Disclaimer: Completely not mine.
Summary: It feels like I've intruded on a family, the redheaded stepchild you're all waiting to screw up so you can send them to their room.
Notes: AU, Greg-centric. OCs, WIP.

Long View of Life

;;

In the end, it hadn't been the casework or the victims that had broken him. It hadn't been his colleagues, his evaluations, his place in the lab... It wasn't Grissom's criticisms or Nick's jokes, Warrick's sharp wit. Hell, Catherine's attitude hadn't done it.

No, what had split him into pieces like a ragdoll tore in a child's fight had nothing to do with the present and everything to do with the past.

;;

"You're late."

Greg stopped short as he left the locker room, having been hopeful that no one had noticed his quiet appearance in the labs forty-five minutes after the start of the Graveyard shift. He cursed under his breath as he turned to face Sara, who was smirking at him as she repeated her statement.

"Did Grissom notice?" He asked. Sanders already knew the answer to that question, of course, yet he still prayed that he could escape the wrath of his supervisor.

Sara snorted as she replied, "You should go to his office first. He might show leniency if you turn yourself in."

Without another word, Greg turned on his heel, making his way toward the office of the one man in the world he truly hated to disappoint. He loathed when he let down Grissom, something he was aware he'd been doing a lot lately and though he wanted to, Greg knew he could say little to the man that would explain his screw ups as of late.

He wiped his eyes, still trying valiantly to wake up enough to not look as hungover as he felt, and thought over the list of things that were no doubt being compiled against him. Tardiness, misfiled reports, forgetting procedure... The list was not as small and inane as one would hope.

"You wanted to see me," he announced, reaching the doorway to the elder man's office.

Grissom didn't even speak as Catherine made a break for it, moving by him as though she already knew he was persona non grata and, in all likelihood, she probably did. The office was then empty except for the two men and Greg closed the door before sliding into the vacant chair.

The eyes that took him in were more cold and hard than Greg could ever remember them being. His posture was stiff and his hands were rigid in fists.

"I won't insult either of us by asking if you know why I needed to talk to you. What I want to know is what your explanation is for the number of write ups that are sitting in your personnel file right now." Gil leaned forward, unfurling his fingers and waiting for a response.

When the complaints had rolled in from Brass' men that Greg was making mistakes, he had initially ignored them on the belief that it was just a bad week. Warrick, Nick, Sara, Catherine, himself, they all had times where their brains were on other issues than the work at hand. Time would pass and, so long as no case had been compromised, the complaints would never actually be recorded formally.

Then Greg showed up late two days in a row. He left equipment on in the lab. He was late three more times and nearly crashed one of the department cars. An entire week of reports were filed wrong, the smell of alcohol on Greg's breath when Grissom hunted him down to point out the many errors. Something, Gil was sure, was going on with their youngest CSI and if Greg didn't work it out soon, the Sheriff was going to be calling on both Sanders and Grissom to report to his office.

"I..." Greg started, unsure of what to say. There was so much he wanted to tell his friend and mentor, but legal restrictions made it impossible for him to share the secret that was quietly tearing him apart inside. "I don't know what to say, Gris. I've been kind of preoccupied."

"With?"

"I can't tell you." Greg winced at the sound of his own voice. God, it was such a fucking cop-out to say that, despite it being the truth.

"You can't tell me?" Gil muttered, his tone taking on a slightly more concerned lilt though there was still a stone edge to it as he continued, "Are you all right?"

"I'm here, Grissom, I'm fine." Sanders curved his lips into a small, gentle smile, taking a chance as he asked, "Is there a case I can help with?"

Gil sighed, the tension draining out of him as he regarded the man across the desk. It didn't take a trained investigator to see the exhaustion in the way Greg held himself, the bags under his eyes, the heaviness in his lids. His speech patterns had been laced with the almost imperceptible slur of the punchdrunk, although Grissom wasn't entirely sure that drunkenness didn't play a part in the squint of Greg's eyes. The clothing he wore were, in contrast, immaculate with his badge displayed properly around his neck.

The minutes passed as Grissom made his assessment of his employee, judging whether or not to send the other home even in the face of a long, short-staffed night. It was at his discretion to suspend Greg if he was unable to do his job for personal reasons, but Catherine had called in sick with food poisoning and Nick was still crutch bound after being assaulted by a suspect.

"Greg, do you honestly think you can handle the field right now?" The words had spilled from his lips with a calculated intonation, wondering if he'd get an honest reply or if Greg would lie to his face.

It didn't truly matter, however, as either way, Grissom had already made up his mind on how their conversation would end – and Greg knew it.

He closed his eyes briefly, thinking hard about the options laid before him and the things he could say, and when he opened them, Greg Sanders made a choice that would change everything.