Author's Note: Apologies for the blatant Angels' reference, but I love that series so damn much. Em... In a few days I'll be going on a road trip. Internet access will be iffy (depending on what the hotels we stay at along the way offer). Just a warning, updates may not be so frequent then. The trip is from DC to LA, which should take somewhere between four and five days, just to give you an idea. Once again, thanks to eowid-dot-com and my "field researcher" Tom for info on drug trips, and to LaughableBlackStorm for the beta.
But for weeks, he was not careful, or at least not as careful as Nick would have liked. He continued in his habit, no longer a hobby, even though the withdrawal symptoms came more quickly, and the doses were increasing. He recognized the trouble, but his work was not effected. He didn't smoke marijuana, or do any other drugs when he used the Valium. If he ignored the withdrawal symptoms, he was fine. So he tried to ignore it.
Until one day after work, Greg came home to an obnoxiously hungry cat. Still, he enjoyed having something to come home to, even if it was a demanding animal who believed that he owned Greg. After all, Greg had had worse live-in lovers in the past.
He made his way groggily to the kitchen and poured some dry food into Liver's bowl, popping open a fresh can of wet food and scooping half of it on top. He lowered the dish to the kitchen floor.
"There you are, Your Majesty. Your gourmet meal is served," Greg muttered.
He left the cat to eat as he moved further down the hall and into his room, where he opened his drawer, the marijuana staring at him, and the pills burning a hole in his pocket.
I'm fucked. That was the fact of the matter. No matter which angle Greg looked at things, he knew he was in trouble, he just wasn't sure how to get out of it. The first step was admitting the problem, but as for the other eleven, all that crap about God, seeking help, listening to junkies drone on and on about how helpless they were to resist their sweet drugs, gain chips as a sign of sobriety... Greg wasn't ready for any of that yet.
So it was just more convenient for him to pretend. "I don't have a problem," Greg said out loud, staring at the marijuana. Not because he believed it of course, but because he needed to ignore the truth if he didn't want things to change. Because Greg wasn't ready to change.
Alone in his apartment, the truth was blatantly clear in a way that it never was when he was sedated or engrossed in a case at work. His cat seemed to hover like a silent watchman, accusing him every time he even considered increasing his dosage.
He wondered what his cat would do if...
"Fuck this," Greg mumbled, pulling out his pills and pouring an indeterminable amount into his hand, setting them on the bedside table. He went to his closet, pulled out a box of his college memorabilia from under his shoes and scrounged around inside of it until he pulled out a dusty old pipe. Ever conscious of hygiene, Greg washed it first, before scooping up his fistful of Valium and packing the weed Camellia had given him ages ago into the bowl.
He swallowed, and he smoked.
He flipped on the TV. It flickered to life, the sounds of HBO filling his room, and a miniseries Greg had seen a long time ago was in the middle of the beginning. He leaned back on his bed and watched as Angels In America began to play and Al Pacino was telling the Mormon about how to succeed in politics.
The world began to tip. His muscles felt like water. He fell backwards onto his bed as the ceiling began to change color. He closed his eyes and floated somewhere far away, his worries melting off of him and pooling into a puddle on the floor. He rode the waves of his high as he continued to inhale the smoke, leaning back into his pillow.
He was completely content, a barrier of cushy apathy surrounding him, muffling out any unwanted thoughts or sounds, or anything that might upset him, like a pillow over his face. Only, he wasn't struggling to breathe. He could breath just fine. The air that entered his lungs was fresh and crisp and, on occasion, smoky, when he wasn't too lazy to bring the pipe to his mouth.
Momentarily, he wondered what the air in Antarctica smelled like.
"I can take you there."
Greg turned his head to see a very relaxed man in shades with a cigarette sitting poised in a chair by Greg's window, his wide smile standing out against his dark features. A badge that read IOTA rested on his lapel and a tattered brown briefcase was leaning against the wall.
"Wait, I know you..." Greg said, rolling over on his bed. "You're—"
"Mr. Lies of the International Order of Travel Agents at your service."
"No..." said Greg slowly. "You're Jeffrey Wright. You were in that movie, um..." He gestured at the TV, which was flashing images, but no sound anymore.
"So, is it Antarctica you want to go?" Mr. Lies, or Jeffrey Wright, depending on who you believed, asked. "Beautiful this time of year. Hole in the ozone, don't you know. Makes the stars sparkle."
Greg took a deep breath, his eyes wide. "I took too many pills, didn't I?"
Mr. Lies smiled that broad smile. "You took too many pills, my friend."
Greg fell back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. "This is very, very new, I've never hallucinated on Valium before." He tilted his head up to view Mr. Lies. "Do you think it's the weed?"
"If I recall my high school biology class, a side effect of Diazepam can be hallucinations," Mr. Lies informed him succinctly. "Now, I have several packages and can get you anywhere you wanna go, any way, any time."
Greg contemplated this for a moment before sitting up on his bed. "I don't want to go anywhere..." he said. "Say... you're a hallucination, right?"
"That's what it says on my card."
"So you can be anything I want you to be..." Greg said slowly.
Mr. Lies' lips twitched. "I can take you anywhere you want to go. But I cannot be anything other than what I am."
"Philosophy, a favorite among hallucinations," Greg muttered. "Seriously, though. If I wanted you to be someone else, you could be, right? I mean, hallucinations are just waking dreams and... and lucid dreaming can control your dreams. So if you know that you're dreaming, and I know I'm hallucinating, then..."
"Do you know what your problem is?" Mr. Lies asked. "You fight too hard for control."
"I like control," Greg said. "Control means... that nothing can go wrong. If I'm in control, then I'm safe. Bad things happen when I'm not... When I lose control."
"You mean like seeing a fictional travel agent?" Mr. Lies surmised.
"I..." He hadn't really thought about it. He smiled. "Yeah, I guess you're right."
"See, it's not so bad to be out of control," Mr. Lies said. "Just sail the ocean of relaxation and let the current take you where it will."
Greg sighed. "I do like that. The relaxation thing. It's... soothing."
"Out of sheer curiosity, my friend, who did you want me to turn into?"
"A friend..." Greg whispered.
Mr. Lies cocked an eyebrow. "More than a friend?"
"Unfortunately not, that's why I wanted to see him here, so I could have him in my dreams at the very least."
Mr. Lies smiled. "Well, I am sorry I cannot be that accommodating."
"This is a lousy hallucination," Greg groaned, falling back on his bed.
Mr. Lies said nothing in return, so Greg contented himself with staring at the ceiling, the buzz of the marijuana gently washing over the frustration from his last conversation, soothing his wounds, numbing them until a smile finally claimed his features.
He heard the door open and his lids slid over his eyes. He wasn't sure how much time had passed between the last words of Mr. Lies and the beginning of this new hallucination, but frankly, he didn't care, because warmth flooded his body.
"Oh, Greg... what are you doing?"
Greg rolled over onto his stomach and smiled at Nick, who was returning the sentiment with gusto as he closed the door behind him.
"Now this is more like it," said Greg as Nick entered the room and kneeled down next to his bed. "This is a hallucination I can get into."
"How do you know I'm not real?" Nick asked, although the playful manner in which he said it clearly spoke for itself.
"Come on," said Greg. "Do you normally wander around my apartment shirtless? This could only be the product of my very damaged psyche."
Nick chuckled lightly in his chest, his smile still in place as he gently leaned forward. Greg closed his eyes, his mouth partially open expectantly, when he felt a pair of silken dry lips brush lightly against his forehead. He opened his eyes.
"Huh?"
Nick smiled again, reaching up and cupping Greg's cheek, running his thumb along his cheekbone. "The thing about cocoons, is they must eventually be shrugged off, and a new being emerges. Do you like what you've become, now that you're blossoming out of this cocoon of yours? Are you satisfied?"
Greg shook his head, slowly at first, lusting after those lush lips. "No... no, I'll never be satisfied, not when I can't have you."
Nick pulled away, his hand dropping back to his side and Greg leaned forward, chasing it with his heart, his chest leaning forward, but he held back, his breath snagging on the nail of his want inside of his throat. "Lie down, Greg," Nick said, and surprisingly, Greg obeyed, falling backwards into the supple ocean of his bed, allowing the waves of linen to surround him.
Nick took the pipe from beside Greg's bed and lit it, passing it to the man on the bed, who took it.
"Breathe," ordered Nick, and once again, Greg unquestioningly obeyed. The smoke filled his lungs, drowning his consciousness in a haze of pink and gold, the sunset on his sanity in a polluted sky.
He was at ease again. He smiled as he beckoned his hallucination. "Come to bed."
"The last time you had sex in this state, you thought you'd gone to Hell," Nick commented.
"She was an angel..." Greg recalled.
"With a demon's heart," Nick added.
"But you're neither," Greg observed. "You're just Nick. So come to bed."
"I'm not an angel or a demon, that's right, G, but I'm not Nick either."
Greg sighed, his eyes half-lidded. "I don't care what you are, I just want to feel you."
"I am a placebo," Nick told him sincerely, but he climbed up onto the bed all the same. He gently ran the back of his fingers down Greg's arm, barely touching the skin at all, but Greg felt everything, his senses heightened.
"Closer..." Greg whispered, and it was Nick's turn to obey Greg's whims. The false Texan inched closer, the strange smile on his face growing a millimeter longer. "I need..." He couldn't finish the sentence. He'd forgotten how to speak. Yet again, Nick Stokes, or the image of Nick Stokes at the very least, had stolen his breath.
Nick's hand moved upward, twirling a single strand of hair around his finger. Greg moved his head up to feel Nick's hand against his skin, but his imaginary friend pulled away at the last moment, and Greg felt nothing.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked.
"To make you understand that this is fleeting," Nick replied simply, logically.
"Life is fleeting. Nothing's for sure except death and taxes, right? So kiss me already."
"Death and taxes... I know one of them for you is closer than the other," Nick said ominously.
"Oh shit, did I forget to file my tax returns again?" Greg asked.
Nick smiled mysteriously. "I miss you."
"You can't miss me, you're a hallucination," said Greg, moving closer to Nick on the bed, but the latter moved backwards.
"He misses you," Nick corrected.
"Bah," Greg said dismissively. "You're only what I think he would say. You're only what I want him to say." He pouted. "Kiss me... dammit, or I'll..."
"You'll what?" Nick almost dared.
"Die," said Greg with a sigh, closing his eyes.
"Prophetic, don't you think?"
Greg's eyes opened blearily. "Why?"
"Because without him, I think you truly will."
"No," said Greg, shaking his head. "It's an expression."
"Addiction kills," Nick pointed out.
"Only sometimes," Greg snapped defensively. "Only when you're stupid." He glared. "Go away. I want the travel agent back."
"I cannot be anything other than what I am."
"Fuck you," Greg snapped, but then he became too lazy to care. His eyes felt heavy again, the hazy happiness returning. "Fuck you..." He closed his lids as the world slowed down, held them closed for a second, and when he opened them up again, he was in his dark room, alone, staring at the wall. The TV was still on, rolling somewhere in the middle of the six hour series, but he wasn't sure where, or how much time had passed.
He took deep breaths. His head was still heavy. The pipe was beside him on the bed, embers glowing.
Greg sat up and his head spun. He seized the pipe and packed it with more marijuana, lighting up and inhaling even as his stomach grumbled. At least nobody died from weed, he reasoned.
He finished the bowl and rose to his feet and wavered, a smile claiming his features as his thoughts began to become slightly disjointed. He giggled aloud, gripping the doorframe as his knees began to tingle, and stumbled down the hall to his kitchen, where he tried to make a sandwich and failed miserably. He also concluded that handling a knife in his condition was probably not the best idea, so he settled for ordering Szechwan Chicken from his favorite Chinese place.
He sat down at his kitchen table and immediately forgot what he was doing there. He stared at the wall for a moment as he tried to think, which was becoming increasingly difficult. And then, finally, it occurred to him, and he grabbed his phone, pulling it close to him.
He forgot which number would connect him with the Golden Dragon. He thought it could be four, but it might be seven. He called them a lot, so speed dial was much easier to manage. He tried four, because he was really getting good vibes from the number four, which practically danced on the number pad and winked at him seductively. This image made him giggle again, and he excitedly punched four and held it to his ear.
"Hello?"
"Hey, I'd like a, um... oh damn... hang on..." He tried to remember what he wanted.
"Greg, is that you?"
"Yeah, yeah, Greg, you're good!" he said. "Must got my number or somethin'... um, yeah, so the usual... whatever that is, the chicken thing, you know?"
"What are you going on about?"
"Pizza would probably have been easier..." Greg mused. "No weird names and I could just say... Hey, what's that yellow stuff they put on pizza?"
"Greg! What's the matter with you? Are you on crack?!"
Greg giggled again. "Nope. Guess again!"
"What?"
"This is fun, guess again!"
There was a pause on the other end. "Greg...? Are you OK?"
"Fabulous, Chinese Food Lady," Greg replied, and then it dawned on him. "Szechwan Chicken! Ha! What a fun word to say... Sesh-waaaaaan." He laughed about this a moment, resting his head against the kitchen table. "Feed me some sesh-waaaaan chicken please, Chinese Food Lady." And he was laughing again.
"Greg, you're beginning to scare me. What's going on?"
"Oh, are you guys not twenty-four hours?" Greg asked. "Because... um, my bad if you're not. I'll just order pizza. Hey, what's that yellow stuff they put on pizza?"
"Oh Jesus, you're high, aren't you?!"
"Ding-ding-ding! Give the Chinese Food Lady a prize!" Greg cried, leaning back in his chair.
An exasperated sigh came through from the other end. "Oh, Greg..."
"What's your name?" Greg asked. "I feel funny calling you by your profession."
"Greg, you didn't call the Chinese food place, you called me!"
"Mi! What a fun Asian name! What region is that from?"
"Greg!" the lady snapped irritably.
"What?" Greg cried back. And then, he had another thought. "Oh, is your name Mi-Greg? What a coincidence, I—"
"Greg, it's me, Sara!"
"Mi-Sara!" Greg said, nodding in understanding. "Pretty. You know, I once knew a girl named... What's your name again?"
"Sara, Greg, it's Sara, you called Sara!"
Greg blinked. This didn't compute in his brain. "That's a long name," he said instead.
She growled. "That's it, I'm calling Grissom—"
"No!" Greg exclaimed. "No, no, no, no, no, no Grissom! I did not order any Grissom! No thank you!"
"Greg—" Her voice was stern and unforgiving. "You listen to me, and you listen very closely." There was silence. "Are you listening?!"
"Yes!" Greg replied, exasperatedly. "That's why I wasn't talking!" His stomach growled and then meowed. He wondered if he'd inhaled a cat in his sleep, when something furry rubbed up against his calf. He grinned and looked under the table to see a gray eye and a yellow eye staring back at him.
"You're the colors of Halloween!" he said excitedly. He reached out and scooped the thing up, though it struggled mildly, and plopped it onto his lap, where he began to pet it, the fur against his skin incredibly soft.
"Greg! You're not paying attention to me, are you?!"
He blinked. "Oh yeah... What'd you say?" He pet the cat again and laughed. "Sheesh, Mi, you should pet this cat, it's so soft..."
"And it's the colors of Halloween, I heard," she muttered dully. "Are you listening to me now?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah..." Greg mumbled, staring at the cat. Vibrations began to accompany the soft fur and it made him giggle.
"You are going to tell me why you smoked up, or I'm calling Grissom."
"No Grissom, no Nick," said Greg.
"Nick...?"
"No Nick, please no Nick..." Greg begged. "Oh, Nick..."
"What about Nick?"
"Huh?"
"Nick, what about Nick?"
"Nick's not here."
She growled in frustration. "Why did you get high, Greg? Tell me that right now, or... Or I'll call Nick!"
Greg panicked and tried to think. "I was... bored, I think. I don't remember."
"You don't remember?"
"You should pet this cat, it's so soft..."
"You don't remember?!"
"Remember what?"
There was a click and she was gone.
Greg pulled the phone away from his ear. "That was a very strange phone call... I hope they got my order right... Was that the pizza or the Golden Dragon?"
The cat leapt off of his lap and trotted out of the kitchen again. Greg groaned and rested his head on the table, the world spinning. Eventually, the cat came back and issued a quiet meow, before leaping up onto the table and nuzzling Greg's forehead. He giggled.
"You're soft," he said with a smile, reaching out and petting the cat, which purred at his touch. But it nudged Greg's forehead, its cold nose making him recoil. "What do you want?" Greg asked, sitting up, and Liver leapt down into his lap, where he circled once before curling up. Greg smiled, and his arms encircled the old cat.
Greg sighed, thinking this was exactly where he wanted to be, here in his kitchen without any cares and a cat on his lap. There was a knock at his door, and for a moment he was confused. He wasn't expecting anyone... was he?
His eyes fell on the phone as he tried to remember, and then a conversation about Chinese food drifted into his mind.
"Food!" he exclaimed, sitting up. He pushed his cat off of his lap and skipped out of the kitchen and to the door, behind which someone was still knocking impatiently. "Food, food, food!" Greg repeated with a grin, throwing open the door without even thinking to check who might be behind it first.
His excitement melted into confusion as he noticed a familiar, burly man, in a dark T-shirt, but stranger still, he wasn't carrying Chinese takeout boxes. Or had Greg ordered pizza? He couldn't remember.
In any case, the man sighed, his face falling in visible disappointment, which made Greg disappointed, which led to the epiphany that he was terribly empathic when he was high. "Oh, Greg..."
"Oh Greg, what?" he asked. "Did you forget my food?"
His visitor chewed on his lip and wavered before his expression hardened and he seized Greg by the shoulders. "Do you not even recognize me?!"
If he hadn't before, he definitely did then, and it definitely made a dent in his shiny euphoria. "Nick..."
"Yes," said Nick, his eyes stern as they locked with Greg's.
But the younger man's attention span was that of a minnow's, and he failed to maintain that eye contact as his gaze wandered off to the side. Nick shook him again, almost violently, forcing Greg's attention back on him.
"Nick!" Greg said again, as if he was just noticing him for the first time. "What are you doing here?"
Nick was trembling, but Greg couldn't understand why. The Texan's hand flew to his forehead and then he withdrew it. He ushered Greg inside his own apartment and closed the door quietly behind him, leaning against it to face Greg, who had seen Liver enter the room and scooped him up, heading in the direction of the couch, where he sat down and stroked the cat.
"He's soft," said Greg to Nick. "You wanna feel?"
"No," Nick said sharply. "Greg... what have you done to yourself?"
Greg put his hands over his ears. "Please don't sound upset. If you get upset, I'll get upset, so let's not be upset in here, 'K?"
Nick was taking deep breaths and Greg turned to look at him with wide eyes, clinging to Liver, who was beginning to feel uncomfortable in the younger man's grip and was starting to squirm a little. The Texan shuddered purposefully and shook his head violently before staring at Greg with a peculiar expression.
"How much have you smoked?"
"Dunno..." Greg said, thoughtfully. "A bowl... bowl an' a half." He glared at Nick. "You gave it to me."
Nick cupped a hand to his mouth as he trembled on the spot.
Greg didn't understand why he was so upset. He gestured at Liver. "He's soft. You wanna feel?"
"You do this often?" Nick's voice quavered only slightly.
Greg shrugged. "Nah, not really..." It was the truth. This was only the second time he'd attempted marijuana.
Nick sighed, seemingly in relief. He looked down at his watch. "You know, you have to be at work in twenty minutes?"
"Nah..." said Greg, waving dismissively at the older man. "Stick around, watch some TV... have a beer!"
But Nick shook his head. "No, I..." He sighed. "This isn't often? Right?"
"Right," Greg assured him.
He nodded. "OK. Um... I'll tell Grissom you're going to be late. Again." He raked a hand through his hair. "Jesus, Greg... If you miss many more days, you might lose your job. And there won't be anything that Grissom or I can do to keep that from happening. Ecklie's already been on Grissom's back about your attendance record and I..."
This lecture may have interested a sober Greg, but as it was, his attention was far too precious to waste on such tedious bureaucratic affairs. He'd stopped listening at "lose your job." He began to fantasize about all the things he could do without a job. He could jet to Hawaii and go hang gliding. Or sail to Antarctica to see the hole in the ozone... even though he knew that he couldn't really see it. Or maybe he would—
"Greg, are you even listening?!"
"No..." Greg said honestly with a laugh. "What? You worry too much. Stick around, watch some TV... have a beer!"
Nick growled and threw his arms up into the air in frustration. "I can't even talk to you like this, can I? When the hell did you start smoking weed, anyway?"
"How about you just cool it, alright?" Greg moaned, beseechingly. "You're totally bringing me down and I don't have to explain myself to you and... What was the question?"
Nick's jaw muscles had clenched, and Greg wondered if they were having an argument. "I'll tell Grissom you're sick," he said in a low voice. "I will cover for you, just this once, but you have to promise me, Greg, that..."
The cat's fur was really soft... It reminded him of old Persian carpets.
"OK?"
"Yeah," said Greg, unaware of what he was affirming.
"You understand, then?" Nick pressed.
"Totally. One hundred percent comprendo, señor!" He even saluted.
Nick seemed to relax a fraction and he nodded. "OK. Just so long as you understand where I'm coming from..." He went to the door. "I'll say you're sick. Don't come in today. I don't want you working on the after effects of a marijuana high." He sighed and opened it, pausing to look back at Greg, who was already fascinated by the magazines on his coffee table. "I'm worried about you, G," he said, and then he closed the door.
Greg heard, but did not register these words. He was far more interested in how much hotter the girls in his Playboys looked when he was high.
He did, however, feel a sinking feeling and a chill upon Nick's absence.
This feeling was swiftly forgotten.