Title: Laying in the Bed I Made
Author:Shacky20
Disclaimer: Still not mine, or they would be making out across Lab Table
Warning: Angst, Angst, and a little more angst. Slash, non-graphic Nick/Greg
Summary: One must lay in the bed one has madeRating:R
Dear Journal,
No that sounds stupid and clinical.
How about Dear whoever gives a shit,
No, that sounds 'angry and unattached'
Dear Diary,
God no, that sounds way to girly, and am may be lots of things, but girly no. Oh I got it,
Dear Fucking Journal,
There, now that's more me, that's Greg Sanders. Or what used to be Greg Sanders. I don't know who that is anymore. Three, two, hell last year that would have been an easy question to answer. I was the Crazy Lab Tech, no I was more than that, I was the Lead DNA Analyst of the second best DNA Lab in the country at the age of 28. Hell, they always said I was an over achiever. I was damn good at it too, people at other Labs knew who I was at conferences. But I changed that. Now I am a rookie CSI 1, nothing but a peon to the upper echelon again, and the team.
Now I don't know who I am, I've seen the change, felt it down to my soul. This past year has been hell, but I can't say that. I wanted this right? But in training classes they never told us about children in dumpsters, and kids in basements treated like dogs. Or seeing burn victims, still alive, wrapped like a mummy, knowing how painful is it, and wishing for death. No, that isn't in the text books. That's what they call "in the field training". You know why, cause if they showed you that there wouldn't be CSI's, cause it takes your soul if it lets you, and it took mine.
Depression they call it, I don't buy it. I call it death. Hell, even Hodges called me on it, on that horrible night. As a DNA tech maybe I could have accomplished something, done something more. But all I did was find a fucking dog. And when we did, when we found Nick, it wasn't me he reached for, it wasn't my name he called. Not that I blame him. Hell, after being trapped in a box for 24 hours I probably would have held Ecklie's hand to feel human flesh again. Depression, what a fucking joke, a 'chemical imbalance in the brain', yeah. Pills, pills, and more pills. They don't fix it, they don't make you happy, they make you numb, nothing.
Even Nick can see the change. I used to be fun care free fun Greggo, I know it. Hell I was the life of the party, fuck I started the parties. Nick and I would go out dancing or drinking on nights off, of play video games and drink beer all night. Go out to breakfast with the gang, back was I was the Crazy Lab Rat, CSI Level 1 Sanders doesn't do that. He researchs, takes his cases seriously, tries to impress, to show it wasn't a mistake. I didn't make a mistake moving to the field. To prove to everyone that it wasn't a mistake, maybe to me I didn't make a mistake. There I was someone, here I'm alone in myself.
I used to be comforted by Nick's presence after the bad ones, then that even changed. I used to come home with him still waiting up for me, and let him hold me, make my coffee, grab me some breakfast, talk it out. Let it go, hold me, sometimes tears, sometimes laughter, then that changed as well. Nick would still be up waiting for me, but I stopped caring, I just wanted a shower and bed. I didn't want to talk, I wanted to forget. Coffee didn't bring me the joy it used to, food became an annoyance instead of nourishment.
After a month a that, Nick wasn't waiting up for me anymore. He knew that I didn't want to talk, knew I wanted to forget. So I shut myself off, hop in the shower, and wash the memories away, and the feelings, all of them, made them stop. I just wanted to feel nothing. Lab Rat Greg didn't have to see blood on babies, dirt on children, burns covering pregnant woman, and sit back and feel helpless while they're boyfriend was buried alive.
That's what drove me over the edge they say. I don't remember what it was. But I was put on mandatory leave, for 'personal reasons' cause saying 'CSI Level 1 Sanders is suffering from clinical depression from transitioning to the field, and the effects surrounding the kidnapping of Nick Stokes' sounds better for the old personnel file. It's not like it matters anymore.
I've already have it planned out . I wonder who will miss me. I know who would miss Lat Rat Greg, Jaqui, Archie, Hodges, Sara would probably miss my flirting, Catherine would miss being able to mother me, Warrick would miss my work ability, although he'd never say it, Gris would miss being about to teach me, cause secretly I knew he liked teaching me, cause I learned. I knew him better than most, understood. I learned more from him, and he liked my eagerness and my intelligence. CSI Sanders doesn't even have that. Lat Rat Greg had confidence, and fun, and knew what he was doing. His Lab was his domain and he was it's Master, and everyone knew it. CSI Sanders it scared to enter a scene without messing something up. But now I don't have that problems, these beautiful little pills stopped that. Now I don't feel anything, but numb, and numb is nice I've decided.
I wonder if Nick will eve miss me, or feel relieved that his burden is gone. He doesn't heart to break up with me now, not when I'm like this. I know he would miss Lab Rat Greg, that's who he fell in love with, whether he wanted to or not. He tried so long to fight it, but it was like a force pulling us together. And Greg and Nick had fun, and laughed, and played, and went out, and had amazing sex. We could fuck with the best of them, or make love to each other until we both cried. You can't do that when you're numb. Now we sleep on opposite sides of the bed. Would Nick miss CSI Sanders, I wonder. But it doesn't matter now. He's afraid to touch me, and I don't feel it anyway. I understand that now, this depression as they call it. I always thought it was nothing, everyone gets down, hell, who hasn't had there rough patches. But they didn't say depression was numb, I would rather be depressed then numb, cause when you're numb, you don't care, you don't care to touch, you don't miss skin on hot skin, hot breaths of promises in your ear. You do not miss the sweat and skin slapping, and arms wrapping around your chest as he pounds into you from behind, planting kisses on your scarred body. Or those nights we didn't make it to the bed, we were lucky to get our clothes off and fucked like it was our first time all over again. Lat Rat Greg lived for those moments, CSI Sanders doesn't care cause he doesn't feel.
I already have it planned out, no one knows. Of course no one knows, Nick would drag me off somewhere to fix me. He was fixed, he was buried alive and came out unscathed, but I didn't, part of me is still there. Not everything can be fixed, and I can't, not now, too late. Too numb, don't want to be fixed. I can't go back. Like Papa Olaf said "One must lie in the bed one has made." I've made my bed. Now I have to lay in it.
I have my letter to Nick hidden, but I'll set it out for him. I know what I want to be buried in. My hair spiked as usual, or how it used to be. Lab Greg would have like that, with a wild and crazy t-shirt. And with my Ipod, and my headphones on. My ripped jeans and converses on, no suits, no straight hair, and definitely no ties. That's who'll they will miss, that's who they loved. Not CSI Sanders, I don't even know him, how can they miss him. I feel the weight of the bottle of pills in my pocket, I keep them with me. I know most guys blow their heads off, or slit their wrists, but I've seen too much blood and brain matter, I don't want any more. I don't want the team to process my bloodied body. I don't want them to remember me in a bloody heap. I also don't want them to do an autopsy on me. I've seen the meat of a body, I'm more than that. I left that in the note also. I told them what I took in the letter, so they want have to do that. Call me vain, I want to look good one more time, and I have enough scars, I don't want any more. I know pills considered the girly way out, but I know what I'm doing, I am a Chemist, that seems to be forgotten sometimes. I know how much tranquilizers to take, the right concoction with pain killers, alcohol, and a few special ones to make sure I don't vomit them back up. I keep them with me. I can feel the amber bottle in my pocket, it is my constant friend now, I feel that when I feel nothing else. There when I need it, when I decide I am tired of being numb. They will find the fun, crazy, Lab Tech they missed, they'll remember with a smile on their face. I just hope one day Nick will forgive me, but he'll be better off without this person. He deserves someone who he can touch again, laugh with, go out dancing again, make love to, fuck against the wall, and that person died a long time ago.
Shit, there's the key in the lock, he's home. But I still feel my friends in my pocket, waiting for me. They all told me to write my feelings down in a fucking journal. Well I hope they understand now, hope they are happy, hope they know Greg didn't die, CSI Sanders did. Maybe they will understand now. I was dead before they ever got to me, before they put me on leave, I died the day Nick lived, but I was too numb to know.