Title: Crushed
Author: Dee
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2285
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Characters: Gil Grissom and Nick Stokes and various OCs.
Warnings: AU. This deals with a very serious life threatening injury, with some graphic details. Reader beware!
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: In my dreams they are like, totally mine!
Unbeta-ed: All mistakes will be mine!
A/N: This is the result of the challenge podga and I did some time ago. Maxieroc asked for an ‘injury at work’, and justtopostmyfic asked for hurt!comfort. I hope this satisfies the criteria for both. I am, as always, reliant on Google, Wikipedia and House, M.D. for my medical knowledge. It is not my intention to treat the subject matter lightly, or to offend anyone, but just to write a fic. (How the subject matter came to me is anyone’s guess.)

Gil woke with a start. His heart thumping in his chest, his breath coming in gasps and his body layered in sweat. He didn't, immediately, remember his dream; his nightmare.

He glanced at his bedside clock; he'd had a little over four hours sleep, but he knew he wouldn't go back to sleep. He dragged himself from his bed and made unsteady progress to the bathroom, but as he reached the doorway he had to hold onto the door jamb as the first sob overtook him.

His body jerked as he tried to hold himself in check. Tried to compose himself. He was always composed.

Always.

Except now he wasn't; he felt as if he never would be again.

He was the dependable one.

He was the pragmatic man.

He was sensible and wise.

He knew how to deal with things...

...except that he didn't anymore.

In the shower the water mingled with his tears. He'd tried scalding hot water to try and wash away the guilt. He'd tried cold water to freeze it out, but now he just had the water at his normal temperature, but his normal had been turned in its head.

He was constantly reliving the events of the last eight days.

“I think you'll need more than me at the scene if it's a triple murder; Jim seems to think that the victims knew their killer.”

“I'll send Greg when he gets back. But Ecklie's been on my case about the evaluations, and you know Warrick and Catherine are complaining they're missing out on their raises. I've got to get them done. So you'll have to go it alone. Don't you think you'll be able to cope? You're normally griping that I don't give you enough responsibility.”

“Jesus, Gil, it's not that and you know it; you know what...leave it, I will manage on my own.”

And Nick had left the office, in a mood bad enough to match Gil's.

They so rarely argued that when they did he'd remember the stupidity, the futility of the skirmish and then brush it aside.

But he'd remember this little skirmish for the rest of his life.

He would carry the guilt as heavily and as keenly as he felt it now.

When the call came in he'd become numb.

“Dr Grissom? This is Patrolman Potter, there's been a vehicular accident and I'm afraid that one of your men has been badly injured.”

“Who? Who's been injured?”

But he'd known immediately, without being told, his heart shattered into a million shards of pain in his chest.

“Nick Stokes. They had to cut him free, he's pretty bad, blood loss; anyway they've taken him to Desert Palm.”

“Thank you.”

Do you actually say 'thank you' to someone who's just broken your heart?

The phone had rung again while he was still sitting at his desk, frozen in time, too frightened to move.

“Dr Grissom? This is Amanda, at Desert Palm Hospital. We've just admitted Nicholas Stokes, and you're listed in our Database as his next of kin. I'm afraid...” And Gil had retched at her words, fearing the very worst. “...we need to operate, urgently, and need your permission for the procedure...will you be coming to the hospital?”

Thank God. Thank fuck. He wasn't dead. Not yet.

“I'm on my way, now.”

The hours had gone by at the speed of light and at the very same time, slowly, ticking away, second by second. People had come and gone. The sheriff, Ecklie, Catherine, Warrick, Greg. No Sara though, even with Nick hovering between life and death she couldn't find it in her heart to forgive either of them.

Six hours Nick had been in surgery. For six hours the doctors' had battled against blood loss and severe injury. And then Nick was in Intensive Care, blood and fluids dripping in, and blood and fluids oozing out. Wires and monitors and activity and noise.

All Gil had wanted was Nick. His Nick. Quiet, noisy, happy, sad; his love, his Nick.

When Gil emerged from the shower the worst of his emotional outburst was over, at least for a little while. He couldn't go back to the hospital for five hours yet, but it was all he wanted to do, and all he dreaded doing.

Seeing Nick. Speaking to Nick. Looking Nick in the eye. Telling Nick how much he loved him. Telling Nick how it was all his fault.

And Nick telling him what he felt.

“Gil, I have to live the rest of my life without half a leg and I'll be damned if I'm going to live with your guilt as well.”

Nick. Who could talk about it quite calmly and rationally and Gil, who couldn't.

Because Nick had lost his left leg below the knee and it had been Gil's fault for sending him out alone to a triple homicide when it would normally be a job for at least three CSIs.

Nick had said that if here had been three of them in his truck, then three of them might have been injured or killed, so it was better that he was on his own.

“Dr Grissom?”

“Yes? How's Nick?”

“He's holding his own. He's still in the OR. I have to tell you that we've had two of our top orthopaedic guys working on his left lower limb and it is their opinion that it is no longer viable. He stands a much better chance of a good recovery if the damaged part is removed. His blood loss and resultant shock means that a decision really needs to be made now; another operation in the near future would be more dangerous.”

“You need my permission?” How could he say 'yes, remove it', it was part of Nick.

“Yes; if you weren't here then we would consider it a medical emergency and remove it as a life saving measure, but your presence means we need your permission...”

“I don't know. I don't know. What can I say?”

“If he was my son, with such damage, I would agree.”

He's not my son, he's my lover. “Without hesitation?”

“There is no time for hesitation.”

Gil had agreed; there really was no choice as far as he could see. If he hadn't agreed and infection or gangrene had set in, then further surgery could have killed Nick or he could have lost more of his leg. Hypovolemic shock, that's what had very nearly killed him. Severe blood loss because of a jagged injury to his leg.

It was a drunk, driving a Dodge with bull bars. The bars had collided with the driver's side of Nick's truck and ripped and pinned his leg between the bars and the metal and the pedals.

Ripping the flesh, the muscles and the blood vessels, and crushing the bones of his foot and his lower tibia and fibula.

The arterial spurt had very nearly drained his body of blood. Only the speed and efficiency of a nurse who stopped when she’d seen the accident, and then the firefighters and paramedics, had saved his life.

Half a leg was a small price to pay for his life.

Except it wasn't.

For Gil, it was a failure. He should have been able to save Nick from death and save his leg. He should have been able to do both and he hadn't; he'd failed.

“We're going to start bringing Nick round now.”

Nick had been kept heavily sedated for two days to allow his body to recover and it seemed that it had. With his vital signs stabilised, he would be gradually brought back to consciousness.

He would still be kept on high doses of morphine to make sure he wasn't in any unnecessary pain, and then he would be gradually weaned off that, to assess exactly how much pain management he would need. How much pain he might be in for the rest of his life. How much physical pain, or how much psychological pain, Gil wasn't sure which pain the doctors' meant.

Gil had seen the counsellor. 'Matt' had been assigned to Nick to help him deal with his loss. He'd explained to Gil about the bereavement that Nick would suffer for the loss of his leg.

What would Gil suffer for his guilt?

Nick, as only Nick would, responded in text book style to being brought back to life. Gil was at his side and Nick smiled up at him and then put his hand up to his face, still swollen and bruised, but otherwise undamaged.

“Did I get hit? I remember the bang, man, such a loud bang I wanted to put my hands over my ears and then it was quiet...and now I'm here.”

Gil had smiled. Nick was lucid and fully functioning, just like that. Gil held Nick's right hand between both of his.

“It was nearly three days ago. You were hit on the driver’s side by a drunk driver.”

“Is he okay?”

Trust Nick to think of him before himself.

“He didn't have a scratch on him.”

“What about me? I feel okay, no pain, I suppose I'm on the good stuff? I feel like I'm floating around.”

“The very good stuff...morphine.”

And Gil had known what Nick's next question would be.

“What's the damage, then?”

Matt had said that Gil knew Nick best, and he would be the best judge of how and when to tell Nick; but with a word of caution, 'the sooner, the better'.

But what about Gil? 'Never, was better'.

“Nick...”

“Jesus, Gil, is it bad?”

“Yes, my love, it is.”

The gravity of Gil's delivery caused Nick to tighten his grip on Gil's hand and his eyes looked fearful.

“Nick, your left leg was trapped and very badly crushed...they...the doctors' had to...had to...amputate...”

Gil couldn't say another word.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Nick had looked like a child, lying against the white bed linen. His eyes wide with comprehension, but trying desperately to imagine it was a lie, a trick. An image forever imprinted on Gil's mind.

“Your left leg below the knee.”

“Not the whole leg? I thought it was the whole leg.”

For fuck's sake Nick, it's fucking bad enough.

“No, below the knee. You had no other major injuries, but you had severe blood loss, that's what nearly killed you.”

Nick had looked up at Gil as if he could judge Gil's reaction and then respond accordingly.

Gil's tears had gently bled from his eyes and rolled down his cheeks and then dripped off his chin onto the bed.

Nick's eyes had followed their course and then his whole body had heaved in a sob of such anguish that Gil believed that what remained of his own heart had been ripped from his chest. He'd fallen onto the bed over Nick and held his beloved as he'd cried the grief of the bereaved.

They stayed like this for two hours although Nick had slipped back to sleep, helped by the drugs. Gil had no such panacea.

Matt had moved in later, in the evening, and spoken to the grief stricken Nick, alone, and then with them both.

Matt was calm and reasonable and Nick was calm, but devastated. Gil was nothing but guilt ridden.

But Nick had come to accept his predicament and in two more days he seemed almost philosophical about it. When he realised that his blood loss had very nearly killed him, he decided that alive with one and half legs was a darn sight better than dead with two.

He never said, 'why me'? Why Amy Hendler? Why Nigel Crane? Why Walter Gordon? What he said was very practical.

“Gil, start doing some research, will you, please, about prosthetic limbs...I might as well know what they're talking about. And I want the best.”

Gil had been utterly bewildered at Nick's fortitude. Matt said he might be already over the worst, some people did accept their lot and just got on with it, but on the other hand, some people pretended. Only Nick knew which option applied to him.

It seemed to Gil that Nick had accepted it and was moving on, but Gil could not.

On the sixth day Nick asked to see his leg without the dressing. Nick asked Gil to be with him – for moral support - but it wasn't Nick who was in need of support, it was Gil.

The operation had been very successful and the medical team were happy to report that the stump had been prepared, surgically, to give the best results for an artificial limb. Nick had paid attention to all the information; technical details about the way the bones had been cut, the way the skin had been stitched. He wanted all the details.

“I'm stuck with this, babe, so I might as well understand as much as I can and get used to it. Hey, if you bring in my lap top I can do some research myself; give me something to do to wile away the hours.”

“Nicky, sweetheart, do you think you're rushing headlong into this, do you need to take stock and...”

“What for? It's happened and it ain't gonna to grow back, not now, not ever, is it? I might as well do something constructive and learn about it, knowledge is power...did you say that?”

“No, it was...Sir Francis Bacon in his Religious Meditations.”

Gil had actually chuckled that Nick had thought he’d said it

“Well then, he was right. What's wrong with you, Gil? Are you frightened the stump will upset you? I'm petrified, but I've got to do it…look at it…sooner or later.”

Why not later?

“Nicky. This was all my fault. My fault.”

Gil hadn't meant to tell Nick what he thought, but Nick's stoicism was making it far worse. Rubbing salt into his wound, only his wound wasn't about to be put on display.

“Your fault? How can it be your fault?”

“I shouldn't have let you go to the scene on your own!”

Gil had become distraught.

“Gil, whether or not I went on my own, this was an accident waiting to happen. Better me injured on my own than three or four of us...or you. I couldn't have done that, being here for you, like you are for me!”

"But that is what I have to bear...that I sent you out, alone, because I was too irritable with Ecklie and Warrick and Catherine.”

“That's rubbish and you know it. You'd better get over this Gil, because when I get back to work I don't want you giving me special treatment. I can be a hundred percent with the proper leg and I'm not going to settle for less.”

This statement had only served to make Gil worse.

How on earth was Gil going to let Nick go anywhere without him? How would he ever be able to let Nick out of his sight, ever again? How could he ever function normally again knowing what he'd done to Nick?

The nurse had unwrapped the dressing over the stump and the gauze, immediately over the wound, was exposed. Nick grabbed Gil's left hand in both of his; Gil's right arm was already around Nick’s shoulders as he sat at the top of the bed with Nick.

Both men had taken a few big breaths and then Nick had nodded to the nurse. She’d gingerly removed the gauze from the wound. The doctors were right, it was very neat...a neat flap of skin sewn in a 'V' up and over the stump.

He had about six inches of leg below his knee which they both knew was bone and muscle to facilitate movement of the joint, and allow a good base for fitting a prosthetic limb. Most of Nick’s tibia and fibula had been removed. The major work for Nick would be getting the muscles re-programmed and working efficiently. There was also sufficient leg remaining to make a prosthetic limb fit well.

Matt had told them, with this amount of leg and also doing the physical therapy diligently, (as Gil knew Nick would) it would mean the difference between a good working prosthetic and a mediocre one. Between a no limp and a limp.

Nick and Gil had looked at the empty space. Nick had gasped and tensed and then let out a wail and turned, awkwardly, into Gil and broke his heart. Sobbing and speaking words Gil couldn't decipher, but didn't need to.

The nurse left them alone to allow their outpouring of grief, although Gil was quiet, he was still consumed with his own grief for Nick...and for himself.

Eventually, Nick calmed down. He pulled the corner of the sheet from the bed, and swiped it over his face and then spoke with a voice thick with emotion, and yet strong and positive.

“That's it. It's gone and it's not coming back. I've got to get on with it, babe, I've got to. I've got to.”

He wiped his snotty nose with the back of his hand and smiled. Nick smiled at Gil.

Nick's smile broke Gil's heart, once more, into a million pieces. He knew he might never recover.

“Matt said as soon as I can get around on crutches I can be discharged. Then it's physio to make it strong, and finding the right leg for me. I fancy one of those high tech carbon fibre ones. You remember that news report about that South African - I think he was - runner with two artificial legs and he wanted permission to run in races with able bodied people?

“Wow...I'm not classed as 'able bodied' any more.”

Gil thought it was funny, ironic actually, that something as simple as that could upset Nick after all he’d gone through.

“I think it's fair to say, sweetheart, that even before you begin your rehabilitation, you're more able bodied than a lot of people I know...and me, come to think of it.”

“You think? You are kinda unfit; you know you should do more, don't you?”

“I find it strange that you're lying there telling me what I should be doing.”

“Well someone's got to, and there's only me.”

“What about your family, should I get in touch with them?”

“Why? You think they'd be interested? The first question they'd ask is, 'are you still living with that man?' We're finished. If they accept me for what I am and you as the man I love, then okay, but in their eyes, this...injury will be God's punishment. No. Leave it.

“We'll manage…you and me. You're okay, aren't you, babe? I mean, it doesn't put you off me...you know...me not being your 'beautiful boy' any more?”

“What? Nick, you are all mine, more beautiful with every passing day, more special to me than I can ever say. It's me who should be asking, can you stay with me, knowing I could have prevented this? Oh Nick, I'm so sorry.”

“Gil, this is getting real old, real fast. It was that drunk's fault, no one else's. You, me, anyone and their dog, didn't know it was going to happen. Jeez, no one knows what’s going to happen. Babe, you've got to get over your funk, we got busy days ahead.”

Why was a scolding from Nick so upsetting? Because he was the one with the injury, the one who would live with it, or, without a leg, for the rest of his life.

It was this very funk that had Gil by his throat, he knew that. That it kept its grip on him night and day. That it filled every waking moment with guilt and every sleeping moment with nightmares.

And now Nick wanted Gil to see someone. Not Nick needing help...Gil.

If Nick passed the ‘moving around on crutches’ test later this very morning, then Gil would bring him home. But, last night Nick had shouted at him. Last night Nick had lost his temper with Gil and made it quite clear that if Gil didn't 'buck his ideas up' straight away, then Nick would be going elsewhere.

“Gil, I have to live the rest of my life without half a leg and I'll be damned if I'm going to live with your guilt as well.”

Nick was annoyed, angry, furious with Gil, for his refusal to acknowledge that it was an accident and not his fault.

Gil just couldn't move away from his perceived culpability.

But if he wanted Nick, and he did, then he would have to accept Nick's ultimatum.

“Get help, now, or I'm going to ask Warrick if I can stay with him.”

Gil sat at the kitchen table, nursing his third coffee and a half eaten bowl of cereal. If he needed to lose a some weight then he must have shed at least a few pounds in the last week.

His eyes felt heavy and tired, he was so used to sleeping during the day and working at night that he'd failed to adjust to the last eight days. Either that, or it was the guilt. The most he'd slept in one go was about four hours.

Perhaps that was some of his problem, sleep deprivation. He wished with all his heart that he could shake off the guilt, or even hide it from Nick, that would be of some help. But he couldn't hide anything from Nick. Ever.

Gil felt his eyes tearing up again. He was so unused to weeping, sobbing, that that in itself was a shock. He never knew he had the capacity to be so overtly emotional. But what if Nick did leave him? How would he cope with that?

At least that answer was simple...he wouldn't. At least he was clear about that.

He must do something. Something positive, like Nick had done by taking control and moving forward, not looking or considering ‘what if’s’. Gil knew he must follow Nick’s example and move forward. He knew he must, but could he?

When he returned to the hospital in four hours time, he would speak to Matt and tell him. He had no choice in the matter and it would be a small price to pay. For Nick.

Nick, who'd lost so much, but was already dealing with it and in control.

The phone rang, shattering the silence. Gil jumped at the intrusion and momentarily wondered who would call at five thirty in the morning; then he thought of the hospital and sprang to his feet and snatched up the receiver.

“Yes?”

“That's a fine way to answer. Where're your manners?”

It was Nick, his Nick.

“Sweetheart, what's wrong?”

“I wanted to say sorry for being so nasty to you, last night. I'm not going to leave you...even to go to Warrick's. You're just upset for me, I know. But it wasn't your fault and deep down you must know that, you must.”

Gil couldn't stop himself from sobbing, and couldn't speak.

“Now you're crying, babe, and you know you'll set me off. I'm the cry baby, not you.”

“YOU are the strongest person I know; the strongest and bravest man I've ever known.” Gil pulled himself together to be indignant at Nick.

“I never used to be. It's you who gives me the strength, babe. You. Knowing you're gonna take care of me.

Knowing that you won't turn your back on me. You make me the man I am, and don't you forget it.”

“I'm going to see Matt, when I get to the hospital, and see what he recommends. I must know, I do know, it's not my fault really...but it was having that argument before you went out, it made it so much worse.”

“Oh, babe, we've had much worse than that, and laughed about it afterwards.”

“Maybe that’s it, we didn’t get the chance to lay it to rest, and it’s playing on my mind.”

“And Warrick and Catherine were outta line calling you in front of everyone.”

“I deserved it. I should have done their evaluations.”

“Yeah, you should; but they ganged up on you in front of the team, and that was not nice. But the worst thing, babe, you had to agree to the...procedure.” Gil heard Nick take a deep breath. “The amputation.”

“Yes.” Gil took his own deep breath, he hadn’t told Nick about this. “Do you know what hurt me? The doctor said if you were his son he'd agree to the...have it done. And I thought, 'Nick's not my son, he's my lover'.”

“The doc said that? Must have been pretty badly mangled, then.”

“Of course it was it’s why they…but they were most concerned about your blood loss. You lost so much at the scene because of the nature of your injury.”

“I think I'm pretty lucky. I must remember to thank that nurse who stopped to help”

Gil laughed. He actually laughed. “After all that's happened to you over the years, and you think you're lucky?”

And Nick laughed too. “I survived, babe. I lived to tell the tale. I'm with you. You just ain't gonna get rid of me that easily!”

“I can live with that...you. I'm going to speak to Matt. I want you here, with me, sleeping with me, making love...”

“...are we gonna be okay...you know, with my leg...or, you know, without it...”

“Sweetheart, call me a dirty old man, but I can't wait to touch you, kiss you, love you

“Well, you're not that old, and you're always clean and presentable.”

“So, a sex maniac then?”

“Yeah, that'll do. I love you.”

“I know you do and I love you, so very, very, much.”

“Makes me feel good, to know I'm loved.”

“Shall I break hospital rules and come over now?”

“That'd be great. You feeling better?”

“I am, Nick, I am, just speaking to you now has made me better.”

“Yeah, and me. I understand you know, because if it was you, I'd be the same. I'm busy dealing and you're just hanging in there.”

“I don't want to get into another argument here, but I've been selfish, moping around feeling sorry for myself and you're the one who's coped. And don't you dare contradict me...you know I'm always right.”

“Huh, you are feeling better.”

“I am; now I'm going to go clean my teeth and get dressed and come straight over to the hospital.”

“You'd better. I'm coming home today. I hope you've tidied up.”

“Now you see, you'll expect me to panic and say, 'I forgot', but I didn't. I called at the mall on the way home last night and stocked up with fresh food and I cleaned up last night and although I haven't changed the bedding yet, it's all ready to go, so I'll do that before I leave...and put the dirty laundry on to wash. How about that?”

“Man, you are in so much trouble; now I know you can do it, you're going to have to do it...I'll make a rota for the chores.”

“I think I just shot myself in the foot.”

“Yup. Now git, and get over here”

“On my way.”

“Don't forget the bedding.”

“No dear. Bye dear.”

When Gil replaced the receiver he realised that they'd just had the first normal conversation since the accident. They were okay. Well at least they were going to be okay.

Gil wasn’t always composed. But he could cope and he would.

He was dependable.

He was pragmatic.

He was sensible, at least most of the time.

He wasn't very wise; Nick was the wise one, but that was a secret.

And he did know how to deal with things...but only after Nick showed him how.

The End