Ah, the second quote. That was actually from my story "Introduction to
Management." By no means did you have to read that story first, because
all the references I make to it are pretty self-explanatory. Anyway, even
in that story, it was a flashback, because Grissom was sitting on the roof
when Greg brought him coffee and Grissom flashed back to when he had
snapped at Greg earlier.
Yeah, I'm a sucker for cheap angst.
Okay, cute little filler post here - -
**
Chapter Ten: In Limbo
**
Grissom always thought that this would make him happy.
He wasn't quite sure how many times he had looked at Greg's hair and wished that the boy would find a decent hairstylist or perhaps become prematurely bald, but he was sure it was in the hundreds. More than once, his fingers had itched to take a pair of scissors in hand and tame the lab tech's unruly hair, and had even briefly considered offering Greg a raise if he would perhaps acquaint himself with a more respectable style. Certainly he would have been pleased at the thought of Greg offering no resistance while Grissom cut his hair however he felt like cutting it.
And now he was standing over a sleeping Greg with a pair of scissors in his hand, and he couldn't even bring his shaking hands to make the first damn cut. Stupidly, he found himself talking aloud to Greg, as if he could soothe him through the coma and whatever dark dreams were bothering him. As if what Greg had most to fear in the world was a pair of scissors.
"I won't take much off, I promise," he said. "Just short enough so that I can comb through it and see if you hurt your head." Even his words had gone softer. Greg would have laughed at him if he'd been awake. With a sigh, Grissom settled by the pillow and made the first cut. A honey- colored lock of hair scattered right between Greg's eyes, and Grissom brushed it off with a faint chuckle. "I wish you could tell me something about your father. Maybe Ecklie's right. It's hard to believe he's part of you."
Another snip, and he found the right rhythm between cutting and talking, enough to keep his hands steady and his mind occupied.
"I wish you'd been awake before, too. We fought for you. You should have seen them - - Sara almost tackled him and Catherine told him the truth. She said that we're your family. And she told him that you were very easy to love." Snip. He wasn't really very good at this. A second career in cosmetology would not be advisable. Greg was going to look like a cast-off Marine. "Please don't kill me when you wake up, Greggo," he said. "I think we better keep the mirrors away from you for a good long while."
He was glad the door was shut. He had always wondered why someone would talk to the unconscious or the comatose, knowing that the chances of any response getting through was unlikely, but now he knew. He talked to comfort himself, to pretend that Greg wasn't just another victim, and because an unlikely chance was better than none at all. If Greg would just wake up - -
Closer to the stitches, he had to contend with the bandages, and he worked around them, twisting the scissors like a lawnmower to guide his hand over the stray hair. The fresh hair gel was sticking to the blades of his scissors.
"Going to take care of you," he said, brushing his hand over the bloodied gauze. Greg was going to need them changed soon. "No matter what. Maybe he wouldn't, but we will. You got a miracle, and you deserved it, but he doesn't deserve you."
Sentimentality, Dr. Grissom? He could almost hear Nathan's mocking voice in his head.
Well, he had lost chances at love and almost lost his life enough times that he had earned the right to be sentimental if he so chose.
A few more snicks and he settled the scissors down, neatly brushing the hair into a Ziploc bag. He didn't want to risk using the comb, for fear of tearing open a cut, so he brushed through Greg's newly-shorn hair with his fingers, parting it, feeling like a kindergarten teacher checking for lice. He checked the most obvious spots that would correlate Melissa's story first - - the front and sides, and, with a gentle sigh of effort, turned Greg so that he could go through the back. Just above the nape of the neck, he found it - - a dark-colored, brutal slash that had been hidden by soft hair. It had just scabbed over, and the doctor must have assumed that the blood had come from the bullet wound.
Greg's shorter hair made him look smaller, more fragile.
"There," he said, closing the scissors and settling them down on the side table. He pushed the buzzer next to Greg's bed to summon a nurse - - someone would have to bandage Greg up and note the wound, and he took a quick photograph of the slash.
"She didn't hit you to get you away from her," Grissom said, reasoning it out. "We knew that wasn't true, and this proves it. She hit you from behind - - from . . . side-to-side? Who would strike someone horizontally with a beer bottle?"
The nurse appeared instantly. "Dr. Grissom. Dr. Brenner said that you might stop by again. What's the problem?" She peered anxiously at Greg, then looked puzzled as she took in the short hair. "Is he . . . waking up?"
Grissom shook his head. "He has a slash just above his neck, here." He parted Greg's hair again to show her. "It'll need gauze."
Nodding, the woman pulled a roll of gauze and some antiseptics from her bag. "How did you know to look for that? No one found it checking him in. He's lucky that it's just ugly, not serious."
"He's not lucky," Grissom said sharply. "If he was lucky. . ."
"Oh. Yes. He wouldn't be here. I'm sorry."
"No, it's my fault." Grissom wanted nothing more then to get home, case be damned, just head home, shower, and pass out on his bed. He wanted his migraine medication and a book. "I lost my temper and I apologize. It's just . . . It's been a very, very long day for me."
The nurse finished bandaging the cut. "I understand."
He wanted to ask her what the odds were on Greg's survival - - wanted to ask if Nathan Sanders had been telling the truth when he said that the chances were three-in-five that Greg wasn't even going to make it out of the week. He wondered, absently, if it was the kind of question he could ask Warrick.
Instead, he just held out his hand. "It's been nice to meet you. Thank you for helping him."
She took his hand briefly and then went back to packing up her kit. "I hope he makes it, sir."
"So do I," Grissom said heavily, and then remembered the other reason he had come to the hospital. "Can you tell me where I can have some medical bills evaluated and transferred?"
"Dr. Adams on the third floor. He's been covering that for the last few years."
He thanked her and stood. There was something that had to be said to Greg, at least, something that had to be said for Grissom's sake, at least, but he didn't have any words. The connection that had come before, with the whole team presence, had vanished. He didn't feel stable. He felt cut off, drifting, aimless. Drowning, with no one to pull him either up or further down.
The Catholic in him wondered about purgatory.
When he found Dr. Adams, he made the arrangements hastily, and invented reasons why he wanted Greg's bills charged to him. Insurance had covered the surgery but not the continuing support, and Grissom transcribed all of his account numbers. It was fine - - his credit was assured. He might not have been a rich man, but he had been saving his money for more years than Greg had been alive, and he didn't know what he would have done with it anyway.
"Is there anything I can do to help him?"
Dr. Adams was blunt; pragmatic. "No. There isn't."
"Nothing?"
"You're paying to keep him alive and stable." Adams finished entering the account numbers into his computer and closed the laptop with a click. "Outside of that, there's nothing anyone can do right now. The patient may or may not wake up, that's uncertain now. Maybe it's up to him, maybe it's not up to anyone. But it certainly isn't up to you."
"I'm going to find out who did this to him." Grissom wondered how many times he had made that promise, to himself or someone else, since Brass had first dropped the bombshell. The number seemed to be in the hundreds. Every time he turned around, he was guaranteeing an answer to the mystery, and he knew it, but there was nothing else to say.
He was sure that it was true. Not sure that Greg would live, not sure if Greg would wake up, and not even sure if he could afford to keep Greg alive for long if he didn't.
But he could always do his job.
Yeah, I'm a sucker for cheap angst.
Okay, cute little filler post here - -
**
Chapter Ten: In Limbo
**
Grissom always thought that this would make him happy.
He wasn't quite sure how many times he had looked at Greg's hair and wished that the boy would find a decent hairstylist or perhaps become prematurely bald, but he was sure it was in the hundreds. More than once, his fingers had itched to take a pair of scissors in hand and tame the lab tech's unruly hair, and had even briefly considered offering Greg a raise if he would perhaps acquaint himself with a more respectable style. Certainly he would have been pleased at the thought of Greg offering no resistance while Grissom cut his hair however he felt like cutting it.
And now he was standing over a sleeping Greg with a pair of scissors in his hand, and he couldn't even bring his shaking hands to make the first damn cut. Stupidly, he found himself talking aloud to Greg, as if he could soothe him through the coma and whatever dark dreams were bothering him. As if what Greg had most to fear in the world was a pair of scissors.
"I won't take much off, I promise," he said. "Just short enough so that I can comb through it and see if you hurt your head." Even his words had gone softer. Greg would have laughed at him if he'd been awake. With a sigh, Grissom settled by the pillow and made the first cut. A honey- colored lock of hair scattered right between Greg's eyes, and Grissom brushed it off with a faint chuckle. "I wish you could tell me something about your father. Maybe Ecklie's right. It's hard to believe he's part of you."
Another snip, and he found the right rhythm between cutting and talking, enough to keep his hands steady and his mind occupied.
"I wish you'd been awake before, too. We fought for you. You should have seen them - - Sara almost tackled him and Catherine told him the truth. She said that we're your family. And she told him that you were very easy to love." Snip. He wasn't really very good at this. A second career in cosmetology would not be advisable. Greg was going to look like a cast-off Marine. "Please don't kill me when you wake up, Greggo," he said. "I think we better keep the mirrors away from you for a good long while."
He was glad the door was shut. He had always wondered why someone would talk to the unconscious or the comatose, knowing that the chances of any response getting through was unlikely, but now he knew. He talked to comfort himself, to pretend that Greg wasn't just another victim, and because an unlikely chance was better than none at all. If Greg would just wake up - -
Closer to the stitches, he had to contend with the bandages, and he worked around them, twisting the scissors like a lawnmower to guide his hand over the stray hair. The fresh hair gel was sticking to the blades of his scissors.
"Going to take care of you," he said, brushing his hand over the bloodied gauze. Greg was going to need them changed soon. "No matter what. Maybe he wouldn't, but we will. You got a miracle, and you deserved it, but he doesn't deserve you."
Sentimentality, Dr. Grissom? He could almost hear Nathan's mocking voice in his head.
Well, he had lost chances at love and almost lost his life enough times that he had earned the right to be sentimental if he so chose.
A few more snicks and he settled the scissors down, neatly brushing the hair into a Ziploc bag. He didn't want to risk using the comb, for fear of tearing open a cut, so he brushed through Greg's newly-shorn hair with his fingers, parting it, feeling like a kindergarten teacher checking for lice. He checked the most obvious spots that would correlate Melissa's story first - - the front and sides, and, with a gentle sigh of effort, turned Greg so that he could go through the back. Just above the nape of the neck, he found it - - a dark-colored, brutal slash that had been hidden by soft hair. It had just scabbed over, and the doctor must have assumed that the blood had come from the bullet wound.
Greg's shorter hair made him look smaller, more fragile.
"There," he said, closing the scissors and settling them down on the side table. He pushed the buzzer next to Greg's bed to summon a nurse - - someone would have to bandage Greg up and note the wound, and he took a quick photograph of the slash.
"She didn't hit you to get you away from her," Grissom said, reasoning it out. "We knew that wasn't true, and this proves it. She hit you from behind - - from . . . side-to-side? Who would strike someone horizontally with a beer bottle?"
The nurse appeared instantly. "Dr. Grissom. Dr. Brenner said that you might stop by again. What's the problem?" She peered anxiously at Greg, then looked puzzled as she took in the short hair. "Is he . . . waking up?"
Grissom shook his head. "He has a slash just above his neck, here." He parted Greg's hair again to show her. "It'll need gauze."
Nodding, the woman pulled a roll of gauze and some antiseptics from her bag. "How did you know to look for that? No one found it checking him in. He's lucky that it's just ugly, not serious."
"He's not lucky," Grissom said sharply. "If he was lucky. . ."
"Oh. Yes. He wouldn't be here. I'm sorry."
"No, it's my fault." Grissom wanted nothing more then to get home, case be damned, just head home, shower, and pass out on his bed. He wanted his migraine medication and a book. "I lost my temper and I apologize. It's just . . . It's been a very, very long day for me."
The nurse finished bandaging the cut. "I understand."
He wanted to ask her what the odds were on Greg's survival - - wanted to ask if Nathan Sanders had been telling the truth when he said that the chances were three-in-five that Greg wasn't even going to make it out of the week. He wondered, absently, if it was the kind of question he could ask Warrick.
Instead, he just held out his hand. "It's been nice to meet you. Thank you for helping him."
She took his hand briefly and then went back to packing up her kit. "I hope he makes it, sir."
"So do I," Grissom said heavily, and then remembered the other reason he had come to the hospital. "Can you tell me where I can have some medical bills evaluated and transferred?"
"Dr. Adams on the third floor. He's been covering that for the last few years."
He thanked her and stood. There was something that had to be said to Greg, at least, something that had to be said for Grissom's sake, at least, but he didn't have any words. The connection that had come before, with the whole team presence, had vanished. He didn't feel stable. He felt cut off, drifting, aimless. Drowning, with no one to pull him either up or further down.
The Catholic in him wondered about purgatory.
When he found Dr. Adams, he made the arrangements hastily, and invented reasons why he wanted Greg's bills charged to him. Insurance had covered the surgery but not the continuing support, and Grissom transcribed all of his account numbers. It was fine - - his credit was assured. He might not have been a rich man, but he had been saving his money for more years than Greg had been alive, and he didn't know what he would have done with it anyway.
"Is there anything I can do to help him?"
Dr. Adams was blunt; pragmatic. "No. There isn't."
"Nothing?"
"You're paying to keep him alive and stable." Adams finished entering the account numbers into his computer and closed the laptop with a click. "Outside of that, there's nothing anyone can do right now. The patient may or may not wake up, that's uncertain now. Maybe it's up to him, maybe it's not up to anyone. But it certainly isn't up to you."
"I'm going to find out who did this to him." Grissom wondered how many times he had made that promise, to himself or someone else, since Brass had first dropped the bombshell. The number seemed to be in the hundreds. Every time he turned around, he was guaranteeing an answer to the mystery, and he knew it, but there was nothing else to say.
He was sure that it was true. Not sure that Greg would live, not sure if Greg would wake up, and not even sure if he could afford to keep Greg alive for long if he didn't.
But he could always do his job.
