Promises To Keep

by elfmage

Author's notes: This is my first foray into the wonderful world of CSI fanfiction (and the first writing I've done in a long time), but I'm so inspired by The Love that I can't help myself. I hope the characters aren't too OOC, given the nature of the story I think a little behavioural change is warranted. This story is six chapters long (each chapter is only between 4 and 7 pages long), and is already completed, so don't worry, the writer's block has already passed! I wrote this story because it was what I wanted to read (feel free to take the challenge to write a super angsty H/C fic featuring depressed!Greg and/or self-injuring!Greg). Please review, just so I know if this is any good!

Warnings: Slash (not graphic, in any way, though. Just romantic, aww :P), self-mutilation (borderline graphic), suicidal thoughts, passing mentions of childhood physical/emotional abuse, and other heavy, angsty themes. And there is some swearing, hopefully nothing too offensive.

Disclaimer: Sadly, they're not mine. Oh the fun I'd have if they were. No profit is being made (also sad but true), but Bruckheimer deserves it for giving us such an awesome imaginative playground.


"The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep."

- Robert Frost, Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

The corridors were echoing and empty when CSI Nick Stokes walked casually down them; heading for the maze of labs, and in search of one errant lab-rat. Greg was supposed to meet him in the locker rooms at the end of shift, but after waiting 15 minutes, Nick good-humouredly decided to go searching. His deep brown eyes flickered over successive empty rooms, in vain, for his hyperactive boyfriend.

Not, Nick mused, that Greggo has been his old irrepressible self for some time now.

With that thought came the familiar onslaught of concern, once again making Nick's mouth tighten with worry. He didn't doubt their relationship or Greg's devotion to him – and it was certainly reciprocated (whole-heartedly) – but lately something had just been off with his partner. It was like a shadow that hung around Nick's peripheral vision; a shadow of something dark and dangerous that he saw, fleetingly, in the depths of Greg's eyes; a shadow of despair that flittered across Greg's face, like clouds racing across the sun, whenever he thought no-one was looking; a shadow of guilt, as Greg automatically pulled his sleeves down lower.

The lines on Nick's face grew deeper and taut at the last item on the list.

For a CSI I've been so blind. And for a boyfriend… God, how did I miss it?

Tonight had been set aside, designated by Nick for A Talk; and Greg, who'd been increasingly wary and nervous – even given his penchant for over-caffeinating and the resulting neurosis – throughout the day, clearly had some idea of what was coming. And now he had suspiciously neglected to show up when they had arranged.

Nick increased his speed dramatically as the implications of this conspicuous absence, along with his suspicions, wreaked havoc upon his imagination.

With good reason, it seemed.

As he was about to declare the search futile – maybe I just missed him in this maze, passed like two ships in the night? – he caught a glimpse, that peripheral shadow, of a familiar dirty blonde mop of hair, only just visible above the desk and with the light of the sole desk lamp reflecting off of it's lank strands.

"Greggo?" Nick's voice rang hesitantly, uncertainly in his ears.

"Greg?" he repeated, stepping further into the room, the corner concealing his errant lover slowly coming into view. Greg was splayed on the floor, legs haphazardly folded beneath him, labcoat discarded beside him, shirtsleeves rolled up, oblivious to the world…

"GREG!"

As the pool of light illuminated the silver flash of steel and the absorbent depths of crimson trails, Nick's heart leapt into his mouth and he bolted forwards, almost stumbling in his haste; Greg's name tore from his throat without thought, and he skidded to a halt, crashing to his knees on the cold polished floor without notice, large hands automatically moving to grip his boyfriend's shoulders in a vice-like grip.

"Greg? Greg!? God, oh, God, are you ok? What've you done sweetheart?"

Sleepy – no, not sleepy, catatonic, dead, absent, but not sleepy, nothing so trivial as merely 'sleepy' Nick's mile-a-minute thoughts asserted – brown eyes raised, unfocused confusion giving way to despair.

"Nick? Wha…?"

Such confusion, completely uncharacteristic of Greg Sander's brilliant mind, told Nick that he should take charge, and now. Leaving one hand as a reassuring warm weight on his boyfriend's shoulder, the other gently plucked the offending object of self-destruction – a wicked-looking boxcutter – from Greg's hand, discarding it on the floor, making sure it was out of reach. Steeling himself, Nick began to examine the damage the younger man had wrought upon himself.

Both of his forearms, up to and including the sensitive skin on his inner elbows – at which point Nick's mind irrelevantly reminded him of his own hatred of needles, wincing at the pain injuring such an area had to cause – God, did Greg even feel the pain? Oh, Greggo… both of them were covered in jagged red cuts, taking up every available inch. Blood was smeared and still flowing at a rate that frightened the concerned lover and friend in Nick; it wasn't lethal, but it was still damaging and even more terrifying in the causative damage that it hinted at.

Gashes, of varying size, gaped at him angrily, a silent accusation of his failure to notice sooner, to have done something – Nick paused in his self-recrimination, as Greg began to stir more energetically, shifting his awkward seated position.

"Nick?" Greg looked down, seemingly seeing, for the first time, the destruction of his own doing. "Shit, Nick, I didn't… I mean… Shit. I'm sorry, you… you weren't meant to see, God I didn't want you to see, please don't hate me, please, please don't hate me." His voice wavered and trailed off towards the end of his outburst, breaking down into a pleading sob as he clutched at the hand still firmly in place on his shoulder.

"Hey, hey, c'mon Greggo, calm down hon, it's ok, it's ok…" Nick repeated the soothing platitudes, gathering his lover into his arms, gentle and reassuring as a lovingly draped blanket on a cold winter's day. "It's ok, you're ok, it's ok…" He rubbed a calming hand up and down Greg's back, trying to steady the panicked breathing that was interrupted by the soft pleas. His own desperation and worry took hold and his muscular arms tightened their hold, trying to convey a sense of security to the defeated man he cradled.

"We're ok, it's ok, it's ok, it's ok…"