A/N: I hope this format works for people. I'm trying to write these stories so that they could be read separately, but still intertwining, if that makes sense. Also, trying to make sure the same information is given in each story, but in a separate and interesting way.
Thanks to happyharper13 and Blatantly Jennifer for the reviews!
Warnings: Slash. Angst.
Disclaimer: CSI belongs to CBS and Bruckheimer Productions, not me.
All the King's Men
2.
Is it weird that this was the first day I was ever mad at him? I've been mad at the situation, mad at the job, mad at the world that kept pressing down on him until he couldn't bear the weight anymore, but I wasn't mad at him until he gave up. I was okay with waiting around for him to realize that he didn't have to go through everything alone, and I was okay with waiting for him to ask for help, and I was even okay with it if he asked someone else for help, because I knew he'd come back to me.
But I guess I didn't know anything at all.
And I'm feeling all that anger that my therapist has been trying to get me to talk about, but I couldn't talk about it before it was there, right? It feels like I've been pissed all day, and I hate that I'm blaming him but it's really his fault!
It started when I tried to talk to him in the locker room. Just talk, and not even about anything important, even though he had that blank look that he's been trying to hide lately. And he gave up trying, I guess.
All I said was, "Hey, G, wanna come over? Watch a movie or something?"
And he looked at me and I knew, I knew that he was going to say yes. He was finally going to let me back in; finally start working towards being the old Greg, or at least not the shell that's been wandering the halls of the crime lab lately. And then something flickered in his eyes, and it all fell apart.
"I'm sorry, Nicky. I don't think I'll ever be me again. Or maybe 'me' is just someone very different than I used to be. I'm not going be ready for you. I'm sorry. You should find someone else, move on. We both have to move on."
I just stood there, while he shot me straight through the heart, and I watched him walk away from me, from us, and I didn't stop him. If I had, maybe it'd be different now. I should have stopped him, should have grabbed him and held him and not let him go, and I'm mad at him for what he said but I'm really more mad at myself for not seeing what was happening. I should have stopped him, but instead I just stood there for I don't even know how long, until Gris walked by and saw me.
You know, I don't think he's even noticed the tension between me and Greg. Our working relationship is just fine; I think we might even be more efficient working together because Greg's trying to spend as little time as possible with me. So of course his conclusion, on seeing me standing there, was that I was having some sort of "recently buried alive" freak-out episode. Told me to go home, call my therapist, and get some rest. And he asked if he should call Greg to take care of me.
I couldn't explain to him that Greg wouldn't be there, that Greg was the reason I was… well, breaking down in the locker room, I guess. So I just thanked him, and headed home.
Is it weird that I still keep Greg's drawers in the dresser empty? Ready and waiting for him to come back and fill them with crazy boxers and t-shirts and socks and jeans. There's still space for all his stuff in the closet, still room on the shelves for his books and CDs, and most of the bathroom counter's empty and waiting for his clutter to come back.
I slept some, a few hours. My phone ringing woke me up. There really wasn't anyone who should be calling me then, unless I was getting called in to work early. Which wouldn't make sense, since Gris thought I was in the middle of a freak-out. Anyone else would know I was sleeping. So, dammit, that meant I had to answer.
"Stokes. This better be important."
"Nick, it's Sara. You need to come to the hospital. Desert Palms."
"Hospital? What—"
"It's Greg."