Chapter two
A post-ep for 6X05: Gum Drops that has now turned into a casefile all of its own.
Warnings: The casefile deals with the topic of sexual violence against children. I hope this topic is handled with dignity and respect, but please do not read if this will be upsetting to you.
This fic also contains sporadic bad language.
Author note: I thought this was finished at the end of part one, but it didn't seem complete until I added Nick's point of view. This is my first CSI fic, so any comments gratefully received.
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Nick watched Sara walk through the locker-room door in the direction of the lab's exit, and wished that he felt less relieved to see her go.
He could see the childhood trauma written on her face and body as clearly as if she had spoken the words aloud. He saw her eyes flash with barely-suppressed rage when she interrogated a suspected child molester; the stiffening of her spine when one of her colleagues got within touching distance; the pulse in her jaw when a rookie cop laughed too loud at a scene while a rape victim was loaded into an ambulance; and the way she tried to shield photos of the evidence of sexual violence from her male colleagues.
He felt bad for her, bad enough to ask her for breakfast after the cases that made her set her shoulders resolutely even as the life faded from her eyes.
Mixed in with the empathy, though, was a sense of frustration that she seemed no closer to reaching out for help than she had on her first day.
He knew that it was hard to discuss the issues that she was facing. He remembered forcing his disclosure to Catherine out; deliberately choosing words that were non-specific because he was afraid he would break down and cry if he had to say molested or raped. He reflected that he would never have been able to manage even that stumbling, incomplete account if she hadn't directly asked him what was going on with him.
Catherine said afterwards that he seemed perfectly calm and collected, but he could remember his terrible fear that Catherine would look at him with pity or, worse, disgust. She hadn't, though, and nor had the therapist he had forced himself to see in the weeks that followed his disclosure, or the group for male survivors that he had eventually attended.
It had been grim, those months of wading through his pain and wondering if he would ever get to the other side of his anger and grief. He remembered how all-encompassing the process had been, how the abuse had magnified and filled his vision until it seemed to be all he was and all he would be. He could still recall the feeling of clinging to his bed, almost seasick with misery, as he prayed for an end to the memories and sensations.
It was fading, though. Assuming its proper proportion as something that had happened to him, something important and influential, but not the sum total of his life's experience.
He'd spoken to Catherine once about how Sara would be a nicer person and a better colleague if she got some help. He thought he had been oblique enough in his approach to sound non-critical but Catherine had put him in his place with a comment about self-righteousness. She was right, Catherine, and he was aware that he was pushing therapy with the zeal of a convert. He also secretly admired the professionalism that kept Catherine from gossip, although his own standards were not so high. At the time he was so focused on his own childhood trauma that he was hopelessly intrigued by other people's; searching for commonality, and a sense of being part of a group.
His fascination had eventually faded, and he no longer felt the overwhelming urge to discuss his abuse with everyone he shared a friendly drink with. He was thankful that he had managed to maintain some professional boundaries, and that Catherine was the only person in the crime lab who knew what had happened to him. He had divested himself of the shame that he had felt during the course of some hard therapy sessions, but there was a time and a place for personal revelations and however much he loved his colleagues he was glad that he had kept some privacy.
Greg probably knew. One day in the middle of spring he caught Nick looking at a website for male survivors of sexual abuse. He had made so little noise when he walked in to the lab in which Nick was using the computer over lunch, and the Texan had been too absorbed in reading about flashbacks to close the browser window in time to stop Greg seeing it. The lab tech hadn't acknowledged what Nick was reading, just looked him in the eye while he let him know his Mom had called, although he had left the room and immediately returned with a rare cup of his gourmet coffee for Nick.
He was lucky, he reflected, and felt ashamed again at being so exasperated with Sara. For all he knew, she hadn't had the same advantages of a childhood full of friends and family that loved him that had shaped the character to overcome his experiences. In a flash of realisation, he thought that in all likelihood it was someone in her family or group of friends who had hurt her.
Next time, he thought, he would just come out and ask.
