Title: Nick Interrupted
Author: podga
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: CSI and its characters do not belong to me. I write and post for fun only.
Summary: Sequel to “A Kiss is Just a Kiss”.

I’m sitting with Catherine in Gil’s office, wrapping up the loose ends of the Cody Latshaw case, listening to Gil read Cody’s poem, when it hits me: I can’t take this anymore. I can’t take dealing with the aftermath of people’s greed and stupidity day after day. I can’t take trying to make sense of it, when there’s no sense to be made. I can’t take pretending we’re fixing things, when it’s too late to fix anything, for anybody. I can’t take all the destroyed lives we come across, because I know that neither the victims nor their families will ever be the same again. They’ll just be going through the motions of a normal life, trying not to look at the past, but no longer able to see the future, either. I know. It’s what’s happened to me.

I didn’t realize it at first. The first weeks there were so many people telling me what to do and think and feel that it never occurred to me to question any of it. They told me to concentrate on getting better, so I did. They told me I was lucky, so I must have been. They told me I was brave and a fighter, and I believed them. They told me not to look back and I tried not to.

But you can’t not look back, can you? It’s your life, you can’t just erase those parts you don’t like, even if there’s nothing good to learn from them. Everybody tells you that it wasn’t your fault, but still you start to wonder if maybe, somehow, it was. They tell you you’re a survivor, but surely surviving is something active, and all I’d done was lie in a box waiting to die. Not killing myself had more to do with fear than with thinking that I would somehow come out alive.

I didn’t want this thing to define me, but it does. It’s become the backdrop against which I second-guess myself almost every day. Am I doing enough? Am I taking full advantage of my second chance? Should I be more selfish? Am I making too many compromises? Is what I’m doing worthwhile? Am I wasting time? I used to think that there were few things in life that were truly irreversible; even if you made a couple of mistakes, things would work out. Now each choice, each crossroads, seems so loaded with significance that I can barely make decisions. I no longer know what I want, other than to take a break and get away from it all, and I don’t have the courage to do that, because I don’t know what will happen to me afterwards.

Gil puts the file down and takes his glasses off. He smiles a little, more to himself than at us, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and I wonder what he’s thinking about.

Catherine stands up.

“Well,” she sighs, “time to go home.”

She lingers, as if waiting for me to get up as well. I tiredly brace my hands against the armrests to push myself up. I look at Gil and he’s staring at me, but he doesn’t say anything, so I follow out Catherine out of the office. I can feel his eyes on my back, and at the door I glance around and confirm that he’s still looking at me.

Over the last few days I’ve come to realize that Gil and I can’t be friends.

It’s not only that I wanted something more, because I’m not exactly sure what I wanted, other than to lean on him. At first I told myself it would be mutual, that Gil could lean on me, as well, but I know now that that’s not true. Not only because I’m not strong enough to take on anybody else’s problems or be responsible for someone else’s happiness, but because I don’t think Gil actually needs anybody to support him. Or he’s convinced himself that he doesn’t, and that amounts to the same thing.

So it’s not that I wanted something more. It’s that Gil, like Warrick and Catherine, knew me before. They knew who I was, and they think I’m still that guy. Mostly it’s a relief for me to play along, to pretend that I’m still the old Nick, but sometimes it gets to being too much and they never seem to realize. It’s not their fault; I shut them out in the beginning, never really telling them how I felt, because it made me feel too vulnerable, and now it’s too late. They can’t help me and I can’t help them. If Sara felt anything like I did, she did the right thing to take off. You can’t start again with so many people tethering you to your past and the longer you hang around, the harder it gets to do what’s right. You just drift along, going through the motions, looking for fixes that deep down you know won’t fix anything.

When I wake up, I feel as tired as if I haven’t slept at all, and my joints ache. I know I’ll be OK once I find the energy to get up and take a shower, but lately it’s taking me longer and longer to decide to get out of bed. I roll over, burying my face into the pillow, and I try to fall asleep again, but I can’t. All I can do is wish I was somewhere, anywhere but here.

Finally I reach a decision and pick up the phone. I have Gil’s number on speed dial, like I have the rest of the team’s, and I press the key quickly, before I can change my mind. He picks up on the second ring and says my name.

“Gil, I don’t think I can come in today.”

“What’s wrong?”

I try to tell him I’m sick, but my mouth isn’t working quite right.

“Nick?”

I swallow hard. “Flu,” I say thickly.

He doesn’t answer immediately and I concentrate on my breathing.

“You seemed OK this morning,” he says finally.

“Yeah. Yeah. Well, I’m not OK now,” I say.

“Well, get some rest then. I hope you feel better,” he says.

“Thanks. I’ll call again if I can’t come in tomorrow,” I tell him and I’m about to hang up when I hear him say my name again.

“Nick. Do you need anything?”

“No,” I say quickly, then I have to stop talking again and regain control. “Thanks, Griss. I’ll be fine.”

I lie back down and shut my eyes.

I call in sick again, then the third day I don’t, even though I should.

Get up, I tell myself. Get up, shower, eat something and you’ll be fine. Lying here feeling sorry for yourself isn’t helping. The good thing about talking to myself is that I can also tell myself to shut the fuck up, and I do.

I ignore the doorbell, but after a while whoever’s at the front door starts banging on it. I get up too quickly, almost falling over, then steady myself and go to the entrance.

“Who is it?”

“Grissom. Open the door, Nick.”

I release the latch and back away, letting him push the door open and walk in. He barely glances at me, turning back to shut the door and put a paper bag on the side table. Then he crosses his arms against his chest and slowly looks me over.

“You look awful,” he says. He drops his arms and takes a step forward, and I back away, aware that I probably don’t smell much better than I look.

“You really are sick,” he says.

“I told you I was,” I bristle.

“Yes. You did.” He looks back at the bag. “I brought you some chicken soup and orange juice.”

“Thanks.”

“How high is your fever?”

“What?”

“Your fever. How high?” he repeats patiently.

I don’t have a ready answer and stare at him stupidly. He smiles briefly, then reaches up and touches my cheek with the back of his fingers.

“You feel cool,” he says, running his fingers down along my jaw, then up again.

I take another step back so that he can’t reach me and my back hits the wall.

“This isn’t…” he starts, then stops and takes a deep breath. “I know this will sound stupid, but this isn’t about us, is it?”

“No,” I say hastily, taking a sideways step in an effort to put more distance between us, but he steps to the side as well, so that he’s still in front of me.

“Then what?”

“I’m sick,” I say, even though I know he’s not buying it anymore, if he ever did.

“No, you’re not.”

“Gil…”

“But you’re not OK, either,” he interrupts me. “What’s wrong?”

I shrug. “I just needed a break.”

“Has it helped?”

This time I manage to put some distance between us by walking into the living room. He stays put, watching me from the entranceway. He looks tense and uncomfortable, but he’s here and he doesn’t look ready to leave. But that doesn’t mean he’s ready to listen or that I’m ready to tell him anything. Except that I want to. More than anything, I want Gil to understand, even if there’s nothing he can do to help.

“No. It’s… I mean, I’m…” I search helplessly for words, but I don’t know how to start. I take a deep breath and try again. “I don’t know how to explain this so that it makes sense.”

“Don’t worry about it making sense,” he says quietly. “Just tell me.”

I sit on the sofa and bury my head in my hands. I can’t do this. I want to, but I can’t, because if I do, I think I’ll lose what little control I have left.

He walks over to me and crouches in front of me, one hand on the arm of the sofa, the other on the cushion next to me.

“We haven’t been paying attention, have we?” he asks. “We paid attention to Greg and to Sara, but we never paid any attention to you, did we?”

I shake my head. “It’s not like that,” I say thickly, but he puts his hand on my knee, stopping me.

“No. Because you lived up to our expectations, didn’t you? We needed you to be strong, so you gave us what we needed and we didn’t question it.”

I concentrate on the warmth of his palm on my knee and try to remember the last time anybody other than my family touched me. It feels like it’s been years, but it can’t really be that long, can it?

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Telling you you’re not alone, and that I’d be there for you, that must have sounded pretty hollow.”

He takes his hand away and starts to stand up, but I don’t want him to go so I grab his wrist.

“No,” I mumble. “No.”

He stills instantly and we stay like that, his eyes level with mine. I lean forward slightly, until my lips touch his, and even though my breath must stink, he doesn’t back away. Instead he frees his wrist so that he can cup my head and hold me more firmly against him, and he kisses me, light soft kisses, brushing his lips against mine. Afterwards he pulls me into a hug and I wrap my arms around his back and hang on as tightly as I can.

“Do you ever think about the future?” I ask him.

Instead of answering, he pushes me away a little, so that he can look into my eyes.

“Do you?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Not any more.”

He sits next to me on the couch, so close that our shoulders and upper arms are touching.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m stuck around this one point in my life. Because it’s not over.” I feel him tense and pull away from me, and I realize that I’ve reminded him of what he said to me nearly three years ago. I lean against him, trying to show him that it’s alright, and he slowly relaxes.

“Will you come back to work?” he asks suddenly.

“Gil, I…”

“I should be telling you to take time off if you need it. I should be telling you to go away and do whatever you need to do in order to get better. Only you might never come back.”

He pulls away from me again, so that we’re no longer touching. “I don’t think I could stand that,” he finishes gruffly.

We’re all bound by the past. It can be one defining moment or a series of small and half-forgotten events, it can be things we’ve done or things that were done to us, but we’re never truly free of it. Maybe we even cling to it rather than letting it go and looking ahead, because at least we know we’ve survived it, whereas we have no idea what the future will bring.

I reach out and put my hand on Gil’s and without hesitation he twines his fingers with mine.