A/N: Nope, it's not another WIP g, it's just a snippet that I needed to get out of my head before I wanted to tackle "Rush Hour" again. Before you read it, you need to know that the story deals with Greg coming to terms with the death of his girlfriend (who also worked at CSI). It's kind of a sequel to a story not written yet (if I ever get around to do it, anyway). Does that make sense?g
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Everything's all right.
I'm good, actually. Thanks for asking. Thanks for keeping distance when all I want is closeness. You pass me and I plaster a smile on my face. I used to exceed in everything when I was a kid – good to know that I still exceed in even lying to myself.
Yeah, everything's quite all right.
The lab is quiet and for once I don't have mountains of work trying to bury me. I'm reading some article when I hear footsteps. Usually, it's too loud to notice them, but not today since there's no music on. I don't want to know who is bothering me this time, so I keep my head down and my eyes fixed on the black lines of meaningless letters in front of me. I hope that the footsteps will pass my door and recede down the hall, but apparently, no such luck, when they stop at my door.
"Grissom wants to see you in his office."
Nick...great.
Since I don't want to face anyone right now, I pretend to be engrossed in that stupid article I have been reading forever but still don't know what it' s about. I don't pay Nick too much attention and mutter, "In a moment."
"Sorry, pal, he said it was urgent which means that you should get there, pronto."
I finally raise my head and look at him. He's standing there as if he's unsure of what to do next. Or, he ponders of what he's going to do if I refuse to carry out Grissom's request. Well, he'd probably go back to Grissom and tell him about our little chat. Then, Grissom'd come to get me and I wouldn't have succeeded in anything after all.
No, better give in now and safe myself some trouble. I let out a sigh and rise to my feet. Nick's still standing there, watching my every move. I just roll my eyes when I pass him and slowly saunter down the hall to buy myself some time, which is basically stupid, because, what are a few seconds going to change anyway?
Grissom's already waiting for me at the door. I pass him without greeting and enter his room.
He shuts the door behind me and motions for me to have a seat. I decline since I'd rather stand. That way, if things get out of hand, I can get out of here faster. Nice little back up plan.
None of us says anything and we revel in that uncomfortable silence a little longer. Time seems to stretch into eternity and I can almost hear the ticking of a clock, well, if Grissom had one.
After a few moments, the silence is wearing thin and I'm just tired of this, so I say, "What's up, boss, did your favourite bug die or something?"
He looks at me with mild exasperation as if he had known I would say something like this, but hey, I get these kinds of looks all the time these days, so I ignore it. And then there are the others, you know what I mean: these concerned and worried looks as if I was going to break down any moment and they all want to be there to catch me if I fall. Good thing, though, that I'm not going to break down.
"We're worried about you."
I ignore that comment as well and wander around his office instead and pick up certain things. I'm like a kid in a candy store but somehow the feeling of excitement is muted. It's strange how things and people change, because I used to be really nervous whenever he would call me into his office. Well, you see, I'm usually the one to call him or whatever when I have the results done. So, if the situation is reversed that could only mean that I had done something wrong. It's like paying a visit to the principal. And, believe me, I had plenty of those in my time.
A jar filled with some kind of creature catches my attention and my fingers move over the smooth surface. It's cold and a wry grin stretches my lips, because it reflects perfectly of how I feel inside right now: cold and about to suffocate.
"Greg, we want to help you."
Whatever. "I'll tell you when I'm ready for your help." My back is turned to him but, still, I feel his eyes burning a hole in my coat. I bet that he tilts his head a bit like he does when he's about to figure out something or at least trying to. And, I mentally give myself a high five when I watch his reflection in one of the other glasses and note that he's done exactly what I have thought he would do.
I start playing with a display of bugs knowing with certainty that he doesn't like anyone touching his precious little vermins. Bugs. I feel like one of them right now, being examined under his watchful eye and I don't like it one bit.
"Could you at least look at me when I'm trying to talk to you?" I turn around and want to look at him, but my gaze travels further and lands on a shelf behind him instead.
A framed picture. All of us together last Christmas. I take a step in its direction but then stop myself.
My eyes are fixed on that picture, which he notices and says, "Ever since she's gone, you're not here anymore either."
I don't say anything, only roll my eyes and stare at him now.
But in that moment I've come to realize two things: I don't want his pity, nor do I want his help. He doesn't catch the clue bus, though, when he continues his speech, "You don't concentrate on your work. You constantly make mistakes. I'm sorry, Greg, but something has to be done."
"So, I'm fired, is that it?" My voice sounds numb even to myself, which surprises me a bit since I had actually expected something like this. I know that my work's been lacking but I just couldn't help it. I just couldn't keep my mind from drifting away into space and into times that need to be forgotten.
He shakes his head a bit, "No, but you can't continue like this either. I want you to talk to me. You seemed fine after it happened. What has changed?"
Everything. I shrug, "Things change and people change, Grissom." And apparently, I've changed the most.
He heaves a silent sigh, which is strange. Grissom just doesn't sigh. He usually doesn't show when he's aggravated or bored or helpless.
"That doesn't answer my question. I want to know what happened to change you."
Now, he's starting to piss me off. "You know what the hell happened. She died. You were at her funeral, for Christ's Sake."
Those days marked the fading end of my world with the beginning of my very own apocalypse.
"Yes, I was there. You seemed to cope, considering the circumstances."
I was devastated. I didn't think that I would survive another day. But, somehow, I did. And amazingly, days turned into weeks and weeks into months. But that didn't bring its expected freedom of grief, only reinforced her absence with each breath.
I can't stand his piercing gaze and decide to stare at my shoes instead. I start my "counting game" as I've once dubbed it. It's helped me out lots of times when I didn't care enough or just didn't want to listen. It works like this: you start counting and don't stop until the other person you're having a (most likely one-sided) conversation with, is finished and you're allowed to go. It's all about filling your mind with anything but the current topic.
As he starts talking, I just stop listening.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11
He kinda reminds me of my dad. I hadn't noticed that before. His fatherly voice carries easily across the room but that doesn't change the fact that my mind is filled with numbers. It's easier that way to deal with things that should be forgotten. So I just stand here with my head bowed and stare at my shoes to avoid looking my past and possible not-so-bright future in the eye.
12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17
They all thought I would be fine after a couple of weeks. But time didn't change anything other than the slow decay of my own heart.
He didn't know then, doesn't need to know now. Actually, none of them knew that we had just gotten engaged. Their pity would make it seem so much real and I don't want that. Not ever.
Damn it! I want out of here and hide until the end of time in some closet somewhere. I don't really care as long as it's some place besides this room, this facility. Getting my wits together, I try my escape with "Look, can't we do this another time? I really have some work to finish." He knows as well as I do that I'm lying, but that doesn't stop me from trying, though. I need to get out of here and finish that article I haven't even really started yet to fill my mind with numbing nothingness.
But he seems to have other ideas in mind when he changes tactics and says, "You're just feeling sorry for yourself."
I smile, just a bit, because he's right and tell him, "Yeah, well if I didn't, nobody else would."
His eyebrows draw together at that and he purses his lips.
"You know that's not true."
"So, what you're saying is that all of you feel sorry for me?" Instead of letting him answer my question I launch right into the next one, "C'mon Grissom, you've never bothered before. Why the sudden change?"
"We don't want to lose you, too."
It's too late for that. They have already lost me the moment her ashes were put into the ground. That day, I was buried right next to her. Grissom must have interpreted my look correctly because his face falls all of a sudden. Even he realizes there's no hope for me anymore. But, he wouldn't be Grissom if he didn't at least try.
"There's always hope, Greg."
"Gee, I didn't know you were an optimist!" Sarcasm is lacing my speech and I begin to wonder when I turned into this. I don't particularly like myself right now. Actually, I hate myself right now but not enough to care. Maybe sometime, eventually.
He just stares at me and after a second quietly says, albeit forcefully, "Someone has to be."
A laugh escapes my throat then. I'm cruel, I know. But, if I wouldn't have laughed, I would have cried. And I don't want to break down right now. Not here, anyway. I'd rather hide behind that mask of sarcasm a little longer and say, "Oh, that's just too rich. Gil Grissom, of all people, telling me that he's an optimist. That's just gotta beat it all."
It's satisfying to see someone else hurt instead of me. I take a good plunge into that feeling and let it wash over me. It's kind of rejuvenating.
He doesn't say anything but I know that he's disappointed in me. I'm disappointed in myself.
I start to bounce on the balls of my feet. I'm giddy. I want to get out of here. I look around again.
18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25... It's time to stop this little game that we've been playing.
I'm finally coming to a decision and tell him, "I'm all right," I say that like I'm in trance. "In every possible way." I move towards the door and Grissom doesn't try stop me.
He looks at me with a mix of sadness and something else; hopelessness, maybe. He seems drained and at this very moment, very old. "You know that you're not all right. Please, Greg. Let us help you."
I meet his gaze for a second and say, "You can't save them all." You can't save me, I add, if only in my mind.
I shut the door on the way out.
Yeah, I'm going to be quite all right. Soon.