The Unburdening

Author: subobscura

See first chapter for full headers.

A/N: So yeah, I did an awful thing to Greg. And now we need to find out if time heals all wounds. Or if it only serves as an inadequate bandage. Thank you for the lovely reviews. Once I get this chapter down, I'm going to go and respond to all of them. No musical inspiration this time around, but if you must know, at this very moment I'm listening to AFI's 'Sing the Sorrow.' The chapter title is courtesy of Dr. Stuart Ware, perhaps the most charming man I've had the pleasure of meeting during college.

Chapter Neuf: Foreign Oleander

"It has big white beautiful flowers, very showy. But you have to be careful, the leaves are deadly poisonous…that Oleander blooms now in a place that it cannot. And the stupid plant doesn't even know that it can't."

-Dr. Ware

His breathing had calmed somewhat, but he still drew air in little fits and starts. Now that their moment of upheaval had passed, it was time to assess the damage and determine if the effort of rebuilding was worth the cost.

"Greg," she whispered into his hair. "We have to move. We can't stay here forever."

"Yeah," he replied. He chuffed out what would never pass as a laugh. "My knees are killing me."

Hope rose and fluttered inside of her. Her Greg Sanders still existed somewhere inside of this man, if he could still joke at this, his lowest moment.

He rose and gave her a hand up so that she stood beside him. He scrubbed a hand over his face, pausing to rub at his five o'clock shadow. "God, I feel terrible. I don't even know where to start. I feel so unutterably filthy. What do I do?" He turned to her, looking for answers that she wasn't sure she could give.

"How long has it been since you've had a shower?" she asked even though she knew that wasn't what he meant.

"I don't know. Sometime yesterday." He strained to remember the previous day, like it had happened years ago. "Before we went in to work."

"Greg, will you trust me to take care you?"

Greg wanted to be alone, and he wanted to scream and rage, and he wanted to cling to her and never let go. He wanted to call his mother and demand answers and he wanted to feel like his thoughts were his own again, that his body was his own again, and not that he had stepped into some alternate dimension where everything had tilted 45 degrees off-center. In that moment, he decided that what he really wanted was to let someone else do the thinking for a while.

"Okay."

Sara looked at him and saw not her partner or her best friend or her lover, but a man who needed reassurance and care, like a tender shoot that had found itself in foreign and hostile soils. She took him by the hand and led him to the bathroom. She left him standing there under the harsh fluorescents lit over the sink.

She retrieved the softest towel from the linen closet, an orange and white striped one that reminded her inexplicably of Nemo, the little fish they had watched last week battle his way home against all odds. She fought back tears as she fingered the terry cloth. She wondered if Greg would ever find his way home again.

Returning to the bathroom, she found that he was sitting on the toilet seat with his head propped in his hands staring into space. He barely moved his eyes when she walked back into the room. She placed the towel and washcloth on the counter, and moved to the tub. She turned on the water, made it a little hotter than she normally would have liked it. It splashed and ran over her hands, making a pooling roaring sound in the ceramic basin. She put the stopper in, and watched as the water swirled in angry eddies. Then she went under the sink and pulled out the blue ocean breeze bath salts she had bought for their one month anniversary.

They had shared the cramped tub, her sitting between his legs running the stopper's chain between her toes. He had reached around her and let her sip from their glass of Cabernet, before he pulled something out from behind the toilet. She was utterly unsurprised to see that he had a rubber ducky, which let out a squeak of protest when he squeezed it. He threw it and it plopped into the water. She turned around to look at him and he was wearing that shit-eating grin that she loved. She laughed and turned fully, feeling the slide of their bodies together in the heated and oily water. She kissed him, tasting the sting of red wine, and she felt little rivulets of water running down his face and throat. Candlelight flickered over their pale, thin bodies…

Had that only been a week ago? She felt the loss of their happiness keenly, mourning what had been so briefly theirs. She straightened her shoulders, and poured in some of the salts, telling herself that now was not the time for her grief.

"Greg," she said. "It's important to take care of yourself, especially in times like these." She looked back at him, not really expecting a response. He was watching her with dark eyes. "You have a tough road to walk, and sometimes the effort to get out of bed or to lift the fork from your plate to your mouth will seem like it's too much. And that's okay. That's normal. Just remember, even though you don't believe it right now, it does get better." The tub was almost full now, so she turned off the water and watched the steam rise in twisting tendrils.

She removed her loofa and hershower poof. Greg would scrub himself raw when he got in the water, and she was willing to allow that, but she was not willing to allow him to hurt himself. She turned to him, and motioned for him to stand. He did, and she started unbuttoning his black shirt, then rolling down the cuffs. He shuddered when she touched him. She stared at his smooth unmarred chest. When she turned him so she could remove his shirt, she looked at the twisting web of scars from the explosion, now faded with time. He had skin grafts and plastic surgery, but he would be marked forever. She placed a hand over them, feeling the thrum of his heart and breathing under her palm.

"Um," he cleared his throat. "Can I, can I have some privacy?" He paused. "Please?"

She tried not to be hurt, she really did, but they had made love just yesterday morning and now his beautiful body was as remote and off-limits as it had ever been. Suddenly, she hated the men who did this to him with a passion so immediate, she could have killed them with no remorse, glorying in their spilt blood like a savage.

She paused, stilled. "Of course," she said. "I'll be right outside."

"You know," he said, stopping her before she walked out the door. "I keep expecting to look down and see bruises, feel pain. Like just because I've found out about it, the experience should be fresh. But it's not, it happened decades ago, and I'm only just now discovering it. It's just," he paused. "Weird," he finished lamely. His silence was her dismissal.

As she walked away from the closed door, she pretended not to hear him crying.

CRIMESCENEDONOTCROSSCRIMESCENEDONOTCROSSCRIMESCENEDONOT

An hour later, he emerged from the bedroom wearing a long sleeved black t-shirt and black track pants. The ends of his hair were curling from the damp, and his skin looked pink, but overall he looked more in control of himself. Sara stared at the clock. It was already 8. She had to be at work by midnight. Then she remembered that she wasn't on the schedule that night, and Grissom be damned, case be damned, she was going to take her night off just this once.

She had packed up the file, but left it sitting on the table. No matter how much she wanted to coddle him, Greg was a grown man, and if he wanted to look at it again, it was his right. She apparently had made the right decision, because Greg slid onto one of the stools and opened the folder without preamble. She stirred the pot of tortellini, fighting the grainy achy tiredness that had settled over her while Greg was soaking. He bypassed all of the documents and skipped straight to the photos, staring at one in particular.

"I remember this," he said suddenly, holding up the picture of his backpack so she could see in the kitchen. He laid it down and ran his fingers over it, almost reverently. "I used to love the Silver Surfer. I always wanted to ride the galactic waves like him." He smiled wistfully. "I settled for the more terrestrial version, I suppose."

"You still fight for justice though," Sara said.

"What can I say? I guess I imprinted on the guy." He sighed. "This is somewhere in an evidence vault most likely."

"Probably," Sara agreed. "Is that all you remember?" she asked carefully. She was treading on dangerous ground now.

"Yeah," he said. "I think so. I mean, I don't even remember the hospital stay, the surgeries. Nothing. It's all a big blank. The last memory I have of New York is our empty apartment filled with boxes. I remember hiding in them." He shrugged. "That's it." He switched to the other chair so he could watch her while she dished up the pasta and sauce. "That dream I had. Maybe it was a memory." He propped his head on his arm as he leafed through the file.

"My mom called that synchronicity," Sara said. "When things all line up and happen at the same time. Your dreams, these cases, your case. She thought all things happen for a reason."

Greg lifted one shoulder in response. "I don't know what to think anymore. I think I'm going to reserve judgment until all the facts are in." He sighed again. "It says here they found a whopping dose of Georgia Home Boy in my system. I'll probably never remember everything that happened." He sounded despondent.

She set the plates of pasta on the table, then reached behind her and grabbed two glasses of iced tea. "Both are instant," she said. "Best I could come up with on short notice."

"I'm not that hungry."

"Please try," she said. "I'll bet you skipped lunch to finish those samples. God knows when you ate last."

"Alright," he said and grabbed his fork. He shoved a bite into his mouth in that totally rude way he had, and said "Sh'good," looking like a chipmunk. He reached for another bite almost immediately, and Sara was gratified to know that even in the face of tragedy, the physical demands of the body had to be heeded. He swallowed some tea in a gulp, and she reached for her fork.

"What I don't understand," Sara said between bites, "Is why your mom would send that now, after all this time. I would think she'd want to continue to let sleeping giants lie."

Greg looked like a deer caught in the headlights. "I asked her to, before I knew what it was."

"Why?"

He looked miserable. "Because a detective called and said they're reopening my case."

Sara suddenly understood. "The call from New York. I thought that was weird."

He nodded. "I thought it was a joke or a mistake or something. Imagine my surprise. You're not mad are you?" He looked so young and innocent and scared.

"No, Greg, I'm not mad. Although I do wish you'd told me." He looked relieved, and he started to eat again.

"I won't keep anything else from you, I promise."

CRIMESCENEDONOTCROSSCRIMESCENEDONOTCROSSCRIMESCENEDONOT

Later, she called Grissom and left a terse message on his voicemail at the lab. She left the bare minimum of information, stating only that she and Greg were taking the night off, her because she was scheduled and Greg because he was sick. He would be a liability to the evidence, she explained, and really that wasn't far from the truth. Greg brooked no argument, instead choosing to lie down on the couch and flip through channels at that rapid guy speed that annoyed Sara.

She sat on the edge of the couch next to him and slid a white pill and a glass of water towards him.

"What's that?" he asked.

"A sleeping pill," she said. She thought he would argue, but he merely swallowed it before gulping down half the glass of water. He must have been exhausted to resort to medication, she thought.

"Come here and lay with me," he asked. She nearly wept with relief. He wasn't going to hold her at arm's length through this ordeal. She cuddled next to him, before pulling the white chenille throw over them. He wrapped an arm around her midsection. He settled on "Signs," and for awhile they watched the movie in silence. Sadie hopped up to sleep near them on the back of the couch.

He broke the calm when he said, "I'm so scared that those guys are still out there somewhere. I mean, they could be anyone. I could see them every day and never notice the difference. And they could be laughing at me. Now that I'm remembering, they could try to come after me." His breaths were coming faster now.

"Oh God," he said. "What about AIDS? I got a blood transfusion in the eighties. The supply wasn't clean then, especially in New York. And I was raped by God knows who. I could be sick and not even know it. They didn't know to test for that then." He was on the edge of a full blown panic attack.

She turned quickly, taking him in her arms. "Greg, honey, breathe with me. You've got to calm down. That's it, breathe with me. In, out, in, out. It's okay, it's okay. Greggo, you're fine. Remember? They tested you for HIV when you wanted to be a lab tech and when you wanted to be a CSI. Standard procedure remember? You came back negative. Anything would have showed up then. Plus the dormancy period doesn't last this long. If you want to get retested for peace of mind, we'll do that first thing tomorrow morning, but for now, let's just be cool."

He nodded, squeezing his eyes shut tight. "Shit, I feel like such a wuss. Am I always going to be this scared?"

She stroked his hair. "No baby, you're not. This'll pass. We'll figure everything out, you'll see." She continued, a little hesitantly. "You know, Greg, there are people on the team that can help you out." She looked down, then back up into his wide brown eyes. "Nick and I, we can help you. We understand."

"How can you possibly understand," he said bitterly.

"Okay, I'll allow that your circumstances are a little unusual. But me and Nick, we know. We know." She emphasized the last word to get at her meaning. His eyes widened, and he looked down blinking away tears.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"It's in the past for both of us. We grew up to have productive lives. I just wanted you to know that you're not alone." She turned back to face the screen, and his arm was around her again.

"Thanks," he said.

They fell asleep listening to the reverend exhort his son to breathe, please, baby, breathe.

CRIMESCENEDONOTCROSSCRIMESCENEDONOTCROSSCRIMESCENEDONOT

The shrill bleat of the telephone woke Sara at 7 the next morning. From its angry tone, she could already tell Grissom was on the other end, righteously angry that two of his CSI's had bailed in the middle of a case.

She picked up the handheld and moved to answer in the bedroom so Greg could sleep some more.

"Sidle," she said, her mouth drawn down in a frown.

"Sara, you and Greg better have a damn good explanation for skipping out in the middle of a case. This isn't high school, you know. You can't just cut class to make out-"

"Shut up, Grissom." She interrupted him before he could piss her off anymore.

"Excuse me? You are way out of line CSI Sidle-"

"No, Grissom. You're out of line. I called last night, after just having pulled a quadruple by the way. I explained what was going on. Greg's sick, he really can't work right now. And I was scheduled the night off, so I took it."

"You're on call 24 hours a day, 7 days a week."

"Grissom, has Greg gone over his sick leave?"

"No."

"And how much overtime have I clocked this month?"

"More than 20 hours."

"Then I suggest you take this up with Ecklie. And if you ever imply that I'm slacking on my job because of my relationship with Greg again, you'll be looking for a new night-shift CSI." Her voice was frigid.

"Sara," Greg said from behind her. "Let me talk to him." Sara had her reservations, but she handed him the phone. "Grissom, I have to talk to you about something." He walked out of the bedroom and shut the door.

Sara sat at the computer and checked her email, made savage clicks on links on the CNN homepage without really reading the headlines. Finally, she got up and threw on some clothes. She pulled her hair back severely without straightening it. She stepped out of the room just as Greg was clicking off the phone.

"I'm going to go in and see if I can calm the savage beast," she said. He nodded.

"Take these with you," he said, handing her the photos of him in the hospital, his scene report, and the first page of his SART exam. He gestured down at his pajamas. "I'm not really fit to be seen right now."

"Greg, are you sure?"

"I don't want the whole lab to know, and I definitely don't want Grissom on my case, but he deserves to know what's going on." He was being much more reasonable about this than she would in the same position. "I'm a liability on these cases. If this ever comes out in cross, any evidence I collected is suspect."

"Greg, that's not true."

"How do you know?" he asked. "How can you possibly know when I'm not even sure myself that I can be totally unbiased now?"

CRIMESCENEDONOTCROSSCRIMESCENEDONOTCROSSCRIMESCENEDONOT

Sara walked down the hallway clutching the evidence of Greg's violation so tightly, the papers and photos wrinkled in her hand. People moved out of her way, seeing her long stride and intense stare, immediately recognizing that the Sara Sidle of old had made an unexpected return. She scowled at everyone she passed.

She strode into Grissom's office without knocking and slammed the door. Grissom was on the phone, but told whoever he was talking to that he would call them back.

He settled his gaze on her, steady, knowing that he would ultimately win this fight. He was the boss after all, and he just knew they had played hooky. He was unnerved however when Sara didn't back down, didn't look guilty in the least. She had an angry fire burning behind her eyes. She shoved some papers at him across his desk.

"This is why we couldn't come in last night." He refused to look at them, to hear her excuses.

She sat in the chair in front of his desk and crossed her arms. "I'll wait."

He sighed. Fine. He would play it her way. He picked up the first page and scanned the words, startling a little when Greg's name jumped out of the scrawl. He went back to read it a second and a third time. Then he looked at the results from Greg's rape kit and the photos.

"He just found out yesterday," she said in an eerily quiet voice. "He doesn't remember anything, and he needed me more than the lab did. There was no way I was going to tell you over the phone." He felt physically ill. To think he had accused them of blowing off work, when really…no, it didn't bear thinking about now.

"Sara, I'm so sorry. I never would have bothered you guys if I had any idea. Please understand, I just," she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"Don't Grissom. I'm really fucking tired of hearing all of your excuses. Now that I know how much you trust Greg's and my professionalism, we can all be happy campers and move on with our lives." He stared at the hard, angry woman across the desk from him. In just two conversations, he had destroyed a friendship with a few poorly chosen words. If he ever hoped to have another chance with her, he had killed it with his bare hands. He felt like he was bleeding out. They would be lucky if they could work civilly now. And Greg. Oh Greg. He couldn't even contemplate what he'd just learned yet.

"Sara, I know right now that you think I don't feel, that I don't care, but if it means anything at all, I'm so sorry. I had no right to act the way I did. As for all this," he waved his hands at the mountain of paperwork concerning the Engels case. "It can wait."

She stared at him, her eyes shining. "Yeah. Right now, I don't really give a shit who killed Mark Engels. Hell, they might even deserve a medal."

"Go home. Go be with him."

She nodded and stood to leave. "Sara?" He asked. She turned. "Did they ever find out who," he paused. "Who did this to him?"

"No," she said, and reached for the door.

"We will," Grissom said with quiet conviction.

She turned back and walked over to the desk to grab the disparate pieces of Greg's file. She sighed, and then looked him in the eyes. "No offense, Gil, but this is none of your concern. Greg doesn't want you or the lab involved anymore than you already are. He's letting the New York lab handle the analysis." She thinned her lips and rested a hand on his shoulder, the only peace offering she was willing to make. "We'll be back in tonight." Then she turned and walked out of his office, heading towards the parking lot.

Gil spent an hour staring at his hands, wondering how he had so completely fucked up his team in such a short amount of time.

A/N: Phew, and that's what you get for listening to Sevendust, reading Wintertime's fanfic, and then deciding now is the perfect time to update.