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[quasilogical.livejournal.com]

Title:  To Not Forget

Author: Quasilogical

Rating: PG-13?  I don’t know: some cursing, some angsty stuff, sort of dark

 

Summary: The worst thing about experiencing a traumatic event is that the details will fade from everyone else’s memory, when it’s you who wishes so desperately to forget.

 

Spoilers: Up to and including Grave Danger

Disclaimer:  I think we both know who owns these characters, and it’s not me.  The characters of CSI belong to Jerry Bruckheimer, CBS, Alliance Atlantis, et al.

 

AN: This all started as an explanation for why the doctor in Spark of Life explains debridement to Greg, when Greg should already know.  It morphed into this monster, which includes attempts to explain some stuff that bugged me in SoL, 4x4, GD and probably others.  Mostly a Greg character study, with hints of Nick/Greg (Angsty. I’m not very good at angst, so I have my fingers crossed on this one).  Told in 2^nd person from Greg’s POV.

 

 

You were sure as you sat there, that you would never again feel like you belonged here.  You were so sure, as you sat in the lab—just the lab, not your lab.  Never your lab again.  Your lab was destroyed in the explosion.  And you were so sure when Grissom watched your hands shake, that he understood.

 

It wounded you, deeper inside than even the deepest of your burns, to admit it, even silently, to the man you so respected.  It was almost worthwhile, though, when Grissom sent you into the field, admittedly on little more than a wild goose chase.  You triumphed, grungy and tired from your search, and proudly laid out the evidence you found.

 

Some of your best work has always been when people doubted you.  When that little competitive edge insisted you push just a little harder to prove yourself.  That’s how you felt as they looked at the cop uniform shirt lying on the evidence table, or on your first day in the lab when they were trying so hard to scare off what they thought was an unqualified kid.  Some of your worst work has also been when people doubted you.  You still remembered the bus driver, and how you froze when Nick shouted at you to get help.  You wonder why some instances result in success and some in failure.  Perhaps answering that question was like trying to predict a Las Vegas Jackpot—something only the lucky, not the good, achieve.

 

Returning, mostly healed, to the crime lab in the months after the explosion was a real testament to human perseverance and the effectiveness of prescription anti-anxiety medication.  Holding back that sob, or stilling the shaking hands, or walking anywhere in the proximity of the fume hood was an effort in defiance.  Some more successful than others, you learned, when your hands refused to be still as Grissom inspected them.  Grissom was looking at you like you were a kid, which was something you were used to; he’s looked at you like that since your first day in the lab.  But this time, he looked at you like you were his kid.  He offered his own brand of support, for a fleeting moment you were sure he understood.  That better than anyone else in the lab, he understood. 

 

The worst thing about experiencing a traumatic event is that the details will fade from everyone else’s memory, when it’s you who wishes so desperately to forget.  

 

They would forget the bitter relief in hearing that the burns on your back were not as severe as the paramedics first thought.  The bleeding cuts from the DNA lab’s glass wall had deceived the medics into thinking the third degree burns were more extensive than they were.  It was little comfort, really, to have a smaller area of third degree burns, when the alternative was the hideously painful second degree burns.  At least the third degree burns were dead to the pain.

 

They would forget the month of absence from work, which was in fact the time in which the skin graft was healing across your back, the donor site twinging painfully, the IV in your arm feeding you enough sedatives that you could barely move to damage the healing skin.

 

They would forget your first meeting with the psychiatrist, being prescribed a high dosage of Diazepam.   They would never know how you filled the prescription, for no real reason but to appease the doctor, and never intended to take a single pill.  They would never see the nightmares stealing away your sleep, the anxiety taking over your days, the fear taking control of your life.  

 

They would not comprehend the late nights, lying in bed thinking about how long it would take to get back to work.  Then being hit by the sudden realization that you didn’t want to return to work, that’s what got you in this situation to begin with.  But this work is what you do, it’s who you are.  And you try to figure out how to go back to who you used to be, figure out how to get over it, forget.  Academically, they must have known of your chances for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, known you would be plagued by nightmares.  Nevertheless, they would never understand the dreams of the smell of burning plastic and then the force of flames throwing you through a glass wall, and the pain.  Burning starting at your shoulder and moving up to your neck and across your back and burning deeper and deeper until you smell your own flesh burning and feel the unbearable pain give way to the ominous feeling of nothing at all.  

 

They would never feel that dark surrender as you finally swallowed a pill, feeling somehow disappointed in yourself.  You had always been too much of a square to do drugs, despite your efforts to appear otherwise, and you felt like you should call your grandparents-- from whom you inherited a suspicion of any drug at all, especially one designed to affect the mind-- to apologize.   But your nerves calmed a few hours later and you finally, finally, dropped off into a brief restful sleep.  

 

They would not understand hiding the pills away as the next night you went to sleep without them and woke up an hour later screaming, agony dancing across places on your back where you knew the nerves were too damaged to sense pain.  Or the insomnia that plagued the following two nights, until the third night you grudgingly took the pill again.  They would not understand the shameful admittance that you, from a heritage of independence and self-reliance, needed some faceless chemical to lure you to sleep.  

 

And after this month of hospice care, you do get back to work, and one of the first things you hear is a request, from the person who blew you up, asking for a favor.  And you really don’t want to give in, but you don’t want to be an ass about it either.  You know it was an accident, but damn it, that just means you aren’t even allowed to be angry at the person responsible.   And by the end of a full shift you can’t get your hands to stop shaking, because you can see the workers repairing the wall you knocked down, with your body, as you crashed through it.  And you’re expected to run the same tests you were running before it happened.  And because you keep wondering if you smell burning plastic.  And you call a cab because you can’t drive, and you take your pills, more than you usually do, but not an overdose.  And for a few weeks you can’t get through a shift without them.  You quickly consult your psychiatrist because you don’t want to become dependent—in your field, you’re all to aware of the dangers in that, so with his help you lessen the dose, until you manage to go days at a time without your pills, only needing them when extreme situations arise.

 

And that lasts until you get sent to a hospital to collect evidence from a burn victim.  Fucking burns.

 

You realize enviously that while you were healing, they were forgetting.  That even Grissom, who you had thought so sure to understand, had forgotten.  It was he, after all, who asked you to walk into the Desert Palm Hospital burn unit.

 

And you stand there, in the hospital room and you stare at your own worst fear—becoming burnt beyond recognition.  Every CSI has a case that hits them the hardest, not necessarily, because they have suffered the same thing the victim did, but because it personifies their worst fear.  Warrick hates the cases of troubled youth not just because he identifies with them, but because it makes him think too hard about the life he could have had if his grandmother had not been such a force to reckon with.  Sara hates the crimes against women not because she has been victimized that way, not that you know of anyway, but because her worst fear is to fall into a relationship where a man would treat her badly.  Catherine’s worst cases are those involving kids, because she sees Lindsay in each of the victim’s faces.  Nick hates the cases with kids, you speculate, because he sees himself in each of those young faces.  Your worst fear, from the moment you opened your eyes after the explosion, has been that the burns spread across your face, across your body, until no one would recognize you.  Not the CSIs, not the lab techs, not even your parents, your family, your Papa Olaf, no one.  

 

And you listen to the doctor-- a doctor you vaguely remember treating you, though his name escaped the sedated haze your brain was in at the time-- talking about her injuries, like you don’t understand anything about burns at all.  He mentions debridement and you repeat the word to yourself, thinking how innocent the painful process sounds.  You doubt debridement is going to help this poor woman anyway, and it’s no pleasant experience, and so you don’t know that it’s worth it.  He must have thought it was a question, though, and perhaps it was.  He tells you all about the procedure, like you’ve never heard of it and doesn’t he remember that you do?  Doesn’t he remember you?  Hell, you know what it’s like to be on the other end of the treatment.  Listening to him talk about how third degree burns don’t hurt because the nerves are so damaged that they can no longer feel the pain.  But he doesn’t realize that you know, better than he does, that those nerves felt a hell of a lot before they were too damaged to send pain messages to your brain.

 

And then you bring in her husband, and he doesn’t recognize her—only her wedding ring.  And you wonder to yourself, how would anyone recognize me when I don’t wear a wedding ring?  And you try so hard to avoid his eyes, like he thinks you can somehow fix everything.  But damn it if your eyes don’t catch sight of her hand, where her fingers had been amputated less than an hour ago.  And damned if they don’t give the severed fingers to you and expect you to process them.  They look like props for Halloween, and you think now and then that you see them twitch, see them beckon, and you have no idea how long you’ve been staring at them before you’re caught.  And you know you should fight to stay on the case; anyone else would, but truthfully, you’re so glad to be done with it you just leave.  

 

You sit in the locker room, hands shaking faintly, waiting for the pills to kick in before you try to drive home.  And someone, Sofia, has the nerve to ask if you’re alright, and you know she’s just concerned, but goddammit how did she expect you to feel after that case?  After seeing what could have happened if there was a little bit more of that combustible liquid or if you had been standing a little bit closer to the epicenter?  And she tells you not to lose your old sense of humor when at the moment you can’t think of anything remotely humorous.

 

It takes a long time to get to sleep that night.  You keep wondering who they would call in to try to identify your charred body.  And you actually consider yourself lucky that the Crime Lab requires employees to submit a DNA sample when you start the job.  At least that way you’ll be sure to be identified.  You wonder what kind of person finds comfort in that morbid thought; what kind of person that makes you.

 

You know nobody understands.  You’ve accepted it; you can’t blame them.  You wouldn’t wish this mental state on anyone.  

 

But then fate decides to play a cruel joke, and gives you a friend in the same precarious mental place.  

 

And you know that you don’t understand what Nick went through.  You can only let your mind ponder the sick parody of laying someone to rest, remembering Dr. Robbins telling you about bodies in coffins going through saponification.  It makes you sick, that you’re thinking of Nick as a decomp before he’s even dead.

 

You can only think of how on edge you were, picking through a bucket of human remains, the pieces of the man who has caused this nightmare.  You thought of the force of the lab explosion, how it knocked you through a wall, and you wonder why anyone would ever willingly wear that lethal sort of force as a belt.  At the time, you wondered if it hurt; wondered if you hoped it had.  Wondered why the hell they thought it was a good idea for you to be processing the bloody mess in that bucket.

 

You can only think of how you stood back away from the people frantically digging because unlike them, you don’t have full movement of your left shoulder.  You have ninety, maybe even ninety-five percent usage of your left shoulder; a slightly limited capability to lift, and a miniscule hindrance to the rotation.  It almost never affects you.  But this time, you know everyone is giving 100% and all you have is ninety.  It would have been enough to get an A in school; it was terrific odds in most circumstances.  Ninety percent never felt like such a failure.  So you stand back and let the others dig, but spring into action the moment they ask for something you can give, for the fire extinguisher.  

 

Once at the hospital, the lab has taken turns sitting with Nick round the clock, visitor’s hours ignored, badges flashed if a nurse argued.  Your turn comes and you sit in the hospital, looking at Nick and looking at the ant bites.  The doctor says they won’t noticeably scar and you are grateful for that.  You had needed dermabrasion surgery done to ease the appearance of your scars.  They are still a reddish-pink discoloration, not quite matching texture with the rest of the skin on your back, but they’re less angry.  Less like a horror movie monster.  But they’re still there, and there was really nothing more to do for them.

 

And when Nick leaves the hospital, you’re the one who happens to be off work that day.  You drive because he’s still under strict doctor’s orders and more than a little doped up on medications.  You go with him to pick up prescriptions and buy him a burger on the way home. You help him into his bed, then at his sheepish insistence move most of his entertainment system into his bedroom.  You sit on the edge of the bed and watch TV with him, order the takeout for him, remind him when his medications need to be taken, and watch him doze off occasionally for brief moments. 

 

When it’s late and you should be leaving, he hesitantly asks you to stay, tells you being alone is too much like being back there.  You agree, because even if you don’t understand, you see a shadow of your own darkness and fear in him.  You lie down on the other side of the bed and reach for the switch of the lamp and he quickly leans over you to grab your wrist.  You feel his weight on top of you, his warm hand wrapped around your wrist, the strength in his grip in spite of the tremble in his fingers.  You look at his frightened eyes, and look at the light, and you understand, and you tell him you don’t mind leaving it on.  He releases your wrist gratefully, but he doesn’t back away as he wraps one arm around your waist, fingers slipping under your shirt to brush against the skin just above the waistband of your boxers and he hesitantly repeats that being alone is too much like being back there.

 

You lift a hand to caress his back and don’t say a word.

 

You wake up the next morning and hurry so you can go home to shower and he asks what time you get off work.  You shrug and remind him of crazy CSI hours.  The look in his eyes, a little disappointment, a little fear, and something else, makes you smile reassuringly and promise to call him before you leave the building.  You promise yourself as you drive away to come back after your shift, and the next day, and the days after, until Nick tells you he’s ok without you there.  Instead, you get a kiss goodbye the next time you leave to swing by your place before work.  And as you lie together, his hand now seems to sneak under your shirt on purpose, instead of the accidental, almost embarrassed touch of the first night.

 

It’s a strange arrangement you have, but it has benefits.

 

Two weeks after he came home from the hospital, he leaned over you to turn off the lamp.  Two weeks after that, you stashed away your Diazepam, only to be used for emergencies.

 

You know you don’t understand what he went through.  He knows the same is true of his understanding of you; you see it in his expression as he stares at your back the first time he sees you without a shirt.  But even if you don’t understand each other, there is some sense of parallel.  He revels in that, and you revel in him.  His eyes hold a promise: that if you can’t forget the lab explosion, neither will he.  In return, you silently promise to not forget this with him, for him.  For the two of you, it’s enough.

 

 

 

 

AN:  I want to clarify that I have no problem with people using drugs for mental issues, such as depression or anxiety—if your doctor believes you need the help, by all means use it.  I do, however, think there is a type of person who likes to believe they are strong enough that they would not need such a thing.  Sort of like a person who’s lost who refuses to ask for directions because they’re sure they can find it themselves.  In this portrayal, Greg is that sort of person in the beginning, but eventually grudgingly admits he needs the help.

 

Also, I am not a doctor or nurse, nor medically inclined in any way.  My knowledge of burns and prescription drugs is limited to the research I did while writing this fic.  While I put in a generous amount of time to research, it is not the same as firsthand experience or medical studies.  If I have made mistakes, I apologize for my ignorance.

 

My information on burns comes from the various links on this page as well as my imagination. I also did research on Dermabrasion. Finally, Diazepam is a generic drug name for Valium.  I wanted to use a drug name that not as many people had heard of so I could get away with fudging some information about it.

 

And these are the longest Author notes ever.  I apologize for that.

Comments

[travellingone.livejournal.com]

This is a very good explanation for how everyone forgot the fact that Greg was blown up. You think that people will remember, but really it's only you that does while others forget. You also portrayed a very mature Greg, which is rare and was very well done. I'm not a fan of second person fic, but in this case, this was a very good choice for the story. Greg wouldn't tell this to anyone and I think any conversation would have ruined the tone and the mood of this piece.

I enjoyed this fic very much.

[quasilogical.livejournal.com]

I'm not a fan of second person fic, but in this case, this was a very good choice for the story. I'm glad you feel that way! I tried this fic as third and first person, but I ultimately thought this worked out better. It's more like he's having a conversation with himself. I was also careful to not use any direct dialogue because I thought it would kill the tone.

Thank you so much for reading.

[shacky20.livejournal.com]

I so adored this, I love introspective fics, and this was wonderful, the understanding now shared by two, that no one else can understand.

[quasilogical.livejournal.com]

the understanding now shared by two, that no one else can understand I have liked that about the Nick/Greg relationship since the lab explosion. I feel like Greg got blown up somewhere he felt safe--his workplace, and Nick had a traumatic experience at home--where you are also supposed to be safe. I think its a nice parallel between them.

Thanks for the kind words!

[serenity151979.livejournal.com]

I thought this was amazing. You have managed to explain the things that even the writers of CSI forgot about, and that's no mean feat. I felt like this was part of the episode, something that maybe had been written but then was edited, because it fitted so well into the timeline. Fantastic work, and I think the writers need to hire to to help write season 6. Great job. Just great.

[quasilogical.livejournal.com]

You have managed to explain the things that even the writers of CSI forgot about, and that's no mean feat. I'm glad it came off well. The story was me venting my frustrations while trying to rationalize the canon from the show. I'm glad it was fomewhat effective.

I think the writers need to hire you to help write season 6 lol. They'd hate me, I'd be such a continuity bitch. And I'd be sneaking all these Nick/Greg moments in there. Seriously, that is really flattering. Thank you.

[returnofwolf.livejournal.com]

This was phenomenal. I had to go back and watch SoL 'cause I myself forgot about Greg's reaction and didn't even think about stuff. Applause to you. I am greatly impressed. :)

-Z

[quasilogical.livejournal.com]

Thank you for the praise. I'm glad you liked the story.

[boy-ish.livejournal.com]

That was awesome. I don't know what else to say. It described not only Greg, not only Nick, but the others so well, too. I love how fanfiction can bring so much more to a character, can make you understand them so much better than on the purely visible surface one witnesses on TV. I think this worked very, very well for Greg. It did bring me into a part of 'his' mind I might not have fully considered...

[quasilogical.livejournal.com]

It described not only Greg, not only Nick, but the others so well, too. I'm glad you saw it as effective. I've always thought CSI had such a great cast of characters, and those characters had such fascinating interactions, I'm glad youthought I captured the characters right.

It did bring me into a part of 'his' mind I might not have fully considered... Cool! I've inspired the thought process. I think there's a lot going on in Greg's mind that we don't get to see, and I love exploring it.

Thank you for reading and leaving such a thoughtful review.

[csi-whore.livejournal.com]

I really liked this. Thought you did a great job.

[quasilogical.livejournal.com]

Thank you very much!

I will!

[yo-helena.livejournal.com]

I will comment on this! Every time I've tried, I've been thwarted. Internet connection? Down. Appointments? Oh so late.

Yes, I will. Expect one soon 'cause I LOVED it! ^__^

Finally!

[yo-helena.livejournal.com]

Finally! Yes, finally! I know I'm so late to comment on this, but the time has finally arrived for... *cue music and big, gaudy game show-ish sign*

helena_eternals's GLOWING REVIEW!

That's right, folks! After much angsting over her terrible timing, the day has arrived! A couple of calm minutes, a keyboard, and an Internet connection is all she needs!

Silliness aside, Q, I still think this was amazing! Writing in 2nd person is difficult for me, so I mainly stick with 1st or 3rd (mainly 3rd), so I think you're both truly brave and talented to embark on it. And to write something so deep and thought provoking... bravo.

I love your Greg. Your Greg is darker than usual; his resistance to his drugs, his resentment to those who forget, and the fact that accidents are when you can't blame the other person makes it so real. The fingers were painful as well (The thought of them beckoning... *shudders*), and even though this is angst (I like a little bit of fluff, but you probably already know that. :D) I thank you for letting it end on a happier note.

Returning, mostly healed, to the crime lab in the months after the explosion was a real testament to human perseverance and the effectiveness of prescription anti-anxiety medication I probably shouldn't have found that to be funny, but I did. Sorry. ^_^

Oh, and have you visited my LJ? I'm doing a fic request for Christmas and anyone on my f-list gets one. *nudges* That means you, young lady! :D

This fic was amazing. I'm not just saying that... th is is something I'd hope to find in a bookstore, downing an expensive coffee and hoping to ind a book worth spending my money on. WONDERFUL! ^__^

Re: Finally!

[quasilogical.livejournal.com]

I'm so late to comment on this Don't worry about it. School is trying to kill me at the moment, so I'm so far behind it's not funny.

The second person POV is kind of difficult, but I do like the effect sometimes. It feels like being inside Greg's brain. It's a great way to get his insights without needing to use dialogue.

Your Greg is darker than usual As much as I like happy fluffy Greg, I think the darker Greg is probably more accurate. I know he's resilient, but nobody could come through all this junk without being affected a little.

The one thing I always found interesting was that the lab explosion was accidental. I'm glad it wasn't Greg's fault, because that would just make him seem incompetent, and he's not. If it had been some act of retribution, like a disgruntled family member or convict attacking they could pin all the blame on that guy-- much like they did in Nigel Crane or Walter Gordon's case. Instead it was an accident, caused by someone Greg trusts and he can't even be angry because she never meant to hurt him. And let's face it, Greg has every right to be mad at someone for the explosion, he just can't find a person to blame.

(and that line that you found funny? It amuses me too. I'm not sure what's funny, just the tone, I guess, but it made me chuckle a little)

Christmas fic request? Didn't I reply to that? *sigh* I really am falling behind on everything. Blasted never-ending schoolwork. I'll go comment.

Thanks for all the praise. You're too good to me. :)

PS. Using the GAP ad avatar just for you because it has Hodges. Enjoy!