A/N: Thank you for the reviews. I really appreciate them all; they make my day.
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Grissom sat his desk. It's amazing how we perceive a room to be quiet, but it never is.
You only realise that when the minute sounds are drowned out. Then visual perceptions become the main focus.
You notice how the draft from the almost-shut window moves the papers on the edge of your desk.
You feel isolated. Everyone is sharing something; sound, and you have a method of understanding the world taken away.
But sound wasn't necessary.
You can tell when a member of your own team is upset. You can see it in their eyes; the way they compose themselves.
The way they breathe.
But sound is important. Sight alerts us that there is something wrong, sound tells us what it is.
Grissom knew that Greg was going to enter his office, before he did; maybe even before Greg knew he would.
And when the sound returns; its like re-joining the world. And you forget the moment of absence.
And although you know you can adapt to a life without sound.
You're grateful for its return.
But of course, sound never went away.
You did.
"Griss," Greg said quietly, entering the room. Light danced upon the rims of his eyes, where the tears were forming.
"Sit down," Grissom said, escalating concern appearing on his face.
Ever since the accident, Grissom had felt much concern about Greg. Being involved in an explosion must be traumatic for anyone; returning to the scene of the explosion, must only worsen the feelings.
Greg sat down, his nervousness echoed by his restless façade. That's another problem with diseases. You never know if a new symptom is real, or simply anxiety.
To be lost between not knowing if your condition is worsening, or you're just getting more anxious.
"What is it?" Grissom questioned, very aware of Greg's hypersensitive movements.
Greg searched for the words, looked above him, looked below. Finally, he just looked at Grissom, and gave him a helpless smile. Greg always felt nervous around Grissom.
Grissom saw the confusion, the helplessness in Greg's eyes, he looked to his hands, placed on either knee.
"They stopped shaking," he observed.
Greg smiled, holding back the tears, feeling the knot in his stomach tighten, feeling the fire-like burning down his body.
The indecision; to tell, or not to tell. He'd hidden his condition quite successfully so far.
When you're only around people for 12 hours of the day, and most of that time they're on assignments; and the times they do see you, all they care about is the evidence, they only see you for fleeting moments, then you're alone again.
Greg sighed. It would be easier to think that's all they cared about; easier to think that they wouldn't care he was sick.
"They'll start again," Greg said with certainty. Greg looked down to them, and flexed his hands in unison.
You know you have control now.
But later, something else will control them.
Grissom looked at Greg, questioning his statement. Greg was rarely cryptic, but when he was, it revealed a whole new level to him.
Greg saw the questioning, and exhaled sharply. The fire of indecision turned into a pain of regretted with each word.
"I have Parkinson's" Greg said, his tone deceiving. It sounded like the most natural thing in the world to say, but inside, it felt so, sad and unreal.
Grissom closed his eyes, trying to absorb the information he'd been presented with.
He opened his eyes; saddened with disbelief, "how long?" he blurted out.
"A while," Greg said, slightly afraid of Grissom's reaction. Greg only wanted one thing from this conversation.
An answer.
But he didn't even know how to phrase the question.
And the answer he wanted, he knew he might not receive.
Grissom couldn't help to cast a look of pity over Greg. He knew what it was like to have a degenerative disease; but at least he had warning.
Greg had done something Grissom felt he could never do; confide in someone.
Greg sighed, he felt awkward in the silence, he was always desperate to break silence between him and Grissom.
Greg felt that Grissom analysed him, Greg was always afraid Grissom may see something in him, something that even he didn't know about.
And he may judge him.
"Are you taking anything?" Grissom enquired, dealing with a crisis the only way he knew how. Obtaining information on it.
"I've been given drugs." Greg said, suddenly becoming very self-confident. He felt ashamed. He didn't want to be questioned like this. Yet, he couldn't leave; he needed to know, he needed to ask his question.
Could he continue being a 'lab rat.'
"Are they working?" Grissom said, trying not to sound to hopeful.
"I haven't really been taking them," Greg quietly admitted. Something about taking a drug, which had side effects that seemed to be endless, was scary, scarier than the actual condition.
"Greg! You can't hope this will go away!" Grissom exclaimed, but seeing the look in Greg's eyes softened his response.
Grissom knew he was being hypocritical. He hoped that his condition would go away; irrational thinking. But now, he knew, he couldn't project his medical condition onto Greg.
They were two separate things.
Grissom's best way of coping was to compartmentalise.
Separate yourself.
Home.
Work.
People.
"I know that Grissom! I will take them! It's just……I want to know if I can still work……with this." Greg said shakily.
"You said it hasn't affected your work so far?" Grissom questioned.
"No, but we both know that it probably will eventually." Greg said defeated. He didn't want false hope. He didn't want to give false hope either.
"Take your medication Greg. Carry on working; trial basis. We'll just play this by ear," Grissom said, trying to sound positive.
"I will." He responded, Greg knew he would have to take the drug cocktail sooner or later. "Could you, erm, find out for me what it says in departmental rules about…Parkinson's?" Greg didn't want to ask for Grissom's help, but he knew he needed it.
"There are no definite rules Greg, Parkinson's isn't always fully affecting an individual all the time, so it's taken on a case-by-case basis." Grissom said knowledgably.
"How do you know all about the disabilities rules act?" Greg said, with a puzzled expression.
"I just do," Grissom replied coolly.
Greg lightly smiled at grissom, "Thanks Grissom. I appreciate this," before departing.
Grissom sighed sadly, and opened a draw in his desk.
He pulled out a book, "Departmental procedures," its spine was worn, and the pages were slightly curled, indicating its frequent use.
Grissom opened it to a previously marked page, "Disabilities in the workplace," and began to read the text that he'd read so many times before.
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Please review.
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Grissom sat his desk. It's amazing how we perceive a room to be quiet, but it never is.
You only realise that when the minute sounds are drowned out. Then visual perceptions become the main focus.
You notice how the draft from the almost-shut window moves the papers on the edge of your desk.
You feel isolated. Everyone is sharing something; sound, and you have a method of understanding the world taken away.
But sound wasn't necessary.
You can tell when a member of your own team is upset. You can see it in their eyes; the way they compose themselves.
The way they breathe.
But sound is important. Sight alerts us that there is something wrong, sound tells us what it is.
Grissom knew that Greg was going to enter his office, before he did; maybe even before Greg knew he would.
And when the sound returns; its like re-joining the world. And you forget the moment of absence.
And although you know you can adapt to a life without sound.
You're grateful for its return.
But of course, sound never went away.
You did.
"Griss," Greg said quietly, entering the room. Light danced upon the rims of his eyes, where the tears were forming.
"Sit down," Grissom said, escalating concern appearing on his face.
Ever since the accident, Grissom had felt much concern about Greg. Being involved in an explosion must be traumatic for anyone; returning to the scene of the explosion, must only worsen the feelings.
Greg sat down, his nervousness echoed by his restless façade. That's another problem with diseases. You never know if a new symptom is real, or simply anxiety.
To be lost between not knowing if your condition is worsening, or you're just getting more anxious.
"What is it?" Grissom questioned, very aware of Greg's hypersensitive movements.
Greg searched for the words, looked above him, looked below. Finally, he just looked at Grissom, and gave him a helpless smile. Greg always felt nervous around Grissom.
Grissom saw the confusion, the helplessness in Greg's eyes, he looked to his hands, placed on either knee.
"They stopped shaking," he observed.
Greg smiled, holding back the tears, feeling the knot in his stomach tighten, feeling the fire-like burning down his body.
The indecision; to tell, or not to tell. He'd hidden his condition quite successfully so far.
When you're only around people for 12 hours of the day, and most of that time they're on assignments; and the times they do see you, all they care about is the evidence, they only see you for fleeting moments, then you're alone again.
Greg sighed. It would be easier to think that's all they cared about; easier to think that they wouldn't care he was sick.
"They'll start again," Greg said with certainty. Greg looked down to them, and flexed his hands in unison.
You know you have control now.
But later, something else will control them.
Grissom looked at Greg, questioning his statement. Greg was rarely cryptic, but when he was, it revealed a whole new level to him.
Greg saw the questioning, and exhaled sharply. The fire of indecision turned into a pain of regretted with each word.
"I have Parkinson's" Greg said, his tone deceiving. It sounded like the most natural thing in the world to say, but inside, it felt so, sad and unreal.
Grissom closed his eyes, trying to absorb the information he'd been presented with.
He opened his eyes; saddened with disbelief, "how long?" he blurted out.
"A while," Greg said, slightly afraid of Grissom's reaction. Greg only wanted one thing from this conversation.
An answer.
But he didn't even know how to phrase the question.
And the answer he wanted, he knew he might not receive.
Grissom couldn't help to cast a look of pity over Greg. He knew what it was like to have a degenerative disease; but at least he had warning.
Greg had done something Grissom felt he could never do; confide in someone.
Greg sighed, he felt awkward in the silence, he was always desperate to break silence between him and Grissom.
Greg felt that Grissom analysed him, Greg was always afraid Grissom may see something in him, something that even he didn't know about.
And he may judge him.
"Are you taking anything?" Grissom enquired, dealing with a crisis the only way he knew how. Obtaining information on it.
"I've been given drugs." Greg said, suddenly becoming very self-confident. He felt ashamed. He didn't want to be questioned like this. Yet, he couldn't leave; he needed to know, he needed to ask his question.
Could he continue being a 'lab rat.'
"Are they working?" Grissom said, trying not to sound to hopeful.
"I haven't really been taking them," Greg quietly admitted. Something about taking a drug, which had side effects that seemed to be endless, was scary, scarier than the actual condition.
"Greg! You can't hope this will go away!" Grissom exclaimed, but seeing the look in Greg's eyes softened his response.
Grissom knew he was being hypocritical. He hoped that his condition would go away; irrational thinking. But now, he knew, he couldn't project his medical condition onto Greg.
They were two separate things.
Grissom's best way of coping was to compartmentalise.
Separate yourself.
Home.
Work.
People.
"I know that Grissom! I will take them! It's just……I want to know if I can still work……with this." Greg said shakily.
"You said it hasn't affected your work so far?" Grissom questioned.
"No, but we both know that it probably will eventually." Greg said defeated. He didn't want false hope. He didn't want to give false hope either.
"Take your medication Greg. Carry on working; trial basis. We'll just play this by ear," Grissom said, trying to sound positive.
"I will." He responded, Greg knew he would have to take the drug cocktail sooner or later. "Could you, erm, find out for me what it says in departmental rules about…Parkinson's?" Greg didn't want to ask for Grissom's help, but he knew he needed it.
"There are no definite rules Greg, Parkinson's isn't always fully affecting an individual all the time, so it's taken on a case-by-case basis." Grissom said knowledgably.
"How do you know all about the disabilities rules act?" Greg said, with a puzzled expression.
"I just do," Grissom replied coolly.
Greg lightly smiled at grissom, "Thanks Grissom. I appreciate this," before departing.
Grissom sighed sadly, and opened a draw in his desk.
He pulled out a book, "Departmental procedures," its spine was worn, and the pages were slightly curled, indicating its frequent use.
Grissom opened it to a previously marked page, "Disabilities in the workplace," and began to read the text that he'd read so many times before.
+_+_+_
Please review.