Author's notes: Thanks to those who reviewed/favourited this story! Here's the second chapter – not sure what sort of updating schedule I should keep, but I'll try not to leave you hanging for too long.
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.
When Greg's panic had receded, and Nick had composed himself enough to deal with the situation – once his overwhelming need to just hold onto Greg and reassure him that he hadn't lost him, not yet, had been overcome – the older man reluctantly withdrew a little. Though their desperate embrace seemed to last an eternity, the real time had been short, and Greg was still losing blood – too much, c'mon Stokes, get it together, stop the bleeding.
Nick's attempts to fetch the first-aid kit were soon thwarted, as Greg returned to his previous near-catatonic state, refusing to relinquish the comfort of his boyfriend's presence for as much as a second.
"Greg, seriously darlin', you've gotta help me out here… some of these're pretty bad. God, maybe we should take you to a hospital…"
The object of his concern awoke from his stupor at the last comment, emphatically dissenting, and raising Nick's concern to yet higher levels by shaking his head and visibly becoming dizzy as a result.
"No… please Nicky, can we just go… go home?"
One glance at the large brown eyes, beseeching and beguiling, and Nick knew there'd be no impromptu visits to the hospital that evening. Tiredness crept in, in the wake of the adrenaline surge and the returning despair over his lover's current state of mind, and he hated his own weakness in being inclined to agree.
He sighed.
"Ok… but we've gotta get you a little cleaned up before we go dripping blood on the car seats, yeah buddy?"
The attempt at levity seemed misplaced, and he regretted having forced it out.
"But, Greggo… I said I wanted to talk tonight, and I mean it… and I think, after tonight, hell, that talk is way overdue, don't you?"
Greg's lips thinned and his gaze became downcast; nonetheless, he eventually, and reluctantly, nodded. Nick tightened his grip on the thin shoulders, squeezing reassuringly, before awkwardly maneuvering the both of them into an upright stance.
Doubt once again besieged Nick as his lover slumped weakly against him at the change in altitude, Greg's dull brown eyes briefly losing their focus; but then, as though sensing his internal debate, Greg stubbornly righted himself, looking Nick directly in the eyes (and hasn't Nick reflected it been a long time since he willingly did that?), and reaffirming;
"No hospital."
There was a pause, and a two sighs echoed in the cold and empty room.
"Let's get you cleaned up a bit, sweetheart. Then home, where we can… talk."
"… yeah."
Nick then proceeded to drag the light-headed lab-rat to the nearest first-aid station in the maze of laboratories; the distance was short, but to the two emotionally overwrought men it seemed an eternity. The worse of the injuries on Greg's forearms – and Nick realised, with a sinking feeling, that he probably had more elsewhere… God, how how HOW did I miss this? – were bandaged efficiently but quickly, sufficient for the ride back to their now shared apartment.
Greg dizzily clung to Nick as they wove their way through the maze of the CSI laboratories; fortunately, the building's deserted status meant no awkward questions about this notable closeness – or why Greg was wavering on his feet, shirt and slacks streaked with blood.
Nick was so intently focused on safely conveying his precious cargo that he almost walked into the side of his Denali; he turned to share a smile at the action, but when he glimpsed his boyfriend's face he was reminded that there had been precious little humour in Greg's world lately.
And tonight only confirms that – why didn't I notice how bad things had become? Why did it take Greggo slashing himself up to make me realise?
As if sensing Nick's self-deprecating thoughts, Greg seemed to startle back into awareness, seeking out Nick's large hand and squeezing it tight. The younger man's attempt at a smile was a pale shadow, a memory of his once-lighthearted grin, but it was an attempt nonetheless. Nick doubted that his reciprocal smile was any better, but it was a start.
The ride back to their apartment stretched into eternity, and was as silent as the blackest regions of space; with the radio off and both of the men lost in their own thoughts, the trip was a blur that neither really recalled afterwards.
Fuck. Now he knows. Greg's thoughts played in a loop of despairing self-loathing. He knows how weak and pathetic and cowardly and fucked up his boyfriend is. He knows. He knows and now he'll want nothing to do with me, oh God. He'll leave, why would he want to be anywhere near a pathetic psycho like me?
Sitting next to him (yet an immeasurable distance away, lost in his own world as he was), Nick's thoughts were similarly fearful;
Does this mean he doesn't trust me? God, please Greggo, don't shut me out, let me help, God I'm so sorry I didn't see, that I didn't want to see. The Texan exhaled slowly, trying to gather his thoughts into some semblance of order. What if he hid this from me because he doesn't think I care? Or… Oh, fuck, God, what if he hid it because… because he wanted to keep going, maybe even go that final step, without me knowing?
Nick reached across that immense space between them, and grasped Greg's chilled hand within his own warm one. Twining their fingers together, he resolved himself; one way or another, tonight would bring answers, and, he hoped, resolution and the beginnings of healing.
The blonde DNA technician felt the darkness that plagued him (constantly, these days) lift a little at the familiar, comforting clasping of hands by the man he loved.
Maybe, maybe, maybe things could be ok again.
