Authors Note: Dedicated to 'boboskiwatin'.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
"You're fired."
The words rang in his mind as he leant heavily over the bathroom sink. It's become his new chant now: when he's washing his hands, with every new lather, you're fired, each step he takes up the stair well, you're fired, every wrinkle he irons out of his clothing, you're fired.
Making sure his towel was wrapped firmly around his waist he reached up into the medicine cabinet and grabbed his meds; something that would hopefully quell the ever present need for perfection and cleanliness, at least for a little while.
He shook the bottle roughly, expelling the last pill into his hand…
"Shit!" He cursed, throwing the bottle into the sink before rummaging around the medicine cabinet looking for another one.
Nothing, no more pills, it was his last one.
Dry swallowing the pill he stalked back into his bedroom and sunk down onto the bed. He pressed the pals of his hands into his eyes, willing away the tears, willing away the anger, the agitation, the frustration.
It was his fault, there was no one else to blame, he stuffed up on the case and he got himself fired. And now, without having had a real job for the past month he couldn't afford to buy his meds. The only comforting thought he could conjure deep in the back of his mind was that today he was going back to work and within the week he'd be payed…he could afford his meds. But that would mean almost a week without them; he'd never gone that long before, there was no way in telling just how bad it would get.
Sighing he rubs at his eyes and gets up, heading over to the wardrobe and pulling out his clothing for the day, before moving into the laundry and beginning the tedious task of ironing out every single wrinkle…visible or not.
Twenty minutes later he pulls on his pants, glad that he had gotten up an hour earlier than usual, and starts on his shirt.
Finishing breakfast he began the repetitive clean-up: rinsing the bowl, rinsing the spoon, washing the bowl, washing the spoon, rinsing the bowl, rinsing the spoon, washing the bowl, washing the spoon. Over and over again until he has rinsed and washed both items no less than 15 times each.
Ryan shook his head roughly, not caring in the slightest if he gave himself a headache; today was already a bad day, and without the medication it was bound to get worse.
Pulling on his jacket he grabbed his kit and kept his gaze to the floor, making his way out of the apartment.
He stepped in front of the elevator, and stood staring at the glowing red arrows indicating to either go up or down. He knew that if he pressed the button once, he'd have to press it again…and again…and most certainly again; so he took a deep breath and walked to the stairwell.
Left foot down, you're fired, right foot down, you're fired, left, you're fired, right, you're fired…
Finally three and a half hours after he had risen that morning Ryan stepped into the lab, breathing in the familiar and comforting scent. Maybe today wouldn't be so bad.
Entering the break room he was greeted with the sight of Calleigh and Eric, both of whom were smiling at him. Of course they were, because there was nothing wrong with the Ryan Wolfe they knew, nothing for them to worry about.
Calleigh wrapped him in a short, but tight hug, pecking him on the cheek and welcoming him back, glad that he hadn't stayed away too long. He smiled and hugged her back, trying not to think about the amount of wrinkles that would now be present in his shirt.
Reaching out after she let him go he accepted a handshake from Eric and a gentle pat on the back accompanied with a 'Congrats on the re-instatement man'. Again he smiled but this time he couldn't stop the nagging feeling at the back of his mind.
Excusing himself he hurried through the maze of hallways until he hit the staff toilets. Once inside he flew to the sink that was furtherest away from the door and proceeded to wash and re-wash his hands; all the while chanting, you're fired, welcome back, you're fired, welcome back.
A few hours later Ryan was much calmer, having been successful in avoiding almost all repetitive and un-hygienic tasks.
Calleigh smiled as she looked over her microscope at Ryan, "Fibres cotton, just you're everyday run of the mill t-shirt cotton."
"Damn it!" He growled, "That means we've got nothing."
Calleigh shook her head, "Not necessarily, grab those papers over there, ahh…26 through 32, and I'll show you something peculiar I found on them." She gestured to the lab table across from where he was standing.
Flicking through the pages he counted, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30…He stopped and let the papers drop before picking them up again, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31…Again he stopped. Dropping the papers he rubbed a hand over his eyes, agitation flowing through his veins. It was getting worse…he wasn't calm, he wasn't okay and he couldn't hide it anymore.
"Ya'll alright Ryan?" Calleigh asked, looking at the younger CSI worriedly.
He pulled in a shaky breath and looked at her, "Ah…you know what," he cleared his throat, "I don't, I don't think I am."