THAT TWISTED PATH
Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever, own CSI. I have absolutely no right to call it my own, no matter what tricks I pull. Damn.
Rated for slight pre-slash (seriously, like, maybe one or two lines?), language, sensitive topics.
Author's Note: Sequel to Where Happiness Is Kept. Number two in The Golden Days trilogy.
Prop open the door
I can actually see my breath tonight
But that doesn't mean I'm breathing
Crack a smile, just for the sake of it
This could take a while
A long while
Silence is golden, especially in this case
I'm not too sure that I want it to be this way
Open mouth, closed eyes
No words are escaping
It's all a blur
It's too dark to see
Ain't it pretty, the way it all streaks together at night?
Together at night
I think it's time to turn around
I really want to go home tonight
I think it's time to turn around
I really want to go home tonight
I feel like this is going nowhere
I feel like this is going nowhere
Try to think of something quick
And trust the direction of the driver
No lights
No signs
I'm at a loss for words
No lights
No signs
I'm at a loss for words
Now conversation sparks
What an easy way to break the ice
Now conversation sparks
What an easy way to break the ice
"The Impact of Reason" — Underoath
I.
May 14th
I saw him again in the mirror today. Just a brief flash, like less-than-a-second–vision, but his face was still there. Scared the hell out of me, too. It took me five minutes to get the guts to look into the mirror again, and like all the other times, all I saw was my reflection.
I probably just imagined it.
Actually, I had to imagine it. Because how could he even be staring back at me through the mirror?
He's gone. I know that. But maybe he isn't really, really gone. Maybe just his body. And he's haunting me.
Ha.
II.
"I thought tonight was your night off?" Sara asks when you open your locker and hang your coat on the hook. It's cold tonight.
"It was," you reply. "Grissom called, the lab is backed up pretty bad from Day and Swing; apparently they're just sitting on their asses and kissing Ecklie's instead of working."
"Damn," she says with a smile. She's sitting on the bench watching you, and you almost ask her what she finds so fascinating. "Yeah, we've all been called out onto the field again; this week's been horrible for murders."
You nod, closing your locker and facing her. "I've been switching between the lab and field so often lately I'm bringing in extra clothes than usual. I think Grissom finds it funny, throwing me around."
She laughs lightly and stands up. "Nah," she says. "He just knows you're good at your job."
"Don't you mean 'jobs'?"
"Yes, actually."
You follow her out the door and you go your separate ways with a brief wave of goodbye. Slipping into your old lab and pulling on a lab coat, you glance around. Most things have been moved. The chair is on the other side of the desk and all the cabinets have been messed with. It bugs you.
Grissom was right. There's at least four days of backlog on the desk, patiently waiting for you to find out whose DNA swam in the blood drops and what the hell that blue substance is on the edge of some dead woman's skirt. You stand in front of the evidence bags for a moment, frowning and with your arms crossed. The plastic bags seem to mock you, screaming, Find out what I am!
Three hours later, you're waiting for the machines to do their job. Your night is slowly slipping by, along with the few hours of sleep you had planned on getting. Sleep is very valued, now; it wasn't really, before. Any minutes slept without nightmares are cherished with a warm cup of coffee when you wake up.
Just as the printer finally decides to come to life, Nick walks in.
"Hey, G," he greets cheerfully.
You hum in response, skimming over the papers.
"Busy night?"
"Of course," you say. "Why else would I be in here?"
Nick laughs and comes in further, seating himself in the chair. You glance at him and notice he's smiling.
"Comfortable?"
"Of course, why else would I be in here?" he playfully throws your words back at you.
You find yourself grinning, his happy mood contagious. You're thankful he decided to drop by, even though you already gave him his results an hour ago and he hasn't sent you any new stuff to process; he's been tremendously helpful these last few months, and his kindness just doesn't seem to end.
"What've you got there?" he asks, nodding at the papers in your hands. Absently, you notice that they aren't shaking.
"Results on bloods drops on a skirt Ecklie needs. Whoever they swabbed up's name is Ken Cleft."
Nick whistles. "Man, they're behind. I saw that evidence on the table three days ago."
"Why work when you have good ol' Greg to do your work for you?"
Laughing, Nick stands up. "Aw, cheer up, Greggo. You'll be back on the field in no time. Besides, Grissom only volunteers you because you're damn good at what you do."
You smile at his retreating back.
III.
May 16th
Car, this time. Rear-view mirror. In the backseat, staring at me, his eyes glowing in the red tail lights of the truck in front of me. Accidentally slammed on the breaks in surprise, making the guy behind me pretty angry. Had to force myself to keep going home. Locked my apartment door behind me and locked all the windows, then double checked them. Swear to God I heard footsteps behind me, so I jumped into bed and hid under the covers. Really, really wish Nick was here tonight.
Fuck.
IV.
"Greg? Where are you?"
Nick's here, you tell yourself. It's Nick, no one else. Thank God.
"In here."
The door slowly opens, and even though your back is facing him, you know Nick is checking to see what condition you're in. You don't blame him. Usually when he comes home from the lab, you're waiting in the kitchen for him with a cup of Blue Hawaiian, in case he worked a hard case.
"Greg?"
You don't answer, instead burying your face further into your pillow, like the cowardly piece of worthless crap you are. You hear Nick sigh and enter the room, sit on the edge of your side of the bed. You feel conflicted. You want him there to help you, because you're scared and anxious and doubting your sanity, but you also know he has his own problems to deal with and he doesn't need you to complicate matters.
So, in your indecision of what to do, you remain silent.
"G? What's wrong?"
You haven't spoken to anyone about the flashes you see in mirrors, or the weird experiences that make you want to throw up at the soonest possibility. You don't know how to bring it up in conversation, mainly because you're sure that everyone will tell you you've finally lost what little sanity you've been clinging to since the lab explosion years ago.
"Nothing, I'm…I'm fine."
"Greg," Nick whispers, and places a hand on your shoulder. You want to tell him not to touch you, because it's going to make you say things you don't want to, make you want him to hold you until the tears dry up and leave. "You can tell me anything, you know that. If something's bugging you, get it off your chest. It isn't good to keep everything bottled up."
"You would know, right?"
He doesn't respond, and you close your eyes and dig your nails into your palms. You're such a little bastard. Why did you bring that up?
Nick doesn't say anything. You feel him tense up, and he lifts his hand off your shoulder. A tear escapes from your eye and slides off your nose and onto the pillow.
"Sorry," you rasp. "I — I didn't mean it."
"Yes you did." His voice is hard and quiet, and that's what scares you the most. You can only imagine him leaving right now because of your stupidity, packing his bags quickly, sending you a scornful glare, and walking out the door.
Curling further into yourself, you whisper, "I'm sorry."
"No you're not."
And with that he leaves, and you blink rapidly to get rid of the tears welling in your eyes. Somehow your mind finds enough mercy within itself to say goodnight and shut off the world around you, your last thoughts of expecting to find an empty home when you wake up in the evening.
V.
May 3rd
I don't know what's wrong with me, and I don't know how to fix that.
I don't understand why I keep bringing up old problems. I don't understand why I'm so messed up, why I brought up Nick's babysitter incident. Yeah, I know; I'm a fucking idiot. Don't worry, the argument's been solved. Nick made sure of that. It's okay, though, I don't blame him for getting physical. I deserve to have a black eye. I'm a selfish bastard.
It started because of something stupid. Nick was quiet about a case he'd just solved, and I kept bugging him about it, because to be perfectly honest, I don't like it when he's sad. I want Nick to be happy. After a while he got mad and told me to lay off, and I told him that it isn't good to not talk about things, and he told me that he didn't feel like talking and it would be wise if I stopped asking him about it. In a moment of worry I said that keeping things inside wasn't good, giving my suicidal attempt as an example; he told me he had things under control, and I said that he should know that he can't always control things. I was, of course, indirectly referring back to his babysitter experience when he was nine, and he picked up on that, too, resulting in his fist connecting with my face and my body on the ground, curled up defensively out of instinct. I'm not too sure where Nick was throughout all this; when I finally had the nerve to open my eyes again he was gone, had left the apartment.
He had every right to punch me, I know that, he knows that (hopefully; I don't want him feeling guilty over nothing), but fuck, I'm scared of being hit. The second I saw his fist shooting towards me I saw a hooded figure's face, not Nick's.
Nick must've been upset, to leave like that. Later he came back and took some clothes with him, saying he needed a break. I didn't protest. I'll never admit this to anyone, but when he walked out the door I had to remind myself to breathe.
Earlier I mentioned that I want Nick to be happy. I'm not making him happy. I'll figure something out.
VI.
May 8th
Grissom still won't let me work. I don't know if it's out of concern or doubt.
Nick came back this morning. Said he was really sorry, that he can't believe he lashed out like that. I just smiled and told him it was all right, that I deserved it. He shook his head and wouldn't meet my eyes. I let it slide, standing back and letting him come in. He hesitantly asked me if I still wanted him here; I almost laughed in relief. These past five days were hell, to put it simply. I never realized how important Nick's company is to me. He keeps me above the water, so to speak; without him, I kind of just slip under and everything goes fuzzy. Cloud down.
So he's staying here again. Thank God.
VII.
You avoid Nick for a few days, because you're afraid that if you try to hold a conversation with him you'll say something and hurt him again. Plus there's a little nagging feeling in the back of your mind telling you that if he gets mad he'll punch you, but you're trying to block that thought out.
You're currently in the bathroom brushing your teeth after a scorching shower. Nick's somewhere in the apartment waiting for you to finish up so he can get ready himself. You've noticed that he's been looking troubled again these past few days, ever since he came back. He must still be angry with you.
Sighing, you glance up into the mirror to see how you look. Mistake. Demetrius James' face reflects back at you just above your shoulder and you gasp loudly and shut your eyes tight, bending your head and gripping the edges of the sink so hard your knuckles turn white.
"Greg?"
Nick sounds anxious. He must have heard you gasp. Trembling, you hesitantly raise your gaze to the mirror. Nothing. Just your pale face staring back at you, your hazel eyes wide and bright.
You really, really need to talk to somebody about this. Breathing shallowly, you step back away from the sink, wipe your face on a towel, and exit the bathroom. Nick's on the other side with a worried expression on his face.
"Greg? What happened?"
No more 'Is something wrong?' No, he knows something's up now. A part of you wants him to find out what's wrong.
You bite your lip, unable to answer.
Nick sighs and goes into the bathroom.
"I'll be out in fifteen," he says.
You swear you see a dark figure walk past you in the reflection of the microwave. Standing stock still, frozen in fear, you breathe deeply and shake your head. You have to stop this. You're going crazy, and you don't know how much longer you can stand doing this dark dance of sanity.
You turn to the closed bathroom door and hear the shower running. What you wouldn't give to be in Nick's situation, away from fatal mistakes that haunt you in your waking and sleeping hours. You consider running in there and spilling everything out to him, all your thoughts, all your doubts, all the visions and footsteps that are following you.
But you decide against it and turn away. Nick will probably tell you to check into a mental hospital, and no matter how selfish it sounds, you would rather deal with the ghost of a kid you killed and have Nick around than be stuck in an institution alone.
So you open the microwave door as far as it goes so that the screen is facing the wall, and you go sit down on the couch and watch some television.
VIII.
It's been another month, and things have gotten better, at least physically.
You and Nick are close again, Grissom's sending you back out on the field, and you've banned your mother from calling you to ask how you're doing. You know she's only worried and is probably thinking up scenarios of your death right this second, but you just can't bring yourself to care.
You wonder why, even though things in your life are looking up again, you still find it hard to get out of bed in time for shift. Nick almost always has to practically drag you out from under the covers, and you know that he's noticed this minor problem as well. He's worried about you, and in a twisted, selfish way you're hanging on to the fact that he is. Once you caught him peeking under the bed, most likely looking for pills, but you never spoke to him about it. He's just looking out for you.
If you're being completely honest with yourself, though, you don't fully trust yourself yet. You don't go anywhere near the medicine cabinet, and you downright refuse to buy sleeping pills like Nick suggests. You can imagine yourself becoming addicted, and that wouldn't help matters at all.
At the moment you're in the passenger seat of Nick's car on your way to work. Grissom had called you both in half an hour earlier, saying that there was a triple homicide and everyone was needed. You prepare yourself for blood, death and heartbreak.
Once at the crime scene, you take a deep breath before entering the house. In the kitchen is the dead body of a middle-aged man with greying hair, a gunshot wound to his forehead and a gun beside him. At least it was quick. Nick volunteers to process him, so you and Sara make your way upstairs while Catherine, Grissom and Warrick process the perimeter and the other rooms downstairs.
In the hallway is the body of the mother. She has dirty blond hair and lies on her stomach, her eyes and mouth open in a horrific silent scream. Blood is pooled around her still body, coming from a wound in her left shoulder. You guess she got shot in the heart. Again, at least it was quick.
"I'll take her," Sara says quietly, though you still hear the firmness in her voice.
Nodding, you enter the room at the front of the hallway on the right. Your heart clenches and your breathing stops momentarily, but you keep your feet moving and your hand steady as your flashlight focuses on the third body, this time the nine year old daughter.
"Fuck," you mutter.
She's lying on her back. And she's naked. Her clothes are ripped and strewn around her in a circle-like arc, and blood is pooled underneath her. You can see her wound easily: a deep, rough stab wound to the stomach. This one wasn't so quick and painless.
Swallowing, you consider trading with Nick or Sara. You would gladly take the dead wife or husband, but you know you can't. You have to prove yourself. Plus, Sara gets determined processing dead wives, and Nick wouldn't take dealing with a dead, possibly raped, nine year old kid well. So you decide to suck it up and process the damn scene, because fuck it all if you chicken out of the job now. This kid needs justice.
Kneeling beside her, avoiding the blood, you take a closer look. There's blood along her thighs. Yeah, she was raped. You make a mental note to tell Doc Robbins to do an SEA kit check. Hopefully the bastard who did this left some evidence.
Several scenarios go through your mind as you process the room and body. Wife came home to find husband raping daughter, husband killed daughter, then wife, then shot himself. Or, stranger entered home, shot husband, went upstairs and found mother in the hallway in a panic at the sound of the gunshot, shot her, found daughter in her room and had some 'fun', and then planted the gun beside husband on way out.
Yeah, you're feeling pretty sick right now. You remind your heart to keep beating beneath your ribs, even if it's erratic and has no rhythm. At least you're still alive.
Sara calls your name twenty minutes later, when you're photographing the different rips and tears of the little girl's clothing. You really want to know her name.
"Yeah?"
"You all right in there? Do you need some help?"
You know Sara hasn't been in here yet, so she doesn't know what the third body looks like. And in some weird sense of protection, you don't want her to know.
"Nah, I'm fine. Just processing the room now."
"Okay, I'm going to go process the parents' bedroom, see if there's anything in there. Just holler if you need anything."
"Sure thing."
And she's gone, walking past the open door of the girl's room to the parents', but you're kneeling in front of the girl, blocking her body, so Sara doesn't see a thing. Thank God it's Sara up here and not Nick, who always makes sure to come check in on you to see if you're doing all right. You don't want to think about Nick's reaction when he finds out what happened to this little girl.
"Hey, Sara?" you call out.
"Yeah?" her muffled voice comes from down the hall.
"What're their names?"
"Er…Alex, Diane and Sophie MacDonald, I think."
You nod. Sophie MacDonald. Sweet name, you're sure she was a sweet kid. Didn't deserve this. No one did.
"Why?" Sara calls.
"Just wondering."
There's a plush horse and blood on the bed sheets, which are rumpled. Upon closer examination you notice small droplets of blood on the teddy as well. You glance around the room again, trying to understand what exactly took place. Man, husband or stranger, assaulted her on the bed, where she clutched her stuffed horse for some sort of comfort, and then threw her onto the ground and stabbed her. You try not to imagine the fear and pain she went through, holding her fluffy toy to her chest as it happened.
You hear footsteps coming up the stairs. Must be Nick coming up to check on you and Sara. Again you feel the strange protectiveness towards your friend, not wanting him to see the scene.
"Hey, Greg? You almost finished up here?" Nick asks from the doorway, and you slowly turn to look at him with half-lidded eyes. He swallows, staring at the little girl's body, and flicks his flashlight over the room. "Rough one, eh?" His voice almost cracks, you notice.
"Yeah." You pick up the plush horse and examine it further, hoping for hairs or anything useful. There's a black hair lodged into the fake fur and you pluck it out and place it in a bag. "I'm done here."
You glance back up at Nick, who has a hardened expression on his face. You figure it's best if both of you get out of here quickly; Nick's obviously taking it bad, and with every passing second you feel a bit of yourself falling away from your body, your sanity slipping through your fingers and leaving behind nothing but empty layers of Greg Sanders.
Sara appears in the doorway.
"Nothing in the other rooms," she says. "We can head back now, that is, if you're done, Greg?"
You raise an eyebrow at her.
"You're taking quite a while," she explains.
"There's a lot to process," you reply simply.
She nods and says, "Let's head back to the lab to drop off our evidence."
Good plan. Sara disappears down the stairs and Nick turns to leave, then, upon realizing that you haven't moved yet, stops and stares at you questioningly.
"I just…" Swallowing, you look around the room again. A man had been here just hours earlier, raping the harmless girl lying crumpled at your feet.
"Yeah, I understand," Nick says quietly. "These cases are hard."
You shake your head vigorously, turning in a complete circle while shining your flashlight on the walls, floor and ceiling.
"No," you mutter. "I missed something."
Nick sighs and steps forward, placing a hand on your shoulder. You see his reflection in the window that you're both facing. Your flashlight drops to your side.
"We can always come back, G. Let's just get back to the lab, get some sleep, and come back tomorrow, okay? We've been working here for hours."
You nod and are about to turn around to leave when a set of eyes reflect back at you in the window from above Nick's shoulder. You freeze, your blood cold and pumping through your veins far too quickly, wondering if Nick can see them, too — white, lifeless, filled with hatred and the need for revenge…
"Greg?"
Breathing quickly and shallowly, you stare back into Demetrius James' eyes. You even lift your flashlight again, your arm weighed down by the metal chains of dread, and shine it where the eyes are.
"G, what're you looking at?"
Nick grabs your shoulder again and you jump out of your skin, startled by the contact. The eyes are gone. Breathing easier, you try to turn around to leave, but Nick is in the way. Frustrated, you scowl and try to push past him. He holds steady.
"Whoa, Greg, what's wrong? What were you looking at?"
Your demeanour changes instantly at the level of concern in his voice. Your shoulders slump in defeat, you lower your arms to your sides, and you stare at him helplessly. You silently beg him to help you, to explain why Demetrius James is haunting you, but you can't make the words come out of your mouth. They're lodged in your throat, choking you, bleeding your confidence and sanity from you.
"I…"
"Nick! Greg! What's taking so long?" Sara's voice echoes up the stairs.
Feeling both dejected and grateful for the distraction, you hurriedly clear your throat and exit the room, never seeing Nick's expression of worry.
IX.
May 15th
Figured out the triple homicide case today; ended up being an ex-convict with a personal grudge against the family, came and shot the husband, went upstairs and killed the wife, had his way with the daughter, and planted the gun as a staged suicide. I don't understand people.
I can tell Nick is taking the girl's rape and death hard, and I don't blame him. Weaving in between my nightmares of Demetrius James' death and the beating, her face and silent scream remind me about what happened. I've been losing a lot of sleep lately, and Nick's noticed. He keeps asking me if I'm sure I'm all right to work out on the field again and telling me to take a couple of days off to catch up on some sleep, but I just tell him that it won't make a difference when I sleep, because no matter what, it just doesn't come peacefully for me.
Maybe I'm not cut out for this job. Actually, I'm pretty sure I'm not. I keep making mistakes and I take everything too personally. If it keeps up like this, I may go back to being a lab tech. The pay check is bigger, and it isn't nearly as dangerous (not counting the lab explosion, which was a complete accident).
Then there's Nick. I'm lost. One minute he's concerned about me, touching my arm and asking me if I'm all right, and the next he's angry and telling me to get over myself and move on. Every single time that happens I have to refrain myself from asking him how long it took to get over being buried underground; I haven't said it yet, since I don't want him getting upset (my goal is still to keep him happy) and I don't feel like being punched again. I still have problems with people touching me.
He looks like he's been losing sleep, too. It's because of me, no doubt. I've been acting difficult lately, but I honestly can't help it. I've got too much on my mind; yesterday, I kept hearing footsteps following me around the house. It's getting out of hand.
X.
You both have the night off, so you're currently sitting in front of the television watching a random action movie. Every time there's a fight scene you shift your eyes to the television stand so that you don't see the fists and feet flying at the victim. Once or twice you have to uncurl your fists in fear that Nick may catch on to your unease.
He does.
You hear him sigh and the next second the television screen is blank. Blinking in surprise, you stare at Nick with a questioning gaze; he's staring right back at you, and you have the weirdest feeling that he's searching for something in your eyes.
"Why didn't you tell me fight scenes still bug you?" he asks quietly.
You stare at your hands in your lap.
"You like this movie," you say with a shrug. "You can still watch it, even if I don't want to."
He sighs. "Greg," he says, "you can't keep ignoring what happened. You have to talk about it and accept it."
"Ignoring it?" you ask in disbelief. "Trust me, Nick, I haven't been ignoring it. It makes sure of that."
"What d'you mean?" There's concern shining in his eyes, and you're so close to spilling everything that's been on your mind lately.
"I…I have nightmares," you reply so quietly it's nearly a whisper.
"That's normal," he says easily. "I still sometimes have nightmares about being buried."
You're silent for a while and he adds, "What else?"
Tears well in your eyes for some reason. You try to blink them away, but it only makes them fall. They slip down your cheeks quickly, landing on your shirt. You can't meet Nick's eyes, not when you're this weak. You only realize you're trembling violently when Nick's hand grips your arm and you flinch at the contact. He immediately lets go, and a feeling of self-loathing and emptiness settles in your stomach, so you cross your arms around your chest and sink lower into the couch. You really, really want to disappear.
"Greg? Talk to me, G. Please."
You rest your head against the back of the couch and look away. This is it, you tell yourself. You're going to tell him. Nick deserves to know, he's been here helping you for months now, and you've been nothing but a nuisance.
"I can see him," you whisper brokenly, tears cascading from your eyes. "See his eyes, his face, hear his footsteps following me, coming after me. It — It's like he's h-haunting me, Nicky…"
A sob scratches your throat and you grip the sleeves of your sweater tightly in your fists. You're surprised how such a small amount of words describes your problem; you had expected to go into a long tirade about the fear and sickening anxiety that courses through your veins every time you pass a mirror and close your eyes to go to sleep. But now you know that you can't possibly explain this to Nick, for he wouldn't understand. You could use all the words you know, and you still couldn't give the right impression.
You can't look at Nick. He knows your weakness, now, how your mistakes always haunt you. It's always been like this; you just can't let things go. The past isn't just the past for you — it's the present and future, too. If the past truly was in the past, then you wouldn't still be bothered by the smell of plastic; you wouldn't still worry that you'll freeze up in the field; you wouldn't be terrified of another person touching you. Nick can bury the past. You can't. You've known this for a while now, one of the many revelations you've realized in the past few months since the beating. Nick is much stronger than you are. He never went into a depression, never swallowed too many pills, never needed somebody to watch over him in case he did something stupid. No, that's just you.
"My God, Greg…" Nick whispers.
You sense Nick's hand coming closer before it touches you, and by the time it does you're already beginning to flinch. This time, however, his hand doesn't retreat — this time it stays on your shoulder, a warm, comfortable connection. You relax in his light grasp. He isn't going to hurt you this time. Immediately when you think this, the self-loathing kicks in again. You hate yourself for thinking that Nick would ever intentionally harm you. That one time he punched you was for damn good reason, and you know that, so it gives you absolutely no right to think of Nick as an enemy. He's been here for months now, trying to get you to move on, and just because you're too weak to do so shouldn't mean he has to be dragged down with you.
You blink, smile grimly, and turn your head towards Nick again. You know what you have to do.
"You should go," you say quietly.
Nick's eyebrows furrow. "What?"
You motion towards the door. You can move easily now; it's amazing, how light you feel again. Your smile even turns into a happier one. Taking a deep breath, you cherish how fresh the air tastes; it unclogs your mind, thinning the fog that was clogging it.
"You should leave," you explain.
"You're…kicking me out?"
He sounds shocked and slightly hurt, and you realize that he misunderstood you.
"No!" you exclaim, and you're both stunned at your newfound enthusiasm. But damn, it feels good. "No, no, I mean, it's okay for you to go now. I'm fine, really."
"Greg, you just finished telling me that you think the spirit of Demetrius James is haunting you," Nick states slowly, leaning forward slightly. "You aren't fine."
"No, you don't understand, Nick. I feel a lot better now, getting it all out in the open." And it's the truth. Everything's regained colour again, even though you don't know why. You smile brightly. "Seriously, Nick, everything feels…lighter…now. I don't feel dragged down, I have energy again! As in, I could just go for a drive right now and not stop until the gas goes empty."
You had at least expected Nick's eyes to brighten as well, for him to feel happy for your renewed sense of life. Instead, however, his expression turns grim.
"Greg," he whispers, "that's not good. You're not supposed to switch so abruptly."
"What do you mean? I thought it was good if this happened."
"Exactly, Greg." Nick's hand tightens on your shoulder and he slips to the floor, kneeling in front of you. "You're forcing it, you're pushing it out of your mind. You can't do that. It has to be gradual, and you have to accept it."
"But I have accepted it, Nick, don't you see? I —"
"No you haven't, Greg!" Taken aback by his sudden fierceness, you stop talking and stiffen slightly. "What are you trying to do, Greg? Do you really want me to leave? Or are you just trying to convince me that it's all right to leave so you can go kill yourself?"
Fury erupts within you and you push his hand off, standing up. He follows suit, eye level with you. There's anger in his eyes as well.
"What the fuck, Nick?" you hiss. "I said I was sorry about that, and I damn well mean it! I am not going to try it again! There aren't even any pills in here!"
"Maybe not now, but what's going to stop you from buying any when I'm gone? You said yourself that you could just take a drive; who's to say you won't go buy some sleeping pills?"
"I'm not suicidal!" you yell, taking a step forward. "I don't hold your mistakes against you, so stop holding mine!"
Nick sighs in frustration and lifts his hand to run it through his short hair, but the second his elbow bends your mind is already backtracking, sending warnings throughout your whole body, screaming, He's going to hurt you again! Your eyes widen and you flinch backwards, narrowly missing the coffee table. Out of instinct your arms go out in front of you as soon sort of protection, even though they haven't been very helpful in the past.
Nick's hand is in his hair when he realizes what just happened, and he immediately drops his arm. You lower yours as well and your cheeks redden in embarrassment and shame. There you are again, thinking he's going to hurt you. What's the matter with you?
"S-Sorry," you whisper so quietly you aren't even sure you said it at all.
Nick curses and takes a step back, then another. An odd sense of abandonment trickles into your mind with each step that's put between the two of you.
There's another pause of silence before Nick says, "Maybe you're right. It's best if I leave."
You don't say anything, unsure of where his thoughts are coming from. Does he honestly want to leave, or is it because you're scared of him? Does he think it isn't worth it anymore?
And suddenly the feelings of selflessness leave, and you want him to stay, need him to. He's your rock, he's kept you going this whole time, even if it was a bumpy and twisted path with several dead ends; he helped you get past the potholes and dead ends, sending you in the right direction, on your way home.
But you can't say anything as he slowly backs away even more, and with his head down, disappears down the hall and into the guest bedroom, where his suitcase and clothes are. You can't make your legs move. You can't find the strength to walk forward and stop him from leaving, even though you don't know how you're going to survive without him. And then you realize how reliant you've become on him, and maybe he's noticed it too.
And then it finally clicks in your head that he really is leaving, and you fall to your knees in shock and rest against the couch. You couldn't have just convinced him to leave you; you just couldn't have! Nick means everything to you, you need him beside you in case you have another nightmare or you relapse and begin drowning again…he can't help you if he isn't here!
Breathing quickly and irregularly, you wrap your arms around your knees and rest your head in them. You want to hide away from the world, to just drive far away and leave it all behind. You begin to tremble. This can't be happening, you chant in your mind. This can't be happening, this isn't happening…
You hear footsteps and the opening and closing of a door, and the world erupts in a dizzying chaos of red and black that sends you spinning.
XI.
You slowly wake up, and the first thing you notice is the darkness. Which is odd, since you always sleep during the day and go to work at night.
You then feel the soft mattress beneath you, the comfortable pillow your head is buried in, and the thick, warm comforter cocooning your body. It's immensely comfortable and relaxing.
It's also your bed. You never went to bed.
After a few minutes of basking in the warmth of your bed and wondering how you got here, you sigh and disentangle yourself from the bed sheets. You feel refreshed, and not in the sudden, abrupt change like earlier; this time it's more calming than exhilarating, like you just woke up from a thousand-year sleep. A small smile creeps over your lips; Nick must have carried you to your room after you passed out on the living room floor in front of the couch.
Except, Nick isn't here anymore.
The realization quiets your breathing and makes your chest constrict. Nick's gone. He left. You probably just stumbled into your room in a daze, and don't remember it; you are, after all, in the same clothes as yesterday. The denial part of your brain, the one that thinks you dreamt all of yesterday and Nick is indeed just across the hall sleeping, tells you that of course you're still in the same clothes; Nick wouldn't exactly undress you. Foolish thoughts.
Yawning, you stand up and stretch, ignoring the faint tightness of the skin across your shoulder and back. You need coffee. Badly. You're going to have to make it yourself again, now that Nick is gone — he always had a cup ready when you woke up to get ready for shift.
Stumbling into the kitchen, you mechanically prepare a pot of coffee. You don't even check if it's Blue Hawaiian or not, not this morning. Tears well up in the corners of your eyes and you rapidly blink them back. Now isn't the time. Glancing at the clock, you're momentarily frozen; it's two o'clock in the morning.
"What the hell?" you mutter, then curse loudly because you're supposed to be at work right now.
Scrambling over to the telephone on the kitchen counter, you hurriedly punch in Grissom's number. It only rings half a ring before he picks up.
"Grissom."
"Griss!" you say quickly. "I'm so, so sorry for being late! I'll be there right away, just give me twenty —"
"Greg? Why are you calling? I've given you the night off."
"What? Why?"
Grissom hesitates for a second before replying in a soft voice, "I think you should talk to Nick about that, Greg. I'll see you tomorrow night…or technically, tonight." And he hangs up.
Stunned, you simply stare at the phone in your hand. Talk to Nick about it? You have the night off?
You hear a rustling noise and movement behind you. Whipping around in surprise, your heart stops at the sight that greets you: Nick slowly sitting up from the couch, rubbing his eyes. He looks up and makes eye contact with you, but you're too shocked to do anything but drop your jaw and continue to hold the phone in your right hand.
"Greg?" Nick says groggily. He stands up, wavers slightly and sticks his hand out for balance, and then straightens up. "You're up?"
"Nick?" you say slowly. "You're here?"
He grunts in reply and walks into the kitchen, checking to make sure the coffee machine is on. Leaning against the counter, he answers, "Yeah, I'm here."
"But…"
Noticing your loss of words, he sighs and stares into your eyes.
"Last night," he explains, "we got into a bit of a fight."
"I know that."
"Okay," he says with another sigh. "Let's do it this way: what do you remember?"
"I…" It isn't a memory you want to bring up. But you force yourself to, for Nick's sake, at least. "I told you to leave, you agreed, you went to go pack, you left, and then…I woke up in my bed."
Nick swallows and looks away for a moment, a pained look on his face. "I…never left," he says. "I was going to, I had my bags packed and everything. Seeing you flinch away from me, thinking that I was going to hit you like I did before…I thought it would be best to leave. But when I opened the door I glanced over at you and…and you were just sitting there, shaking, and you looked, well, broken."
You look away.
"So I closed the door and…I guessed you thought I'd left, because you completely lost it. You started sobbing and pressing your forehead into the carpet while gripping your hair…I was scared beyond hell, man. I thought you'd snapped or something. I tried to calm you down, but it was like you didn't know I was there."
"I didn't," you say quietly. "I don't remember doing this."
Nick nods sadly. "The whole time you kept muttering stuff, like 'He's gone, he's gone.' "
"Ugh," you mutter. "That's not embarrassing at all."
Laughing, he says, "Nah, G, I'm honoured that you'd react so badly if I left."
"Seriously?" You look up at him again, your eyebrows raised in disbelief. "Because I'm thinking it's a bad case of separation anxiety, and that isn't good, man. People might get the wrong idea if I start crying and sobbing into Grissom's t-shirt when you go grab a cup of coffee from the break room."
Nick laughs harder now, and you can't help but join in. It feels so good to smile and laugh again. You forgot how relieving it is.
Becoming serious again, he says, "Greg, you're just going through a tough time right now, and I'm the only one that's here almost all the time. It's natural to feel a bit dependant on me."
"Well, I'm sorry, all the same. I can't say it feels natural on my end, but I'm all right with it as long as you are."
"Sure thing. Just don't ever try kicking me out again."
"Wouldn't dream of it," you say with a smile. "Hey, what's the deal with getting me the night off, anyway? I'm a big boy, I can go to work."
Smirking, Nick replies, "You didn't seem like such a big boy when I had to carry you into your room and tuck you in."
Cheeks reddening, you say, "Don't even go there, Stokes. Someday you'll do something embarrassing, and I'll be there to see it. Hey, maybe I'll have the joys of carrying you into your room."
"You coming onto me, Greggo?"
"What?" Your eyes widening, you stumble, "No! I just meant…" What in the hell did you mean? "You know, like, if you ever…had a nervous breakdown, or something…"
"You'd carry me and make me feel all better?"
"No!"
Snickering, Nick playfully pushes you. You don't wince.
"Relax, G, I'm just kidding with you. Hey, let's sleep again, okay? It's two-thirty, and I'm about ready just to crash on the kitchen floor, and that isn't too comfortable."
"Speaking from experience, Nicky?"
"No, of course not. Now, would you like me to tuck you in again?"
Thanks a lot for reading number two in the trilogy! The third edition should be up soon, whenever I get the muse to write it. Thanks to everyone who gave positive response to Where Happiness Is Kept; I appreciate it immensely, and I hope this one goes well, too! Please remember to review and leave your thoughts, along with any constructive criticism you can think of!
Thanks again!