Author's Note: OK so the next chapter is a very long one. It will be up as soon as possible. Right now, you're pretty much caught up with my beta. ;o) Writing and moving do not mix, let me tell you. Enjoy.
Greg sat uncomfortably in the chair before Grissom's desk as his supervisor eyed him warily. Ecklie stood behind the desk with his arms folded, scrutinizing the young CSI, as if he could telepathically gain answers from Greg without making a sound.
"What's this about, Greg?" Grissom finally asked, quietly. "What is going on with you?"
"Do you want to tell him, or should I?" Ecklie asked, his eyebrows shooting up.
Greg looked from one stern expression to the next, trying to decide which one was worse. He said nothing in response to Ecklie's question, and kept his eyes locked with Grissom.
After a moment, Ecklie spoke again. "When were you exposed to HIV?"
Grissom's expression immediately changed to one of bafflement, a rare sight on his often inscrutable features. He turned in silence to stare at Ecklie behind him, and then turned to deliver the same gaze to Greg.
The accused simply sat there before he managed a half-shrug. "I never said I was exposed to—"
"You were running an antibody count on your own blood," Ecklie interrupted curtly. "What exactly did you expect to find?"
Greg decided that now was the best time to take advantage of the Fifth Amendment. He folded his arms, resolutely.
And then, Grissom spoke, in soft, almost pleading tones. "Greg... If you were conducting an experiment, it is in your best interest to tell us what that experiment was."
Greg bit his lip to hide the quiver. It was hot in the office. The air was stifling. "Two weeks ago."
"I'm sorry?" said Grissom.
But Greg was looking up at Ecklie. "It was two weeks ago."
Ecklie looked somber. "Greg..." And the young CSI made note of the use of his first name. "You know that your test would have been inconclusive."
"No," Greg said, stubbornly. "No, it's two to six weeks—"
"But at two weeks, the results are generally waived by any competent doctor," said Ecklie. "It's advised that you wait at least four weeks before performing the test. In order to... give your antibodies ample time to respond to the virus."
Greg said nothing, his mouth remaining resolutely closed again.
Grissom tried to reach out to him. "When did this happen, Greg? How?"
Again, Greg managed another half-shrug.
Ecklie sighed. "It didn't happen on the job, did it?" he asked. "I mean, it wasn't a victim whose blood you were exposed to, or... Oh, no wait, how could it have happened on the job? You have missed over twenty-four days of work in the last three months. You only get twenty-six a year, and you used seven last Christmas."
"Conrad..." Grissom muttered, weakly. "Not now."
"I think now is the best time, Gil," Ecklie returned. He turned his attention back to Greg. "He needs to understand what's happening."
"Conrad, you can't be serious—"
"Of course I'm serious!" Ecklie said simply. "Deadly serious."
Grissom cringed at the word choice, but Greg had gone numb again. They all knew what was coming, anyway.
"Greg Sanders," Ecklie began. "Your performance has dropped significantly, your attendance is unacceptably spotty, you used the lab for personal purposes, and you failed to alert your supervisor about a possible infectious disease. It is for these reasons that you are hereby dismissed from your position at this lab until further notice.'
Greg looked up. "Until further notice...?"
Ecklie's face was stern. "You are free to contest this decision via your union rep. We will be searching for your replacement. If, however, you can demonstrate that you have gotten your life back together and can focus on your job before we can find a suitable replacement, your application will be reconsidered, along with all the other applicants. Are we clear?"
It was, quite possibly, the most lenient ruling Greg had ever heard Conrad Ecklie make. Even Grissom looked surprised.
"Now," said Ecklie, with the continued air of a businessman. "Your badge."
Greg held his breath but nodded. He couldn't believe his luck. He had expected no mercy from Ecklie at all, and yet he still left open a window of opportunity for Greg to climb back in once everything was OK again.
He was in such a daze that he had forgotten his badge wasn't on him and was, in fact in his locker. So when he reached into his pocket to pull it out, it was his wallet instead. He blinked at it and his heart leapt into his throat. A small plastic bag was sticking out the top of it. Panicking, he tried to shove it back into his pocket.
"I believed that no longer belongs to you," said Ecklie.
"No, no, no, this is my wallet," said Greg hastily.
Grissom was frowning. "Then what are you so worried about?"
Greg was still struggling to get the wallet back into his pocket. And then, Grissom's desk phone began to ring and it startled Greg senseless. The wallet flew from his hand and landed on the floor. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears as Ecklie stepped forward and kneeled to pick it up.
He was just about to hand it politely back to Greg, who was sweating bullets and silently praying to anyone that would listen that Ecklie wouldn't notice the curious protrusion. But just as his fingers were inches shy of grasping the leather wallet, Ecklie pulled it back, a curious frown engulfing his features, and Greg knew it was his death sentence.
Ecklie opened the wallet and his mouth opened in a silent gasp before slamming shut like a guillotine. Greg closed his eyes and winced as he heard Ecklie snap the wallet shut and rise to his feet.
"Get out of my lab," Ecklie said, his voice low and cold.
Greg grasped at straws. "No, wait, listen, I can explain—"
"I said, get out of my lab," Ecklie reiterated, a finger pointing at Grissom's closed door. "You better thank God that I don't have you arrested!"
He tossed the wallet onto Grissom's desk, who slowly took it, his fingers wrapping around the leather before he opened it. Greg stared at him, unable to look away, even as a white hot, sharp pain stabbed at his chest. He watched hopelessly as his supervisor pulled out a tiny bag filled with Camellia's tea.
It was invisible to one who had not observed Grissom's facial expressions for eight years straight, but Greg slowly saw it fall into silent, masked, but oh so very pure disappointment. His icy blue eyes darted upwards and locked with Greg's and while the younger man had learned to read Grissom's expressions, his eyes were a whole other story.
"Griss..." Greg tried desperately. "You don't understand. I mean, aren't you the one who says not to jump to conclu—"
"Greg Sanders, if you don't leave this building immediately I will call security and you will be arrested for illegal possession of narcotics," Ecklie interrupted sharply. "You have five minutes starting now to clean out your locker."
Greg gaped. "Isn't that a little harsh—"
"I have no tolerance for addicts in this job," Ecklie said icily. "It requires your full focus at all times. You hold the futures of criminals and innocents in your hand and if a court ever finds that you were under the influence while processing any scene—"
"But I wasn't!" Greg protested. "I wasn't, I swear—"
"You have not only compromised every single case you've ever worked on, but your colleagues' reputations as well," snapped Ecklie. "Four minutes and fifteen seconds."
Greg opened his mouth to argue more when Grissom cut him off. His voice was a faint whisper, like a forlorn ghost, and yet it held more dominion over Greg than Ecklie's shouting ever could. "Just go, Greg."
Greg's heart cracked like ice, but he clenched his teeth and nodded. His eyes fell on the wallet in Grissom's hands. "Could I maybe have my..." For a moment, Grissom looked as if Greg was asking for the drugs back, so the young CSI hastily reiterated. "I mean, my wallet... s'got... my cards and stuff, and I just got new ones a few months ago, so..."
"Oh..." said Grissom, and he nodded. He pulled out every last bag of tea. Greg counted six, but there may have been more. His vision was hazy and his stomach was queasy, so his counting wasn't too reliable. And then, Grissom handed Greg the wallet.
Nodding in a cold and professional way at both Ecklie and Grissom, Greg turned around and quietly walked away. His hand had closed around the cold doorknob of Grissom's office door when he heard his ex-supervisor call his name.
"Greg..."
The younger man froze. He knew Grissom so well, that he could imagine the expression chiseled on his features. He had taken off his glasses by now, and he was pinching the bridge of his nose, quite possibly in an effort to halt an oncoming migraine in its tracks. But Greg knew from experience that nothing could stop a migraine. It was like a hurricane that ravaged your brain whether you were prepared for it or not. The drugs had caused many of them for Greg. Especially the Valium withdrawal. Yes, Greg and his headache had become best friends, and often times his brain's permanent roommate would invite all its fun friends. Photopsia. Nausea. Vertigo. Paresthesia. Photophobia. It was like a crazy party in his skull and no one cared about how badly they trashed the house.
"This isn't over."
Greg blinked. He had forgotten where he was for a moment. He looked over his shoulder at Grissom and saw the older man staring at him intently. Unable to form words, Greg simply nodded, opened the door, and left. And, unable to help himself, he slammed the door behind him.
He did not look up as he traveled the halls to the locker room to retrieve his things. He did not want to know the people he was passing, or allow them to see his shame. And he definitely wanted to avoid Nick and Catherine and the inevitable questions that came with them, which were always sprinkled with concern.
He entered the room quickly and threw open his locker, throwing things out onto the bench hastily. All he wanted to do was leave as quickly as possible, without any questions or trouble. Let Grissom explain it to them. Because Greg couldn't face them, not now, not when Grissom had so callously dismissed him. Because Greg couldn't face them, not when he knew that Grissom was right.
He left his vest hanging there because it wasn't his property, and he took out a few changes of clothes he kept in case he needed them. He scrounged around the floor of the locker and found an old tube of hair gel, half gone. The top was encrusted with dry gel and the colors on the tube were faded. He smiled. It had been a long time since he'd used that brand. With a sigh, he tossed it onto his growing pile of stuff on the bench and groped at the back until he clutched what he thought was a rag. Pulling it out and examining it, he saw it was a wrinkled Hawaiian shirt that smelled as though it hadn't been washed in a decade. He paused, his brow furrowing. With a sigh, he closed the locker and threw the shirt in a nearby trash can.
"What are you doing?"
Greg froze as chilling tendrils of panic slithered across his skin. He looked up to see Nick in the doorway, his eyes wide with questions Greg didn't want to answer.
"Leaving," he said as simply as he could.
Nick frowned. "Why? Where have you been all night?"
"Out," Greg answered, trying to remain as vague as possible.
Nick didn't like it. "Greg..."
"I was fired," Greg said, seizing his things. "So if you don't mind, I've been told I have to be off the premises in about thirty seconds.
But Nick wouldn't move from the doorway, horror overpowering his features. "What?"
"It's no big deal," Greg assured him. "I mean... Would you just move, please? I don't want Ecklie to call security on me."
"Why would he do that?" Nick asked, clearly breathless. He looked so pale, Greg wondered if the Texan would faint.
"I... don't know," Greg muttered. "Because he's Ecklie." He walked determinedly towards Nick and stopped when they were inches apart and his friend still refused to move.
"Jesus, Greg, if only you'd have listened to me..." Nick whispered, shaking his head. "I warned you, I tried to tell you that you were on the cusp of getting fired—"
"I don't want to talk about it," Greg mumbled.
"Well tough, because we're going to damn well talk about this," Nick growled, aggressively. "What the fuck is going on with you, man? You're reclusive, agitated, defensive—"
"I'm not defensive!"
"There, you see?!" Nick cried. His horror had slowly morphed into desperation as he stared at Greg. "I feel like I don't even know you anymore! You don't joke, not even about stupid things, or to break the tension. You don't even smile anymore, Greg, and when you do it's plastic. A mask, a façade that you think you can hide behind, but you can't, because I know you, Greg. I do. And this... this person you've become? It's not you. The Greg I know wouldn't get stoned and miss work. The Greg I know would always be on time and eager to please. The Greg I know would sing, loudly, and out of key, and he would dance, and turn the music up way too loud. And there was one thing I never had to worry about with him, and that was whether or not he was happy. Because he was always happy, genuinely happy, and even when I wasn't happy, I could always count on him to pull a laugh out of me. But now... Now, the music is gone, and there is no dancing, and the only happiness I see in you is incited by drugs."
Nick wasn't aware of how right he was. "Nick, I don't know what to say."
"Then don't say anything," Nick uttered, hopelessly. "I mean, it's what you do best, right? Not talking about things?" Suddenly, he was frustrated. "I mean, good God, Greg, I thought we had a deal. I thought you promised me, I thought—"
"What?!" Greg finally burst out. "What did I promise you, Nick? Because if you seriously expect me to remember a promise I made when I had the attention span of a canary, than you must be taking more drugs than I am! I am tired of you talking about this fucking promise!"
The brown irises slowly froze over, like muddy ice, and Nick's jaw was set. "You don't remember," he said, as if he should have known it all along.
"No, Nick, I don't," Greg finally confessed. "Because I was fucking high, OK?"
Nick inhaled a trembling breath. Greg was so close, he could smell the cinnamon from Nick's gum. "You promised that if you were having problems, then you would come to me first, before you turned to marijuana. You promised that you would let me know what was going on with you before you ever touched another joint. Because... Because, Greg, I don't understand what's happening to you and I'm just so scared that..." His eyes were moist and his voice was trembling, which may be why he snapped his jaw shut to contain himself. He seemed resolved not to let too much emotion show in front of Greg. Maybe he didn't trust Greg that much anymore after all.
He wiped at his eyes and swallowed before he finished his thought. "Drugs, they played a large role in Warrick's death, and I don't want to lose another... I can't lose you, Greg."
Greg clenched his teeth to keep himself from breaking down. "No. Warrick's problems are not my problems. I am not that guy, I am not some druggie sleeping on park benches living from high to high. I'm just... looking for a way to relax. I need that, especially... especially now."
"Why especially now?" Nick pressed.
"Ask Grissom."
"Well, I'm asking you!" Nick insisted.
Greg shook his head. "No, I have to go. Seriously. Or Ecklie will have my ass, and I really can't afford to be arrested right now."
"Arrested?"
"Just get out of my way, Nick!" Greg yelled so forcefully that it actually succeeded in making the burly Texan budge. He took a step back and Greg pushed him further until he escaped the locker room with his things in his hands.
"Greg!" he heard Nick yell after him. "Greg!"
But the younger man said nothing in response as he made his way out the door.
There was only one place for him left to go. He had several loose ends to tie up, but the frayed end of his rope was at a single location. And after that, things would start to get better. After that, he would get his life back on track. No more half-conscious sex, no more drugs, and definitely no more Camellia.
He banged incessantly on her door until she answered. She seemed mildly surprised to see him there. "Back so soon? You normally wait a few weeks for a refill."
Greg said nothing as he barged into her house, not even waiting for an invitation. "I need to talk to you," he hissed.
"Concerning what?" she asked, nodding towards the living room. She headed towards it and he followed reluctantly.
"No, I think this is something you would prefer to do in private."
She stopped and turned. "What is it?" she asked, standing in the hallway and eying him in a peculiar fashion.
"How long have you known that you had HIV?" Greg whispered.
Camellia was an experienced actor, so if this fazed her she did not allow it to show. "Who told you that I have HIV?"
"No more games," Greg hissed. "Cards on the table. Every last one of them. There are some things about you that I am no longer comfortable with leaving a mystery."
She took a deep breath. "I... didn't know for sure until a few weeks ago."
"After Lyle was stabbed," Greg deduced.
Her eyes widened at this. "You know about...?"
"Yeah, I know Gemini stabbed Lyle because she did a little too much Angel Dust. And you ran into your doctor. Did you know that you gave it to him?"
"To my doctor?" Camellia asked.
"No, to fucking Lyle!" Greg snapped. "He showed me his first fucking lesion!"
Camellia swallowed. She gripped the hem of her tight red t-shirt before lifting it to reveal her stomach, where Greg could see two maroon bruise-looking discolorations on her skin. "Did it look anything like this?"
Greg raked his hands through his hair in disbelief. "You knew... You knew this whole time. You fucked me and yet you neglected to mention to me that you were HIV positive?!"
"I didn't think it would matter!" she screamed shrilly.
Greg's eyes doubled in size. "You didn't think it would— What?! We fucking had sex and this is, among other things, a sexually transmitted disease, and yet you didn't think it mattered enough to tell me?!"
"No!" Camellia snapped back. "Because you had a condom!"
Greg paused. "I... I did?"
"I put it on you myself," Camellia assured him.
Greg vaguely remembered seeing a used condom on the floor. "Still... Regardless, condoms fail. There are risks involved, and I could still be... I mean, maybe you... Fuck, Camellia, what the hell is your problem!"
"I didn't know at the time, OK?" Camellia cried defensively. "I didn't know until the next morning, and by then I was so shook up about what had gone on that night, I didn't..." She stopped. "The last thing I needed was one more person hating me."
There was a strange, indecipherable silence. And then, Greg quietly asked, "What's your name?"
She shook her head. "You don't want to know that."
"I wouldn't ask if I didn't want to know," said Greg.
"Conejo—"
"How come you never call me by my real name?" Greg asked. "The only time I ever heard you say it was at the lab, in front of Hodges and Nick. But you never call me 'Greg' around anyone else. Only sugar, or cariño, or some other Spanish term... or Rabbit. Why do you do this? Not even Lyle calls me by my real name anymore, and he's known me longer than any of you."
She was trembling on the spot. "I don't... I don't know," she replied, shakily.
"Yes, you do," said Greg. "You do, I know you do."
"No, I don't," Camellia uttered. She shook her head and offered her hands to him, palms up. "I have no more answers for you, little Rabbit... Greg."
Greg wanted to ask more, but before he could she spun on her heel and marched into the living room. Greg followed her. "This conversation isn't over," he said loudly, even as he acknowledged all the druggies hanging out. He nodded at Frank and waved at Roger.
"Hey, Roger," he called.
"Hey, Rabbit," the CPA answered without looking up from his line of cocaine.
Greg almost took a moment to consider the coincidental humor of their greetings, but forgot all about it as his eyes found a new girl. She was young, maybe nineteen if that, and she was grinding pills on the table. She had a nose and lip ring, and her hair was dyed black. And then, Greg finally understood Camellia's group of friends. They weren't permanent. Not at all. Some might stay longer than others, but in the end all of them were replaceable. So long as there was a market, there would be dealers, and Camellia did not seem to lack for eager customers. If she lost one of her social circle, there was always someone to take his place.
"Fuck this..." he muttered. "I'm not going to become another one of your disposable customers."
"What?" Camellia blinked.
"I'm out of here. Game over," said Greg.
"Honey, you need to calm down," Misty called. "Here, babe, Athena here has some nice pills for you..."
"No," said Greg. "No more pills, no more tea, no more anything. I'm done with all this shit." He looked up at Camellia. "But there is one thing I need to know about you—"
He was interrupted by a shattering of glass, the tinkling bell-like sound of all the fractured pieces falling onto hardwood floors. There was the screeching of wheels, a roar of an engine, and the crashing of plaster, and shrieks of surprise coming from all around.
And just like that, Greg's priorities changed.