on intolerably squeaky wheels; people walk by him at a ridiculous rate, chattering and talking animatedly about everything and nothing; and there’s some unintelligible sound far off in the distance that sounds way too alike to death and wretched pain. Greg hums a nameless Manson tune in his head in a vain attempt to drown out the hospital sounds, marching adamantly on toward the unknown that lies behind room 143.
The necessities strewn about the insides of the hospital rooms in poor attempts at normalcy make Greg cringe every time he passes by. It’s all too fake and staged, and the way that the hospital tries to sugarcoat the sick and deathly state of everything in the building makes Greg’s skin burn and his stomach queasy. Sort of like-
He stops, suddenly, sneakers scuffing across the linoleum floor a bit too sharply and a loud screech echoes around the hallway. He stares somberly at the oak door directly in front of him, the thick tan panel on the door reading ‘143’ in big, black letters. Big, ominous black letters. Black letters that represent more than they seem to know. If only those letters knew just how important they really were…
Greg pushes every thought out of his head and breathes deeply, clenching and unclenching his fists before extending a hand and pushing the door open. It opens slowly—too slowly for his liking—with a low creak, and then he steps in without a second thought, the door now swinging closed behind him with a resounding thud.
He’s not quite sure what he was expecting, but he knows that whatever it was, there is no way it could have compared to this. Because this is something that he should never see, something that he’ll never be able to scrape out of his memory and the haunting realization that this is all real, and that Nick really did get shot earlier last night compresses his brain until he has a raging headache that won’t seem to go away. Nick’s so pale, so fragile-looking and it’s the scariest thing Greg has ever seen in his entire life. Nick’s skin radiates the white light of the hospital bulbs like an outer coat, shining brilliantly and scattering across the walls and part of the linoleum floor. His chest heaves slowly, not nearly fast enough for Greg, and his breaths are laboured and deep. They sound painful and Greg feels his chest constricting with each breath he takes. Nick’s in pain and Greg can’t do anything about it, and that frightens him more than the sight of Nick’s nearly lifeless body. Because Nick is just there, right in front of him, and Greg couldn’t save him. Why couldn’t he have saved him? None of this would have happened if it weren’t for his stupid selfishness and the way he gave up with exhaustion, just too tired to fight the world anymore so he tried to take the easy way out. Except it wasn’t as easy as he thought it would have been, and that was the problem, yet again.
He swallows (it’s becoming habitual for him to swallow in nerving situations), rubbing his sweaty palms against his thighs and clearing his throat. He hopes the little sound won’t wake Nick up, and when he makes no move that shows he heard Greg, the younger man breathes a soft sigh of relief. Taking small, tentative steps toward Nick’s bed, Greg lowers himself into the shiny mahogany chair placed directly adjacent to Nick’s left side. Watches his heartbeat on the outdated monitor, the shaky rise and fall of Nick’s chest as he breathes; the light reflecting off of his face, making him appear angelic. Greg realizes that the angelic feature complements Nick’s brush with death, and the second Greg thinks about it, his stomach lurches and his breath stops coming and suddenly everything is way too bright and loud. He can’t seem to see straight anymore, his stomach is twisting and knotting and trying to turn in on itself, and for the life of him he can’t figure out why it’s so hot in here all of a sudden.
All Greg can see through the mist that has mysteriously coated his eyes is Nick: all soft, silky skin tanned with years spent in the Texan sun, eyelashes that are long and as black as kohl, hair the colour of the richest coffee, and Greg wonders briefly if it smells like coffee too. If maybe he leaned forward and sniffed at Nick’s hair, his senses would be overwhelmed with the aroma of mocha, caramel, or vanilla; days spent lounging carelessly in a café, sipping out of cheap “recyclable” cups and laughing over things both nonsensical and silly; nights spent out on a moonlit terrace, overlooking the Vegas city lights with a warm mug of hot coffee in hand, a faint sense of peace lingering about. Nick’s luscious lips, with the naturally pink texture dimmed down to a neutral salmon, and Greg wants to lean forward and kiss them until they’re full of colour and life again. He wants to lean forward and hold Nick, touch him, love him until he sparkles with life and happiness again; until he smiles and laughs and his eyes crinkle at the corners in mirth like they used to. Greg wants to wipe away all of the pain and death and anguish; wants to just knock everyone and everything else back and set up a blockade; wants to hide out with Nick behind that blockade and show him all of the beauties of this world. He wants to take Nick to Paris, show him the beautiful night sky and the lovely, comforting atmosphere. Wants to show Nick the waves of the ocean back home in California, the way that the ocean glows and beckons at night underneath the luminance of the moon, the water crashing against the shore soundlessly; wants to drag him into the water and let him feel the sand in his toes, the waves gently undulating against his shins, the calls of the seagulls flying above aimlessly; the way that standing out there, all alone on the beach makes you feel like you’re atop the world, that you can do anything, see anything, be anyone you want to be and no one can stop you. Greg just wants to give Nick that feeling, let him know that life is still possible for him, that life could be so good for Nick if he would just let Greg in. Let Greg touch his soul and heal it, because Greg knows that Nick’s still injured from Gordon, even after these couple of years have passed by.
Nick’s heart monitor hiccups, then, and Nick remains motionless. It zigzags violently, and then drops so low it’s practically a vertical line. Greg’s heart seems to follow it, and by some force he’s completely unaware that he had, Greg valiantly fights back his tears and clears his throat again.
“I don’t know if you can hear me, Nick,” he starts, “but I’m tired of waiting around and riding the ass of Lady Luck. I don’t know,”—he stops, almost choking on his breath before willing himself back under control—“how much longer I have here, and I’m not going to take you for granted anymore than I already have.” He flexes his fingers in front of his face, watching the bones crack and roll under his pale flesh before he continues. “The fact is, Nick…
“Well, the fact is…I…well, I… God, it’s supposed to be easier than this… The truth is, Nick, I,” he tries again, failing miserably and slumping back into the chair with a defeated and frustrated heave. Fiddles around with the cuffs of his jacket, the hem of his shirt, the seams of his pants; even drags the toe of his shoe back and forth across the dirty linoleum floor before coughing loudly—as if to compensate for his lack of confidence. “The truth is I’m a coward,” he mumbles quietly, swinging his legs from side to side hyperactively.
His response is the periodical beeping of Nick’s heart monitor.
Chuckles to himself, before: “You can’t hear a word I’m saying, can you? I didn’t figure you could. I wasn’t really thinking when I started rambling earlier, which I’m sure showed, but it just kind of spurted out and now I don’t really know what to do or say to make up for that. And I’m rambling again, and making no sense whatsoever, but I need to tell you something and quite frankly I don’t know how.”
Nick’s heart monitor flat-lines for the quickest of seconds before jolting back into a slow zigzag pattern and Greg feels an annoying burn searing the corners of his eyes. But this time, he doesn’t try to blink it away or force it back down. This time, he leans forward, hand lightly tracing up Nick’s left arm, feeling the beautiful skin below him, skimming over the baby soft brunette hairs littering Nick’s arm. Greg trails his hand downward and places it over Nick’s, feeling the warmth and flesh underneath his palm and breathes in raggedly, a sudden wetness falling from his chin and onto the material of his jeans. Another one follows, down his cheek and across his jaw line before catching at his chin and then precariously hanging on for a few seconds until it drops off and splatters on Greg’s thigh. And then one falls onto his right thigh, with a fast successor, and it’s only a second later that it feels like there’s a small shower falling from Greg’s eyes as he closes his hand tightly over Nick’s own. Turns Nick’s hand over so he can link their fingers together, the weight and heat of their clasped palms making Greg’s tears fall harder as he sniffles and struggles to regain control.
“Over one-hundred ways to say the three simple words that mean the most, and I can’t find a single one that fits. Because you can’t sum up my feelings with words, Nick. They’re too powerful for that; they mean so much more. You mean so much more. So much more than simple words, Nick, so much more. And I don’t think you deserve something so plain and bland as a confession of love. You deserve better. You deserve a candlelit dinner overlooking a majestic view, with a gorgeous man or woman beside you, the stars shining just as brighty as your eyes,”—and he has to stop again because his breath has become too shallow and his tears are falling too fast, and he can’t seem to think about anything but: Why, God, why him?
“You deserve a sunset on a rainy day, or the sunshine on a cloudy one; you deserve a warm fireplace in the winter to keep you warm with your partner, and a ridiculously huge air conditioner in the summer to keep you cool indoors. And that was probably a little stupid but it’s me we’re talking about here, so you’ll have to forgive that last one. But you do deserve that. And so much more, Nick, so much more. You deserve to be happy and free, to be loved and to be in love. You deserve all the colours in the sunset and all of the seashells on the beach. You deserve all the snowflakes anyone could ever find and more.
“But most of all, Nick, you deserve better than me,” he whispers, squeezing Nick’s hand tightly. “You deserve beauty and grace and perfection. And maybe there is no such thing as perfection but you deserve the closest thing there is to it. Like walks on the beach with the one you love, holding hands and laughing without a care.” Greg sniffles harder this time, wiping messily at his nose with his free hand and coughing a bit on his tears. He hiccups and strokes the knuckles on Nick’s hand with the pad of his thumb.
“You deserve dances in the rain, without worrying who’s watching or if anyone cares. You deserve peace of mind and warmth of soul. And even though you don’t know it,” he says, voice low and quiet, scared and vulnerable, “I could give it to you. I could give you all of this and more, Nick, but you’ll never want it from me. And maybe, maybe I’m not the one who’s supposed to give it to you.” Greg’s voice cracks at the end and he can’t help the pained sob that tears from his throat. The only sound in the room is Nick’s heart monitor, and it’s a sort of comfort that Greg didn’t know he needed.
But then the beeping stops and it takes Greg a few seconds to realize that only sound now is a long, drawn out shrill noise that pierces through his skin and makes his body ache. He doesn’t have the time to recognize it, because the door to Nick’s room bursts open and a flood of nurses are rushing in, shoving Greg out of the way and looming over Nick’s body. Nick’s body, which isn’t rising anymore with shaky breaths. Nick’s body, which is motionless-
“No,” Greg cries out brokenly, a sob twisting its way into the last vowel. “No, no, no, please, no, anyone but him – no, you can’t – no this can’t happen – no, God, no – please, God, please, don’t do this – you can’t – please don’t take him from me,” Greg sobs, backing into the far wall away from Nick’s bed and all of the nurses and the doctors. Sinks to the floor in a boneless heap, hugging his knees and giving in; crying for all it’s worth.
Not him, please.
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I’ll sing it one last time for you
Then we really have to go
You’ve been the only thing that’s right,
in all I’ve done
And I can barely look at you
But every single time I do
I know we’ll make it anywhere,
away from here
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I’ll be right beside you dear
To think I might not see those eyes,
makes it so hard not to cry
And as we say our long goodbyes,
I nearly do
Have heart, my dear
We’re bound to be afraid
Even if it’s just for a few days
Making up for all of this mess
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Scene Two
“I Hope You Dance” – Lee Ann Womack
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“So then,” Greg says, waving his hands around in the air for emphasis, “she walks up to me and goes, ‘Hey baby, you look like you could do for some fun tonight,’ and I replied—“
A chip flicks across the table in the air, landing uncannily on Greg’s nose before it falls off and hits the table. He stops talking, hands still poised in the air in what was undoubtedly about to be a vulgar imitation of some “encounter” he’d had with a chick at the club not too far from the Crime Lab. He blinks slowly, lowering his eyes to the chip and then raising them to the culprit sitting across the table from him. Greg scowls. “A chip, Cath? Seriously? Do you know all of the salts and fats they put on those things that are now on my skin? If I break out with whiteheads tomorrow morning, you better believe that I’m marching down to your office to pop them all on your mirror.”
“Gross!” Sara exclaims, throwing a chip of her own at Greg, much like Catherine had. He dodges it, sticking out his tongue childishly.
Catherine snickers quietly before replying, “With all of the products you lather your face in, Greg, I’m sure you’ll erase the chip’s trace four times over before there’s any physical evidence.”
“Hey! Just because I like to take care of myself – unlike some people…,” he throws a look at Hodges, who glares at him venomously over his coffee cup. “No need to worry, though, ladies. I’m sure I can remove all of the bacteria off of my face before it begins to show, so you can still see my beautiful features perfectly. Now, now, don’t get too excited; please, save that for the locker room.” Greg holds up his hands to help prove his point. Sara, Catherine and Wendy snort in response.
“You know, Greg, some acne might do you good,” Wendy says, fingering the rim of her coffee mug. “It would add some colour to that pasty face of yours.” Catherine and Sara laugh aloud at that and Greg blows her a kiss.
“Don’t be hostile, Wendy. I know that Hodges is no comparison to me, but that’s not his fault – well, okay, maybe it is, but that’s not the point. You needn’t be angry that my beauty excels that of your boyfriend’s,” Greg coos, petting her hand. Wendy’s cheeks turn a bit pink at the implication and he hears Hodges squawk indignantly at the other end of the table. And then there is another chip, this time hitting him in the ear, and where the crap is all of these chips coming from?
“Don’t be jealous, Sanders,” Hodges seethes, “that I can hold the attention of someone as beautiful as Wendy, and you are stuck moping around because someone deserted you.”
Sara and Catherine immediately shoot Greg looks of sympathy, while Wendy scoffs aloud and throws her bag of chips at Hodges, the contents spilling out haphazardly about the shiny surface of the break room table. “Dipwad,” she spits, getting up out of her chair and storming out of the break room. It is quiet for a few moments before Hodges flicks another chip at Greg, this time out of sincerity and apology. Their eyes meet briefly and Hodges mouths a “sorry” before turning his head away abruptly. Greg smiles sadly. The tense silence is broken by a sudden victorious yell from the other side of the room. They all turn to see Warrick flying up off of the couch, giving a heroic war call and proceeding to jig.
“Yes! Oh, in your face, man! I totally wiped your ass across the field,” Warrick gloats, swinging his hips and breaking out some dance moves that have Sara and Catherine giggling. They watch as his two competitors toss their controllers down on the couch cushions, grumbling in defeat.
“Whatever. You totally cheated, anyway,” Archie says, crossing his arms petulantly. Warrick lets out a roar of laughter.
“Ah, the cries of the peasants. Bow down before my glorious feet!” Warrick replies conceitedly. Archie rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, Warrick, live it up now. Just wait until the game tonight; then we’ll see who’s a peasant and who’s a king,” comes a warm drawl from beside Archie.
“You’re so on, Nicholas,” goads Warrick. Nick snorts in retort, getting up from the couch and stretching leisurely. He yawns and walks over to the counter, preparing himself a cup of coffee as Warrick continues to brag to Archie, who is brooding on the couch.
It has been two months since Nick was shot. The bullet had caused more damage than everyone had initially thought, and for a day his life had hung precariously in the balance. The doctors hadn’t thought he would make it. But then, by some unknown miracle, Nick had survived at the last minute, pulling through with rapid success. In a couple of days he was out of the hospital, set to strict bed rest for a good week. He’d returned to work as soon as he could, immediately jumping back into it as if nothing had happened. At first, everyone had been worried that he was still hurt, but after a bit they had come to relax again and things seemed to go back to normal.
It has also been two months since Greg had confessed to Nick his feelings, and Nick has yet to let on that he has even heard Greg’s confession. He had little hope that Nick had, though, and every day his hope burned away until he was left with a pile of ash in the centre of his chest. That was twice now that he’d finally admitted to his feelings about Nick, and twice that Nick had completely either blown him off or not heard him. And Greg was just too worn out to try anymore. The letter hadn’t worked, and then he had poured his feelings out in a hospital room with Nick practically in a coma, and neither had brought him anything but heartache and another stab to his chest.
That was all about a month ago. He’s stopped seeing Lexi since then. He hasn’t needed to. His mandatory sessions ended, so he’s no longer assumed to go. He’s been assigned to cases, working them just like he used to. Everything is supposed to be back to the way it was. But it isn’t, and Greg has a feeling it never will be. His heart no longer beats with the life it used to, and Greg has already abandoned the hope that it will one day be revived. His days are spent doing work and going home to his empty apartment, eating whatever’s around and lounging without any motivation. He doesn’t watch a lot of television, because when he does it reminds him of things Nick once said he liked to watch, and then Greg has to flick off the television before the pain settles into his skin and nerves, builds behind his eyes and creates pressure in his skull. He knows it’s pathetic and that he needs to get over Nick, but he also knows that this isn’t like anything else he’s ever been through and he’s pretty sure nothing else is ever going to compare. If there is an anything else. He’s not even sure if there will ever be anyone after Nick. And the “after Nick” always makes him uncomfortable and sadder than he already is, so he doesn’t like to think about that term.
“Stop thinking so loud, you’re grating on my nerves,” Sara says gently to him, touching his hand placed carelessly on the table.
He gives her a forced smile, but he knows that his eyes are giving him away. He’s thankful that Catherine’s now focused on Warrick, who is flirting with her shamelessly, and Archie is chattering away with Nick animatedly about something or another. Greg feels a twitch of intolerable pain when Nick smiles at Archie, the room illuminating in the beauty. Because Greg can’t even remember the last time that smile was sent his way, and that pierces through him so hard that he has to leave the room now, or he knows he’s going to break down and that is just not acceptable anymore. He’s put crying behind him; in fact, he hasn’t cried since that night in the hospital when Nick’s heart monitor flat-lined. And Greg intends to keep it that way.
“Well excuse me, m’lady,” Greg says sarcastically. “I’ll just step outside then, so as not to disturb your nerves.” He sees the flash of panic and worry in her eyes and smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring way before excusing himself from the table and fleeing the room. He doesn’t like to call it fleeing, because it sounds like something bad happened in there, and in reality he knows that nobody has done anything wrong. It’s just him, like it always is, and he really needs to get over himself and accept the fact that Nick is not his and is never going to be his, so just let him go.
He emerges from the front doors of the Las Vegas Crime Lab with a relieved sigh, feeling an unknown pressure lift from his body as the damp air encompasses his body and mind. There are a few sparse drops of rain falling onto the concrete sidewalk and recently paved lot outside and Greg can smell the oncoming rain. He inhales the scent, breathing deeply and letting the condensed atmosphere wash over him, wrap him in its mesmerizing glaze. He fails to hear the door opening behind him and footsteps approaching, and then someone is standing beside him, hands shoved into jean pockets and face upturned to the sky much like his own. So naturally he jumps about a mile in the air when a voice says:
“Whatcha lookin’ at, G?”
He opens his eyes, head snapping to his right to see Nick standing beside him, concentration written on his face as he gazes determinedly at the sky. “What?” Is that all you can come up with, Sanders?
Nick turns his head towards Greg’s and their eyes lock for the first time in nearly three months. “Your face was turned up to the sky so I thought you were lookin’ at somethin’,” Nick replies, smiling at Greg brilliantly and he really, really doesn’t need that.
“Oh,” Greg says, forcing himself to break the eye contact and fixes his gaze on the cars in the parking lot. “I wasn’t looking at anything. Just relishing in the feeling of impending rain.”
“It is nice, isn’t it?” Nick takes a step forward and plants himself on the top step leading away from the building, in direct path of the rainfall when it comes. “Really cleanses a person, you know?”
“Yeah,” Greg whispers, scuffing his shoe on the concrete.
“Hodges said you were out here.” Nick looks at him again, but this time there’s something in his expression that Greg doesn’t recognize, and he feels a cold drop from nowhere plop on the skin of his neck and trail down into his shirt.
“Yeah,” Greg repeats, looking at the ground. “So why’re you out here, Nick?”
“I’m sorry?” Nick asks, furrowing his brow.
“I know you can come out here at any time you want, because it’s your right as a free American citizen or whatever, and I know now that you like the feel of rain as much as I do, but I highly doubt that you came out here for that,” Greg rambles, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “And it wouldn’t be to talk to me, because it’s been practically three months since you’ve said a word to me.”
“Greg,” Nick offers softly, inclining toward him just barely, as if magnetically pulled by the tense aura electrocuting around Greg; and Greg ignores the gesture because it was probably his own imagination anyway.
“No, Nick, don’t even start. You’re not going to charm your way out of this,” he snaps, feeling an unexplainable rage crash through his veins like a raging tidal wave. “You’ve avoided me for three months, Nick, three months, and now you’re going to come out here and say something? You expect me to believe that you just suddenly want to talk to me again, just like that, out of the blue? You expect to sit here and throw me your Texas charm, big, sunshine-y smile, gorgeous eyes and impossibly erotic body and hope that I’m not mad that you left me? Well guess what, Stokes, your plan isn’t going to work on me,” Greg says, his voice hard and meaner than he wants it to be. Because he knows that all it would take is a simple smile and look from Nick and Greg would immediately forgive him, but he has to be strong and fight Nick, because he has been nothing but evasive and dodgy ever since Greg admitted his feelings and Greg is not going to let Nick in like that, because he can’t afford to be hurt any more than he already is.
“Greg,” Nick tries again, a keening tint to his voice, like he’s pleading; takes a step onto the concrete where Greg is. Greg shakes his head and backs away.
“No, Nick; it doesn’t work like that. I poured my heart out on a little note that I left for you guys to find, so you would know what happened and why I’ve felt the way I have for so long—and nobody seems to have read the freakin’ thing. Everyone seems to have bypassed my note like it was of no importance. Like my attempt at suicide has no value or meaning to it,” and he sees Nick wince when Greg mentions the fiasco three months ago, but he can’t stop now so he keeps going, and what does Nick care anyway? “I put my heart into that note, Nick, and of all the people not to read it, I’m severely disappointed to know that you haven’t. I’m not mad at you, Nick, surprisingly. In fact, the only person I’m mad at is myself, because I let myself succumb to this fate. I let myself give in and embrace the temptation, the feelings, and all of the anguish that was to come with it. I’ve brought this upon myself, and sometimes, Nick, I really wish I hadn’t, because I don’t think that it was worth it when the person doesn’t even realize how much they mean to me, and how badly I need them.” He’d already told Warrick, Sara and Nick that he had done it due to his feelings over someone, back when they visited him at the hospital. “They don’t even realize how important they are, or how—“
“—Greg,” Nick says, a bit louder now, but still desperate and keening.
“Shut up, Nick, I’m not done. Do you know what it’s like to go through life, knowing that you’ve found your soul mate but that you can’t do a damn thing about it? That your soul mate is both oblivious to your feelings and could never possibly return them? Do you know what it’s like to sit at home and wonder just exactly what it is that you’re doing with your life? To wonder if it all really means anything? Wonder about what would happen if you died tonight; would you leave anything behind? Would the people you left behind have something to remember you by? Or would they forget you within the week? I do, Nick. And I wonder why…,” he turns away from Nick’s intense gaze, because it’s just too much for his fragile state of mind at the moment, with Nick’s eyes locked so passionately with his own that it sends shocking ripples through his muscles, “…why this is happening to me, and why God chose that person, of all people, for me to fall in love with. Because if God wants me to be happy, Nick, if God wants the best for me, than why does he let me fall in love with someone I can never have?”
It’s quiet between the two. Nick remains frozen to the spot where he’s standing a couple of feet in front of Greg, eyes searching Greg’s features, hands shaking with the effort to not reach out towards the younger man; Greg stands stock still, staring forcefully at the parking lot. The little drizzle that had started somewhere in the beginning of Greg’s rant has now turned to a full-blown downpour, and Greg watches the rain droplets pelt everything in sight, coating the cars and tar and concrete in a dribble of clear, pure liquid.
And then Nick moves, and Greg’s eyes snap to his body, startled, as Nick walks out from underneath the protective shelter of the Crime Lab’s roof and into the furiously pouring rain, his hair and clothes immediately becoming saturated. Greg watches, eyes riveted to Nick as he leisurely paces down the pathway toward the parking lot, stopping when he reaches the edge of the concrete just before the tar of the road. He stares at the ground below him for a moment, before throwing over his shoulder, “Over a hundred ways, huh?”
Greg feels his body shiver, his mind jerking to an ostensible stop and his blood pressure plummeting. Because if he’s right, and Nick’s talking about what he thinks Nick’s talking about, then this is so much more than Greg could ever hope for and he’s frightened that maybe this is the moment where Nick addresses what has happened over these past few months. And even though he’s been waiting for this moment, desperately hoping for it, now that it’s here, he’s scared to death of what’s going to happen.
Nick turns, then, and looks straight at him, eyes locking with Greg’s, a soft smile turning up the corners of his lips as he walks back to Greg. Stands at the bottom of the steps, outstretching a hand to Greg, who merely looks at Nick’s hand, flabbergasted. Nick waves his hand frantically and Greg obliges, taking it and allowing Nick to pull him into the downpour and out to the parking lot tar. They stand there, Nick looking at Greg, face to face, with Greg staring back, confusion and apprehension written all over him; fear clouding his features as he stares guardedly at Nick. Nick smiles, again, but this time it’s the one that Greg hasn’t seen in what feels like forever and Greg thinks his knees might have just given out.
“You said I deserved to dance in the rain,” Nick whispers, bringing up his left hand and taking Greg’s right with it. Greg knows he’s dreaming now, and Nick sets his right hand on Greg’s hip and yeah, Greg’s got to be dreaming because now he and Nick are flush together, Nick starting to slowly move the pair back and forth, side to side, their bodies swaying together fluidly and this is just not happening.
Greg remains quiet for a few moments before Nick speaks up again. “I forgot to ask you if I could have this dance.” He pulls back, looking at Greg intently, as if it really mattered what Greg says at this point. And Greg just can’t help himself anymore. This whole situation is so outrageously unexpected and yet pleasantly welcomed that he feels a laugh bubbling up inside his throat, sneaking out of his mouth and breaking the tense silence Greg has caused. He sees Nick look at him oddly but he dismisses it, laughing silkily as he rests his forehead against Nick’s neck, tilting their bodies to sway again. He feels Nick place his chin on top of Greg’s hair, giving his hand a squeeze as they dance lazily and serenely in the parking lot.
It’s so odd, and so completely messed up: their clothes are drenched, sticking and sliding together uncomfortably; Greg’s hair is flattened and dangling in his eyes much to his dismay, and he can’t seem to get the right rhythm going with Nick so their dance is off-kilter and uncoordinated; yet it feels perfect. He smiles into Nick’s neck, stepping closer and dissipating any of the distance that was previously between them. Nick shifts and tilts his head down, placing a kiss to Greg’s hair.
“I was the one who found you,” he says. Greg feels Nick tighten his hold on him and clear his throat before he continues. “I knew that the case had really affected you, and I wanted to make sure you were all right. So I drove over to your apartment after my shift was done and knocked. You didn’t answer, so I waited a minute or two before knocking again. When you continued to ignore my knocks, I figured you might be in a different room or something so I called your cell. Really, I was paranoid and worried that something might have happened to you since your car was out in the parking lot.
“It rang and rang, but you never answered. I knocked and knocked, but you never opened up. God, G, I was so scared I…I didn’t know what to do. I was terrified something had happened…that I had lost you…I freaked out and kicked your door in. Sorry,” he apologizes, cheeks tinting pink and skin heating up with embarrassment and humiliation. “When I went inside, you weren’t anywhere to be seen. That is, until I saw the bathroom door wide open and went in there to check it out.
“You were…you were…in the tub, and…your head had just bobbed under the water, and God, I was so scared, Greg, you have no idea. It felt like my blood had gone freezing cold and I couldn’t think straight. I yanked you out of the tub as quickly as possible, laying you in my lap as I called 911 and then the Lab. I told Catherine what had happened and she said she’d get Sara and Warrick and come over as soon as she could get them free.” Nick stops, and Greg can feel his tears threatening to escape his eyes despite his best efforts. Nick cared, he really, truly cared and oh, God, what had Greg done? He’d scared all of the people he loved, including Nick. He’d made the man think that Greg was leaving him. “I almost lost you,” Nick whispers, and then they aren’t dancing anymore. Nick drops Greg’s hand and wraps the younger man up into a strong embrace, holding him close.
“I heard you, in the hospital. I heard everything you said. I wanted to reply, to say something to you, but I couldn’t… I wanted to tell you,” breathes Nick, detaching himself from Greg to look him in the eyes. They stare at each other, brown liquid chocolate looking into shimmering oak—and that’s what Greg’s eyes reminded Nick of. Oak trees, like the ones back home on the ranch. The ones he used to climb when he was a kid, the ones he used to swing from, had a clubhouse in; even had his first kiss under that tree. And that’s what Greg evokes within Nick with his eyes: that overwhelming emotion that he felt when he had his first kiss. Except it’s stronger with Greg, and it’s so powerful it nearly bowls him over sometimes. “I wanted to tell you that you don’t need over a hundred ways to say it. One way’ll do just fine, G.”
Greg swallows thickly, forcing the lump in his throat down. Because this would be Nick, finally saying what Greg has been praying for, and Greg can feel all of his cognitive thought shutting down. All he wants to do is throw himself on Nick and smother him with kisses; wants to just tell him to take them home (to someone’s home, he doesn’t care which) and let them lay in bed all day, snuggled up and talking about everything and nothing. He wants to laugh, wants to splash a puddle and get Nick even wetter than they both already are, and wants to tell Nick he loves him.
But none of that is what comes out of his mouth. Instead, he pulls away from Nick, stumbling backwards and shaking his head like earlier. “No, Nick. This isn’t what you want,” he says, eyes screaming agony. And his heart is yelling at him, begging him to stop now before he messes it up any further, but he can’t. The reasonable part of his brain is telling him that this is all too coincidental, too easy, too good to be real. It can’t be happening because it isn’t. And Greg simply cannot deal with Nick teasing him; he knows if he lets it go on, he’ll die from the anguish of Nick’s unreturned feelings, his misunderstood body language, his mistaken intentions. “You come to me for the first time in three months and tell me that you love me? Tell me that you want me? You’re really here, standing in the middle of this parking lot, in the freakin’ pouring rain, Nick, and after all of this time that you spent avoiding me; now you’re just gonna walk up to me and start spewing out all of these…these…” He waves his hands around in the air vaguely, gesturing at his unintelligible point. “It doesn’t work like that, Nick,” Greg says, voice shaking and trembling. “Life’s not that simple.”
“Well what do you want me to say, Greg?” Nick asks, throwing his hands up in the air and letting them fall back down to slap against his sodden thighs. “How am I supposed to go about this? How am I supposed to tell you? Tell me what to say, Greg, and I’ll say it.” Nick looks at him with earnest, reaching out to him and stepping closer. Greg staggers backwards again.
“Stop, Nick. You can’t…we can’t…this isn’t right!” he exclaims in frustration. “I can’t do this, Nick. Not knowing that there’s some other woman out there. This is all too fast, Nick, you can’t sit there and have a relationship with some woman and then when I try to kill myself, fall in love with me! It doesn’t work like that, Nick. I can’t go through that, Nick. I can’t let you hurt me again. I won’t be able to live through it. You don’t understand—“
“—No, you don’t understand.”
“What do I not understand, Nick? Because everything seems pretty clear to me! Unless there’s something else you haven’t clued me in on? What, did you dump that other girl and get a new one?”
“No, Greg.”
“Then I really don’t see what I’m not understanding. Because from where I stand, Nick—“
“—Greg! There is no woman!” Nick yells, stomping furiously on the tar lot. “There never was a woman, Greg! If you’d let me talk for five seconds, you’d have known this quite a few minutes ago, and I could have you back over here in my arms instead of fighting with you.”
And there’s just too much sincerity in Nick’s voice, and his eyes look generally hurt and indignant, and Greg was so going to kill Hodges later today. “…There wasn’t?” he whispers, and Greg knows that there’s no hope for him anymore. Because Nick nods his head, and reaches out for him again, and he can’t resist anymore. He wants Nick too much—no, he needs Nick too much—and he can’t do this alone anymore. The rain beats down on his head, trickling down his body and clutching at all of his limbs and visible skin as Greg relents, stepping back off of the concrete walkway and into Nick’s arms. Nick holds him close, resting his chin on top of Greg’s head and rubbing sporadic circles on his back.
“All the things you said…,” Nick starts, and Greg places a kiss to Nick’s neck to show he’s listening, “…did you mean them?” Greg nods his head and Nick squeezes him, pressing a chaste kiss to his hair. “So I need a better air conditioner, do I?” he asks. Greg snickers against his shoulder.
“It is sort of crappy, you know.”
“Well there’s a pool at the complex, and if I’m inside than I just leave the windows open.”
“What about at night?” Greg questions, nuzzling Nick’s shoulder through the material of his denim jacket.
He feels a devilish smirk crawl its way onto Nick’s face and Greg immediately starts to blush. “You don’t,” he says, lifting his head to stare Nick in the face. Nick doesn’t remove the smirk. “You sleep nude?!”
Nick shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Hey, it works. And I don’t have to spend money on a new air conditioner, and can therefore spend it on more important things.”
Greg knows he’s gawking at Nick but he can’t help it. He plays with the flaps on Nick’s jacket, pretending to find the texture extremely fascinating as he says, casually, “So… Can I come over this summer?”
Nick laughs. “You can come over anytime you want, G.”
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Nick’s couch is surprisingly comfier than Greg remembers it being. He squirms around in it a bit, bouncing up and down on the cushions before snuggling back against the armrest. Nick’s in the kitchen, getting their food out of the microwave and grabbing them some drinks. They have a movie popped into the DVD player – Fight Club, at Greg’s request – and blankets and pillows littering the couch and floor. Greg snickers as he thinks it looks sort of like a slumber party. “Hey Nick?”
“Yeah, G?” Nick calls back, pulling the pizza out of the microwave one-handedly and then spinning around to grab the cans of soda from the countertop. “Thanks for the help, by the way!”
“You’re welcome,” Greg says, grinning at Nick as he enters the room. “I was thinking…”
“Well that’s never good,” Nick replies, setting the pizza and drinks on the coffee table as he plops down beside Greg on the couch. He takes Greg’s feet and sets them on his lap, rubbing the kinks out as he listens to Greg.
“I was thinking that this looks a lot like a slumber party,” says Greg, stretching luxuriously and purring like a cat as Nick massages his feet. Nick laughs heartily, tickling the heel of Greg’s feet before he responds, delighting in the squeal and struggle he gets from Greg.
“Are you saying you want to have a slumber party with all of our girlfriends, G?”
Greg flails a bit as Nick continues to tickle his feet, giggling in a very manly way as he tries to break free. “All I’m saying is that you’re a – heehee – natural at – stop, Nick! – This whole slumber party thing.” Greg wretches his feet free from Nick’s grasp and curls up at the corner of the couch, grabbing a pillow and hiding behind it, watching Nick cautiously over the pillow. Nick pouts, his lower lip trembling as he extends his arms toward Greg. Greg launches himself onto Nick, the two falling off of the couch unceremoniously and landing on the floor with a thump. Nick groans, arching his back a little and trying to shove Greg off of him.
“Get off’a me, you manorexic tree monkey.”
“Most monkeys climb trees, Captain Obvious,” Greg states, sitting up on Nick’s legs. Nick glares up at him.
“Whatever, G. Don’t correct me when I’m trying to insult you.” Greg smiles sweetly and Nick can’t help but smile back. They stare at each other until Nick breaks the trance with his voice. “Greg? Do you still think you’re unworthy of me?” Greg doesn’t answer for a couple of moments, shifting around on Nick’s legs.
“I just think… I just want you to have the world, Nick. I want to give you everything I possibly can and even the things I can’t. You know how I feel,” says Greg, tracing unidentifiable patterns on Nick’s stomach.
“I do,” Nick agrees. He’s silent for a moment before he asks, “The question is, Greg: Do you know how I feel?”
In reality, Greg didn’t know. They still had yet to talk about everything that had transpired nearly eight months ago. They’ve been together for about four months now, and even though Greg never found out why Nick had avoided him those months after his attempt at suicide, or after Nick’s hospital visit; or why they haven’t said ‘I love you’ to each other, he doesn’t really care. Because he finally has Nick, finally has him in his arms, around him, near him, close to him; all to himself, and he’s the happiest he’s been in years. But he has some sort of understanding why they’ve been reluctant to tell each other those three words, and Greg thinks he understands. They want to cherish this, make it last, take it slow, and Greg would gladly wait years to tell Nick ‘I love you’ if it meant they could be together that long. He also knows it’s not easy for Nick to say he loves someone, and even though that one time in the parking lot he hinted to Greg that he did, Greg knows that Nick never really said the words and in reality, Greg still has no idea where Nick stands on this whole matter.
“No,” he whispers. They lock eyes, a scorching heat flaring between them, and Greg’s taken back to a moment that seems so long ago, when he compared Nick’s eyes to pools of brown chocolate that he could lose himself in and never want to be rescued. They haven’t changed; in fact, Greg’s almost positive they’ve become more expressive and breath-taking.
Nick raises his hand and brushes the backs of his fingers against Greg’s cheek. Lets his fingers brush down Greg’s face and then cup it, raising his other hand to cup the other side of Greg’s face. Greg places his own hands atop of Nick’s and they sit, with Nick on the floor and Greg sitting astride his thighs. “I love you,” Nick says, and his eyes bore so intensely into Greg’s own that he feels his heart flutter and his stomach flop. Feels his body spreading a sort of liquid fire throughout his veins, warming his skin, boiling his blood. He can’t stop the huge smile that spreads across his face, can’t help the way that he trembles underneath Nick’s hands.
Takes a minute to respond, before he says, “Je t’aime, Nick.”
Nick cocks an eyebrow, looking up at Greg quizzically before something clicks in his brain. “French?” he asks. Greg nods.
“I want to take you to Paris. Show you the stars, the lights. Show you the magic of the atmosphere. Show you how much you mean to me and what I would do for you.”
Nick’s eyes shine. “You don’t need to,” he says, voice just above a whisper. It’s hoarse, like he’s trying not to cry and Greg can feel the emotion rush through him unexpectedly, nearly knocking him off balance.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re my star, so I don’t need the rest of them. Because you light up my life, so I don’t need any more light. And because you are my world, my atmosphere, my everything, and you’re magical enough on your own, so I don’t need any of that, either.”
“God, that was so cheesy,” Greg says, but Nick can see the shimmering of his eyes and the way that he’s squeezing Nick’s hands with his own. Nick snickers in response.
“I’m the cheese to your macaroni, baby.”
“You’re the cheese to my macaroni,” Greg clarifies. Nick smiles up at him brilliantly, stealing his breath (and his heart, coincidentally), stroking his own thumb over Greg’s cheek, and Greg’s smile is on his face before he realizes he’s doing it. It’s there, on Nick’s legs, with the pizza getting cold on the coffee table, their drinks dripping water onto the surface and leaving ringlets, the movie’s DVD menu playing over and over again, that Greg feels his heart sing in his chest and his soul hum contentedly.
It doesn’t matter if the world doesn’t have room for Greg Sanders. Because Nick Stokes has all the room that Greg will ever need, and he thinks he can live with that.
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I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat, but always keep that hunger
May you never take one single breath for granted
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed
I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean
Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens
Promise me that you’ll give faith a fighting chance,
and when you get the choice, to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance
I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance
Never settle for the path of least resistance
Livin’ might mean takin’ chances, but they’re worth takin’
Lovin’ might be a mistake, but it’s worth makin’
Don’t let some hell bent heart leave you bitter
When you come close to selling out, reconsider
Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance
And when you get the choice, to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance
(Time is a wheel in constant motion, always rolling us along,
Tell me who wants to look back on their years and wonder where those years have gone)
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.::. Fin .::.***
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