Home of Greg Sanders Slash Fiction
Author: Let's just say Nemi, since that's what I used to write under before.
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: PG. If even that.
Category: Angst
Status: Complete
Archive: Sure, just credit.
Feedback: Welcomed like a mofo.
Email: [email protected]
Series/Sequel: Nope.
Disclaimers: Not mine. Not sure I want them, either. The producers are
handling them just fine as it is.
Spoilers: Grave Danger.
Summary: Nevermind little Greg Sanders.
Author's Notes: Well, look at this! I managed to squeeze another
little shortfic out! O.O It's shocking, I know. In case you're
wondering, the title is sarcastic.
************
PERFECT
************
In retrospect I think maybe it wasn't me at all.
Have you ever had that dream where you're watching yourself do
something completely absurd, like running down the main street buck
naked and singing 90's pop songs, or eating bananas while watching
porn in a dog kennel, or writing nonsense on all your walls with a
neon green crayon? That's what it feels like. Like I've only been
watching myself move, speak, go through the motions, and it's
completely absurd!
I could have slapped myself when Warrick nearly lost it, and I
desperately wanted to just break down and cry, but instead I said
something fucking stupid about my clothes and the evidence and...
I like my job. I want to be a CSI, I really do, and I want to be a good one.
Breaking down sobbing at a scene isn't what good CSIs do. Letting
worry come in the way of your work isn't what good CSIs do. Good CSIs
leave their emotions at the door. Good CSIs process the evidence and
find the answers, no matter the victim, situation or crime.
Maybe when I've been a CSI 3 for a few years like Warrick, I can
afford to let myself go a little, in circumstances as extreme as this
one. But not until then.
Not until then.
They would never accept it.
I watch him sleep. I should be sleeping too, but I wanted to- no, I
*needed* to see him. Without the others. Without my mask. Without the
act firmly in place.
I know I've been crying, know the tears have stained my face and made
my eyes red and puffy. I don't care. It's just me and him now, and
he's not awake to see me. Grissom ordered us all home, get some rest,
before we have to get back to work. Crime doesn't stop just because my
entire world almost did. That's why I'm here now. Nobody else is
around, and I can finally let go. What a pathetic figure you are, Greg
Sanders, sneaking into the hospital like some freak stalker, hoping
nobody finds out. Hoping nobody sees.
Nick's parents have gone back to their hotel too, the doctors having
assured us all that he won't be awake for many hours to come yet, and
that's just as well. In his drugged state of mind, the nightmares at
least will be held at bay.
Oh, I know there will be nightmares eventually, when there are no more
drugs and the only healing that is left is emotional. I know it just
as I know pretty much every chemical compound known to man, just as
sure as I know the exact biological structure of over half the known
mammals of the world. I had nightmares for weeks after the lab
explosion, and that was over in seconds. Just a loud bang, pain, my
forehead crashing into something that gave way, then burning in my
shoulders and across my back, and the world tilted, twisted, and
bathed in a strange, orange-glow. All over in seconds.
It took more than seconds for Nick.
It took more than just a simple bang, crashing and tilting of his world.
I almost lost him.
His face looks a tiny bit better, but not much. The welts on his face,
his arms, still red and angry. Damn ants.
I almost lost him.
I don't care anymore. I lean forward and sob quietly, burying my face
in my hands. The rational, genius part of my head starts chanting
"breathe, calm, in, out," but the rest of me don't want to be calm.
I've been calm. Now is not the time for calm. I need this as much as I
need air to live. I need to let go.
Just this once, with nobody else around. Maintaining my mask and
keeping my cool while he was missing is the single hardest thing I've
ever done in my life.
Ever.
I didn't have the right to worry as much as Grissom or Catherine or
Sara or Warrick. What did I know? I am the newbie. The CSI wannabe.
The lab rat. I've seen them all come and go through my lab for years,
dropping off blood samples, skin samples, hair samples, fiber samples,
I've assisted them in taking down murderers, rapists, abusers... But
I've never been part of their little family. I've only just started to
find my way in. Only just started to make a space for myself amongst
them. What right did I have to worry? To grieve? No, this is my moment
for it all.
They will never know how much it pained me.
They will never know how much I hurt.
They will never know how much I love him.
I don't know how long I've been crying. I don't much care. When my
sobs finally still, and I sniffle and wipe at my eyes with my sleeves.
Nick hasn't moved an inch. The steady beep from the monitor by his bed
is the only sound in the room, and it's all so damn absurd. Tomorrow
I'll be back in the lab, while he's in this hospital bed. I'll be back
processing evidence, while he's making his way out of his drug-induced
sleep. I'll be back continuing my training while his nightmares will
start to creep up on him. I'll be back undercover. I'm not even sure I
can put my mask on, but just as I'm thinking it, I know I will. I have
to. This is what my life is.
"I love you," I whisper to the still figure on the bed.
I touch his hand, a mere whisper of skin against skin.
"Maybe someday I'll tell you that."
I stand up and leave the room, walking through the white corridors of
the hospital, towards the elevator, towards the exit, towards the
bright lights of Vegas and the masquerade that is my life. This is
what I have to do, and sometimes life really is a bitch, but there's
nothing anyone can do about it but suck it up and deal with it.
Nevermind that every day I choke down my true feelings. Nevermind that
every day I die a little more. Nevermind that sometimes I long for him
so badly my chest physically hurts. Nevermind little Greg Sanders,
goofball, labrat, CSI wannabe and freak, who has irrepairably lost his
heart to the hopelessly straight Texan currently sleeping, safe for
now, in a hospital bed. Nevermind me.
I'll be fine.
That's all they'll ever know.
-end-
Author's Note #2: Did I mention I'm pretty damn big on the unhappy endings?