Disclaimer: Not mine…uh huh.
Claimer: I own all of Greg's family.
Author's Notes: Okay, so my friend Gab sent me an e-mail pleading for a Greg-centric fic. I have never done one before, nor had I even thought of attempting one. But I did and this was the end result. As you can see, it's a WIP because it's being writing five minutes at a time during my couch, letting my butt expand and my poor ankle heal up. Will it be finished? Yes. Do I know when? Heck no. Because I've got Ancillae and Solace and Heather Hidden to finish writing.
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Tentative
Chapter One
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"Grow up, Greg." Warrick told me the beginning of this shift. He was upset, true, and I normally don't take those words to heart. But it pained deep.
Burned deep in my gut like my lighters used to when I'd burn them into my once-pure skin.
I don't know why I started hurting myself, but it lasted seven of the longest years of my life. Then one day it just stopped, because Sara was noticing when the wounds would chaff within the confines of my shirt.
I still get the urge to do it again. Everyday. In the shower, in the car, in the middle of the fucking lab. But I don't give in to the urge anymore. Or I haven't yet.
"Grow up, Greg."
Oh, but I am grown up. I grew up long before I had to.
I had to defend myself against others when they accused me of being a science geek, because, yes, I did get teased even though I was a popular boy. I had to learn to cook for myself because my parents weren't the best in the world, even when they weren't drunk. They weren't alcoholics, just habitual drunks. My twin sister was always being picked on because of her hand-me-down tomboy clothes, as were my younger brothers, so I had to discover quickly how to fight for them.
Petty squabbles. Bloody fists. A combination that no child should wield, except I did as there was me, the oldest son who was the most responsible in the family, and no one else. Our grandparents on both sides remain in Russia; my uncles and aunts scattered worldwide, though none live in the states. It's just us here, no support aside from the monetary supplements that my grandfather sends to us every week, once or twice depending on the time of year.
I grew up to care for my siblings so they'd survive past childhood. I didn't get to play games like soccer or flag football until I was a sophomore in high school, didn't get to go out on dates, or even have a car because if I did, it'd be a driveway adornment as I was too broke to pay for gas.
"Greg?"
I look up and see Catherine looking me, as I had begun tracing a burn pattern through my lab coat. I stare a little nervously at her, hoping my defense mechanisms fall into place asap.
"You okay?"
Nod numbly and dumbly, "But of course!" There's got to be a fake smile plastered on my face now, to make her see that I'm acting…normally. Well, as normal as I've portrayed myself to be.
She peaks an eyebrow as she only can, and sighs, "Alright. I need results on this as soon as possible." The blonde hands me a bit of gray-blue paint, then eyes me before leaving. She can't decide if I'm lying or not but there's nothing she can do since I am an adult and not Lindsay or any other person she can order information from with a flick of her tongue.
Standing there watching her leave I wonder when I became two people. When I became Greggo, the Las Vegas crime lab tech, and Luka Gregori, the oldest son of a Norwegian-Russian family that I had abandoned.
Probably happened the day Evdokia and I graduated from UC Berkley, when I packed up and moved; when my twin sister kissed my cheek and held our youngest brother, Aleksey, in her arms while my other brother, Nikolai, waved goodbye, pearly tears dripping down each of their cheeks. I haven't seen any of my siblings once in the five years that I've been away.
I start the mass spec on the sample Cath gave me, and sit back on my stool. Think about how my life changed so radically from what it could have been. Perhaps I should've taken my grandfather's offer to move back to Russia when I graduated college, should've gone to work at the distillery.
Warrick walks past, glances in at me and stops in his tracks, "Greggo? You alright, man?" He asks like he didn't argue with me this morning. Like he didn't yell at me for an hour while I listened and let him rant, then turned on me when he was still angry and devoid of anything to be mad at. Like he's a good friend who knows who I am.
"Never better." The forced grin's returned like it's got a mind of its own. I've gotten good at maintaining this ruse for the others; it keeps them happy to think that I am exactly what I seem to be.
He nods, continues toward the break room without another question. At least Catherine stuck around for a few minutes and gave me something to do.
Tiredly, I watch the clock. There's five minutes left before I can get the hell out of this lab and away from people who know nothing. Maybe I can call my brother tonight. His graduation is coming up; I should call. He left a message on my twenty-eighth birthday, wishing me 'much vodka and a happy night' in the Russian our grandfather taught us as toddlers.
Four minutes.
Thank heavens.
The machinery whirrs on around me, and Archie's looking at me through the glass confines of his whole audio-visual sector. He mouths something at me. I can't tell what the hell he's saying, however, so I smile and nod and pretend to be working.
Then there's a voice behind me, "Greg, what's your full name?" Sara asks, staring at a piece of paper.
"You know my name." I retort.
She rolls her eyes, "I need it for it for this thing that the county's making up for the lab. Some sort of plaque." She finally lets herself look at me, and I see she's lying, but I'll humor her anyway because she's my friend. Or I like to think she is.
Okay, so I wish she were.
"G-r-e-g-o-r-i Sanders."
"What's your middle name?" She begs to know almost. I seriously wonder if I should be questioning her motives, except I don't, choosing to tell her the information she seeks.
"L-u-k-a." I spell it swiftly and remember a time before I started going by my grandmother's maiden name, a time that I was still known as Luka Gregori Petrov, the son of Ivan and Margot. Evdokia still goes by Petrova, Niko's a Petrov, but all the rest use Sanders. We're too ashamed to remain with our father's name.
The brunette gives me a genuine gaze, "It's a nice name."
I relent and reply that it is, turning to the scope. She's gone, near-silent, with the slight pitter-patter of her sneakers where they grace the monochromatic linoleum. No word of exiting, no praise for the work I do day in and day out, often working overtime with dayshift's tech so they can finish their cases as soon as they can.
Ingrates.
Two minutes.
One of my tests spews out results for Grissom, yet I don't page him. I stuff the results into my back pocket, run for the locker room and change, slip on my open-toed, leather sandals. Throw my lab coat into the metal encasement.
I don't want to be here anymore. I won't do overtime for them ever again.
They don't deserve it.
There's a picture of Aleksey and his twin sister, Tassie, taped up on the door from their birthday. They're six now, and they still don't know who I am – which I don't blame them for since they were just a year old the last time they saw me.
Because I chose to leave them.
"Cute kids. Cousins?" Nick implores from behind me.
Don't these people know how to knock?! It's called common decency to warn other people when you're about to enter a room there could possibly be nudity going on.
"Siblings." I don't turn to face him. Instead I retrieve the picture of my family from the reunion this January. It was in my family's ancestral home in Archangel, at the distillery my grandfather owns. Everyone's lined up in birth order (sans me) and smiling, even though they're wearing heavy coats and boots to their knees.
I point out each one as I relay their names, "That's my twin sister, Evdokia, but everyone calls her Kia. Then Kiev, Mikhail, Fyodor, Peter, and Nikolai." He nods at each, "And the blonde with the two little kids is my mother. The boy's Aleksey and the girl's Tassie." I try to stroke their hair through the gloss finished flash of time.
"Where's your dad?"
"He's…uh…too sick to travel anymore. He couldn't go. He stayed with me for the two weeks Mama was away." I replace the sleek image in its place, parked between a notebook's blank pages. Where it communicates with other images of my family and old friends from the past, now nearly-forgotten.
"I'm sorry." He trips out, leans up against the lockers, "Is he…"
"He's doing okay. 's not like he has to do much nowadays. Retired once I got out of college." I finger the necklace I keep under my shirt, "My grandfather pays for everything now. He knows Papa's got precious time left so he makes sure that no one has to worry. There's food and clothes and all the other things people need.
"We don't
want him to die crying." Suddenly the fact that someone in the department now
knows about my family hits hard, "Sorry.
I shouldn't have told you that." I apologize, profuse with thick-balled
emotion.
Stokes lays a hand on my
shoulder, "It's okay.
Everyone gets homesick. If you
ever need to talk, you know where to find me."
"Sure." I pull the paper from my pocket, "Could you give this to Grissom? I'm exhausted and I don't want to deal with him."
He takes it, "Get some sleep and call home." He instructs, rubs my neck like Kiev did when I was too sick to move, and takes his leave. I want to call him back and beg for some more time to talk, but I need to escape this lab and its occupants before I lose my fucking mind.
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*v* Cassie Jamie *v*
csimiami@cassie-jamie.com
