Living Hell – chapter 3

by Lapsus Stili (aka. Slip-of-the-Pen )

Rating: Mature (for language and sexual content in this chapter)

Word Count: 1940-ish

Spoilers: TGTB&TD and Living Doll

Disclaimers: I'm just playing "What-If" with these borrowed characters – unfortunately they're not mine. Not even nearly.

Summary: AU. More on how tragically things could have gone after last season's finale with "Living Doll". GSR-centric.

Author's Note: Although this is NOT a character death story, it's definitely not a happy fic either. You have been warned.


Sometimes I miss working at the lab. Sometimes I miss working period, but the challenges and triumphs of being a CSI really gave me a sense of purpose and worth. These days I can't say as that I feel much of either of those things. My counselor told me I'm suffering from depression. I asked her, "Wouldn't you be, if you were in my shoes?" She never answered my question.

I know he's not trying to rush me, but lately Gil has been hinting that it might do me some good to get out of the house more, maybe come back to work. Fieldwork is obviously out of the question now, but Gil and Ecklie have put their heads together and created a role for me as a training consultant if I'm up for it. I'd be paired up with a rotation of interns from the academy to create instructional documentation and orientation manuals for the lab. My words – their typing. I guess they figure that even though my body isn't in such great shape, at least my brain can still be of some use.

I'm not sure which part freaks me out more – the fact that Ecklie is bending over backwards trying to find something I can do around the office, or that he and Gil have actually set aside their considerable differences to collaborate on my behalf. The more I think about it, the more disturbing it is either way.

Regardless, I've turned them down anyways… at least for now. At this point, the last thing I want is to be back in that environment. I love the people there, a particular entomologist especially, of course. And teaching is something that I always got a lot of satisfaction from. No, it's the subject matter I'd be immersed in again that keeps me away.

I've had enough of it all, and I've come to realize that we're really just a bunch of glorified garbage collectors. We clean up after the mess and mayhem of others, sweeping aside the horrors. It doesn't stop it from happening again, so what's the point? If anything, the crime rates continue to climb, no matter how many cases we solve or criminals we help prosecute. We can put a killer in jail tomorrow, and rest assured that someone else will commit another murder before the week is out.

Besides, I'm kind of happy just sitting around being miserable at home. Well, perhaps 'happy' is too strong a word, but I've certainly gotten quite comfortable doing just that. My days are spent in bed with Gil, sleeping when my body lets me or just laying there listening to him snoring away by my side when the dreams keep me awake. While Gil's at work most nights, I pass the time hanging around with Bruno – he's a pretty good listener, actually. The in-between time when we're both home together is filled mainly with him trying to entertain me or taking care of me in some way.

Most of the time I feel really badly for Gil. He's been so incredibly patient throughout my recovery and re-adjustment period. Every step of the way he's been there - taking me to appointments, holding my hand, and just supporting me with all his love.

He's just so glad that I survived that he doesn't see how little of me is actually left. It reminds me of a case I worked years ago. A vic was raped, beaten, shot in the head and left to die… only she didn't. She ended up in a coma instead, and the last I heard she was still hanging on in a long-term care facility over in Boulder City. I remember talking with her husband just before they transferred her, and thinking how sad it was that he seemed completely oblivious to the fact that she would never wake up. He was smiling and thanking me for all my help, and it was all I could do not to burst into tears right there in front of the poor guy.

Gil, though, has surprisingly taken all the recent changes in our life in stride – and boy, have there been some serious changes. Even before I'd been released from Desert Springs he had temporary ramps installed at the front and back doors of the house, and he moved our bedroom from upstairs down to what used to be his home office on the main floor. I never asked him to do it, and he never mentioned that he was even thinking about the change – he just did it on his own because he wanted to make things as easy as possible for me.

He was also quick to point out that first day home that these changes were only a temporary measure as he already had a lead on several bungalows around town that were wheelchair accessible. I balked as soon as he said that. For more than 15 years he had lived comfortably in that townhouse, and Gil Grissom was not a man who readily embraced change. There was no way I wanted him to have to turn his whole life upside down and give up his home for me.

I should have known that resistance was futile. While he is most certainly a creature of habit, he also has a stubborn streak a mile wide. Once he makes up his mind to do something it's generally next to impossible to get him to change his tune. It's a trait I alternately love and hate about him depending on the situation.

As such, after just 2 weeks of whirl-wind house viewings with our real estate agent, a visit to the lawyer's office, and a quick phone call to a local moving company, Gil and I found ourselves mailing out change-of-address cards regarding our new place in Green Valley.

It was sweet really, the way he morphed into my knight in shining armor, but I have to admit it made me feel like shit at the same time. Sooner or later he's going to come to his senses and realize that I have little left to offer him in our relationship now.

I feel more like a helpless infant than a loving wife nowadays. I mean, how embarrassing is it to need someone to help dress you when you're 37 years old – and let me tell you, there's nothing sexy about a man trying to put a bra onto a woman. That ranks right up there with having to be washed by your husband, too. And let's not forget the completely degrading pièce de résistance – dealing with the catheter and colostomy bag… I'm sure that's a huge thrill in Grissom's life on days when the home health assistant isn't here.

I'm nothing but a burden.

And I don't want that. Not ever. I can't stand the thought of being someone's cross to bear… especially not Gil's. He deserves far better, and I love him enough to know that I need to let him go so he can get on with his life. Find someone else who can make him happy.

I couldn't imagine him with Catherine, but maybe he could hook up with Sofia. I know nothing ever happened between the two of them but I'm not blind. We all noticed that there was a mutual interest between them when she first rolled into town. I think they'd be a good match. They both understand the demands and stresses of each other's jobs, and she has a sharp sense of humour that Grissom appreciates. And then there's her body. I don't mind admitting that I've noticed her fine physique. Of course, Gil would never in a million years complain or even comment on my less-than-ample rack, but like any hot-blooded man I'm sure he'd be thrilled with the larger handfuls that Sofia sports up top.

Gil could definitely do with getting laid more these days, too. He hasn't complained about it, but our intimate moments have certainly been few and far between since I came home. It's not that I haven't been turned on since then. On the contrary, there have been plenty of times that I've missed the physical side of our relationship. He's still the same sexy guy I married on the sly, after all. And what woman in her right mind wouldn't be thrilled to wake up to his gentle nips and kisses along the slope of her neck while her breasts were being lazily caressed beneath the sheets?

He's wakened me that way on numerous occasions. In those brief foggy moments of half-conscious arousal, it's the most natural thing in the world to tilt my head, capture his roaming lips, and proceed to kiss him like there's no tomorrow. Inevitably my hands will make their way loosely across his back, holding his warm body to mine and pretending for a moment that all is right in our lives.

I could kiss that man forever – he's that good.

Sooner or later, the bottle of lube will be snagged from the bedside table drawer. No feeling below mid-chest means no flood of moisture between my legs, no matter how badly my mind and heart want to fuck him. That little dose of reality is enough to put a slight damper on things – at least for me it does. From the looks of things as he's lining up his shaft at the entrance to my pussy after slicking me up, he's just as hard and raring to go as ever.

I only know he's sliding into me because I can see it happening. That's always the final kicker that sucks any remaining pleasure out of the moment for me. I can't feel the heat of him spreading me apart, filling me up as he buries himself in me. I can't wrap my legs around his hips and hold us tightly together. Worst of all, I can't feel that slight twitch of his cock right before his balls draw up and he bathes my insides with thick, warm cum. God, how I miss that.

I've never told Gil about any of this, though. I can't. No matter how depressed I suddenly feel, I plaster on my best "lovin' it" face for his benefit. It's bad enough his life now revolves around caring for an invalid, but I'll be damned if I'll deny him the pleasure of making love. Instead I tuck away my pain and fake enthusiasm about the whole thing.

We both know his movements in my southern region are for his benefit only and that's ok. We've talked the whole scenario to death with my doctor about how intimacy would be for us now. Still, I pretend that the rest of me is still into it. I kiss him passionately, work my tongue along his chest and tight nipples, and breathe words of love and lust in his ears. I haven't yet experienced the nipple-orgasm that some books say is possible, but Gil certainly tries his best to pleasure me as much as he can. When he finds his release, more often than not it's accompanied by tears now. He clings to me with an intense desperation as though he's afraid that I'll disappear.

Only after he's drifted off to sleep or gone to take a shower do I allow my sadness to surface and my own tears to quietly spill over. I'm ruining his life by staying, but I fear that I'll hurt him just as badly if I force him away too, even if it is for his own good.

And I keep asking myself over and over… What am I going to do?


to be continued…