Not Waving But Drowning
Based on a poem of the same title by Stevie Smith
Disclaimer: I don't own CSI. If I did, I could afford a proper holiday in Mexico instead of earning a pittance teaching English.
Rating: T: mentions death/depression
Author note: This is my first stab at CSI fanfic, so please review.
Catherine walked into the break-room and stopped, surprised. She had thought no-one else was in there, but Nick was sitting quietly at the table. Unusually, he didn't have the TV on. Even more unusually, he was reading a book.
"Hey Nicky," she smiled, and he looked up, startled, before smiling back.
"Hey Catherine."
"How's it going?" she asked, more to make conversation than anything.
"Oh, fine, fine." He was still smiling.
Later that night she passed the break-room again and saw Nick's book lying on the table. Curious, she picked it up, noting that it was an anthology of poetry. One page seemed more worn than the rest, the spine creased in a way that made it fall open easily so that she could read of a dead man's silent agony at the blindness of those who thought they knew him, that they hadn't seen that he was 'too far out all my life/ And not waving, but drowning.'
She looked up as Nick passed the door. He smiled and waved. Numbly, she waved back.