Not all labs were surrounded by glass and see through, some were walled with a locking door, and he had chosen the Las Vegas crime lab because of their walls were glass. He liked that he would be visible should something happen to him in the lab, he liked that the door was never locked, and he absolutely loved that he could observe the world around him without actually being a part of it. He observed other people's lives because he no longer had much of a life himself…it had been stolen.
He was not always a sarcastic asshole with an attitude problem. No one ever was always anything like that, it was not something that came at birth, and it took a gradual progression into depression and therapy and happy pills to cause that for him. He had once been a nice --albeit anal retentive-- man with a happy marriage and a great job. He had been living the fucking American dream.
Sometimes he would wake up unable to make a sound because he knew the feel of a gun barrel to the head, the choking sensation of another man's cock in his mouth. Those were the nights he would gargle with mouthwash until the bottle was empty, and close his eyes in the dark and remind himself to just fucking breathe. That he could breathe; no more constricted airway due to objects he did not want there.
Those were the nights that he knew, --for sure-- that coming to Las Vegas had been a good idea. Not only did the Las Vegas lab have the perfect work setting, it also had the nicest CSIs on the planet. He could not imagine Nick Stokes, Gil Grissom, Warrick Brown, or Greg Sanders ever doing what the Californian CSIs had done. The CSIs in the Las Vegas crime lab were too good and moral for that.
There were other nights where he woke up screaming, powerless to stop the cries that tore through his throat, because he could feel his body being ripped in two. He could remember the searing pain of being violated roughly, the sound of his fake friend's animalistic grunts in his ear, and the sharp sting of teeth tearing through the skin where neck met shoulder. He would remember all too vividly and run to the shower so he could scrub at his body until his skin was raw and bleeding and he felt no better then when he woke.
These were the nights that he questioned his decision to leave California. He knew that running from the source of his problems was not a particularly brave thing to do, and he often found himself wondering if he had been right to flee. He could have told someone who would listen to him, told someone who didn't value the CSIs more then any "lying lab rat," but after his boss had sided with his two ex-friends…he felt that it would be unwise to pursue any further action.
Plus his perfect, lovely wife had left with a large stomach and false declarations of the most sincere apologetic love in the entire world. It was a devastating blow to his ego, that the man who had hurt him…was the father of his wife's baby, and she could not ever be told the truth about her lover because he was afraid to tell anyone. The lawyer had said that since he had hid it, no evidence was left to be found, and a jury would clear his coworker's of any charges. His life had been ruined.
"Hey, Hodges, you got those results for me?"
He turned to see his ex-rival lab tech, Sanders, and sighed loudly upon seeing the infuriating smile on the newly made CSI.
"No."
"I just want you to know that I have always held you in the highest regard. When those around started to question your sarcastic, rude ways…" Dramatic pause. "I reassured them that you really were sarcastic and rude."
He sent a dirty look at Sanders as he began to work on the evidence that needed to be processed. It was amazing that Greg Sanders had become a CSI, what with his lack of color coordination, and the hair that moved on its own.
"You need to put that in the machine."
He turned at the almost worried tone, staring at Sander's as he did as instructed, and trying to decide whether the other man's hair was a alien life form or not.
"Hey, Greg."
"Oh. Hey, Nick."
He watched the two CSIs talk for a second before resolutely turning around to watch the machine until it spit out the results. He could see it in their eyes; it was obvious to anyone who cared to look, and sometimes to those --observant few-- who did not. They leaned towards each other, smiling, talking, sometimes touching, and suddenly it would become all to clear and he would want to shout, "No flirting in the lab!" Now, the flirting only made him angry, filled him with a fiery fury that could shake the very foundations of the earth.
"Your results." He spat as he threw the paper at the started CSIs.
Sanders had just barely caught the paper and was staring at him, wide eyed and confused, "Um…thanks."
"Now, out."
Sanders and Stokes exchanged glances and then looked back at him. Sanders looked unsure of what he had done wrong, Stokes looked perplexed and somewhat hesitant, but he knew how to get them to leave. He knew how to scare those around off, he had spent hours researching human behavior in the past, and it was --once again-- time for it to pay off.
With the condescending air of a glorified deity, he said, "Get out of my lab."
Stokes nodded thoughtfully, sending him a look that warned him of possibilities --wonderful, terrifying possibilities-- and the will of all humans to understand, and then disappeared into the hallway. Sanders stood there for a moment just giving him a hurt, puppy dog look before shuffling from the room and leaving him alone once more.
He knew it was safe within the glass confines of the lab, safe from pain and love and friends, but never truly safe from himself. He would sit there hour after hour, working well into the morning shift, until someone finally noticed that 'the snarky jerk' was still there. He did not like to go home, did not like the walls in which anything could happen, but someone would eventually force him to leave at some point or another. They all thought he liked overtime, and no one delved too deeply into that because they did not want to suffocate in his cynicism.
It was only on this particular day, that when he looked up to watch the world pass him by, he saw that Nick Stokes was watching him back. He dropped the evidence bag in shock and stared at the man who wanted to understand him, who did understand him, if he read Nick's expression right. He had forgotten Nick's time in the glass box, surrounded by dirt and the smell of an early death. He had forgotten that the walls that protected him also made it impossible to escape by himself, if he had ever wanted to escape, which he never had…before.
He mouthed, 'What?' and watched as Nick pointed to the watch on his wrist. Looking down he saw that shift had ended half an hour ago. Nick had waited for him to look up and see… He opened his mouth and closed it again before standing up and removing his lab coat. If Nick wanted him to leave relatively on time, he would, because Nick understood him. Knew the safety and the painful restrictions that glass walls could provide, and maybe…just maybe, they could break through the glass together and be free.
Fin