Title: Reinvention
By: BflyW
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Beta: saras_girl
Rating: R
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Verse: memory!verse

This story has three parts; each is a timestamp into Pieces of Memory. That story must be read to understand this one.

Response to 10_titles challenge; title: reinvention.



PART ONE : the pilgrimage of the soul.
Timestamp: NICK, about 2 months into Pieces of Memory: 15th October 2008

Deilig er jorden,
prektig er Guds himmel,
skjønn er sjelens pilegrimsgang!
Gjennom de fagre
riker på jorden
går vi til paradis med sang.



The music pours out of the loud speakers and fills every corner of the house. The sore tones of the horns wash over me in a wave of emotions that I cannot completely grasp. The music balances the tiny line between clean and sour and it vibrates in the space between beauty and pain; my feelings are equally fragile.

A hoarse and sore voice carries a tone so flat and broken all at once that I cannot decide whether it’s beautiful or unpleasant to listen to. The words are twisted around syllables I cannot understand, and the sounds give no meaning, but the melody is well known.

Fairest Lord Jesus, the hymn I’ve sung so many times in church with mom and dad. In the church benches in Dallas; Home. In safety. surrounded by family and friends, belonging, and certain that I am loved by all.

It is not the song I had expected to hear Greg play, especially not on full volume. He hasn’t seen me yet, and I take this opportunity to watch him mindlessly dust the window sill while he sings, tone deaf, along with the song. I know it’s just a matter of time before he sees me, and I swallow hard to suppress the emotions that are about to emerge.

”Nick.”

I’m caught.

”Hi Greg,” I say, and tilt my head to one side to really look at him, and hope he will be fooled. “I’ll grab a shower,” I say, and walk out as soon as I can without causing any suspicion.

The hand that closes the bathroom door behind me is shaking. I don’t care about shedding one piece of clothing at a time, I just pull them all off as fast as I can. I step into the shower even before the water has heated up and let torrents of water gush over me and shield me from the world.

The darkness is absolute. It’s all consuming and unavoidable. I cannot escape, and I do not even try to abscond. I lean into it and let myself sink. It pulls the strength out of me, one nerve tread at a time. I let Darkness’ long fingers push into me and dig deep to slowly slice me open.

Without a sound, I rip. The scream has no sound. It rises from the void inside and grows in strength as it flows over the remains of me. With a hollow sigh, I rupture and let the tears run free.

The nausea is urgent.

I cannot touch it anymore. I embezzle myself and swallow it down. I palm my face to wash off the remains of tears before turning the water down to ice cold in the hope of waking up my numb body.

It is silent in the house when I turn off the shower.

Greg must be finished cleaning and have turned off the music. I look into the mirror but see nothing but the moisture lying as a shield, protecting me from perceiving my own image. I wipe my right hand through it and leave a trace of a distorted image of myself, and I think that never have I seen a truer picture in my life.

*



I’m almost finished getting dressed when Greg knocks on the door and pops his head in.

“Hungry? I’ve made pasta and salad.”

I nod and say I’ll be finished in a few.

I look around and see the clothes on the floor and the towel that’s lying in a curl by my feet. A few months ago, my clothes would have been sorted by color and separated according to washing instructions into different laundry baskets, and the towel would have been hung up on the hook on the wall. I kick the towel aside and collect the clothes. I pull out the t-shirt that’s stuck inside the sweater and toss them both into the washing machine without worrying about separating the colors. I leave the towel where it is.

Greg has already set the table by the time I enter the kitchen and smell the salt of bacon and the sour of basil. It looks delicious and my stomach screams for food, but my body screams for rest.

“It looks great,” I say and sit down.

“Thank you,” he says as he sets the bowl of pasta on the table. He’s no great chef, but he has some dishes he does better than others, and spaghetti carbonara is one of those.

He looks tired. He doesn’t smile anymore and if he does, it doesn’t reach his eyes. His face is drained and he looks exhausted. Tired. As tired as I feel, except he has a reason for it.

”How has your day been?” I ask out of habit. I’m not sure if I’m really interested when I vaguely hear him tell how he visited Mrs. McCormick on the way home. I think I feel more obligated to ask and I pretend to listen. I don’t know if I act on routine. Eat, sleep, nod, smile, laugh… the routine is about to shatter and the last few weeks I’ve been sleeping more and more, eating less and less, and smiling and laughing has been close to non-existent.. I simply am. I just exist, I do not live.

When did I cease to live?

*



It all started about eight weeks ago.

Melanie suddenly came into my life again. To say that it was a shock is putting it mildly. I was thrown into a maelstrom so strong there was no way of controlling my feelings. Feelings that I had locked up years ago and that I thought were strapped so tight they could never be let loose. Never did I know that it would take one single event to rip them open, and that what poured out would be just as raw as the day I tucked them in.



For weeks now, I have stayed home listening to nothing but white noise in my head. The thoughts are random and seemingly out of context, but somehow I know they are important. I cannot grasp them though. They are fluid and gone just as fast as they appeared. They change colors in an instant and what was clear one moment is hidden in mist the next. It’s the instability of it all that confuses me. I am lost. Lost in my own mind and I have no map to guide me through, and no way of expressing the uncertainty I am feeling. I cannot ask for help, because I cannot form a thought of what I need help with. I am broken behind an unperturbed surface, and only I hear my calls for help. On the outside, I still look whole and complete.

Greg asks me how I’m doing. He looks. He looks at me and tries to look inside me. I don’t know what he sees. His eyes are still on me when I say “okay,” because I don’t know how to answer. I am okay, I guess. Not good, but not so bad either? I cope, don’t I?

But his eyes still linger.

I don’t think he’s convinced and it unnerves me. I wonder what he sees that I cannot see myself. So I pull myself together, gather my act and try my best to behave normally.

What is normal, anyway?

I do my best not to alert him that I am damaged inside. I try to buy myself time before he starts to ask too many questions, knowing that I have no answers for him.

So I act like myself. The image of Nick Stokes I’m used to reflecting, and I go to bed each night, content in the knowledge that I have succeeded at yet another day.

*



I want to throw myself into work, but it’s not enough anymore.

Once upon a time I could drown myself in work. I used to do it all the time to numb up those piercing feelings of despair.

Like a thousand needles pinning my skin, the memory of her was edged into my skin like an invisible tattoo that would always be carried with me. I could not escape, so I swamped myself in work to avoid looking in the mirror. Avoid looking at anything giving life to those memories, and it worked. I did forget. Like an alcoholic finding escape in his drink, I found my escape in unsolved mysteries. The need to find closure for those who could hopefully be given it, was gradually taking over as an ulterior motive to work around the clock. Soon, I couldn’t remember doing anything else, and working became not only my second nature, but my only nature.

For fourteen years I have worked every extra hour I could get. For fourteen years I have convinced myself that this is the life I want. This is all I want out of life.

And now my boat is rocked.

I do not find ease in working anymore. I cannot even concentrate on work anymore. Not only doesn’t work give me escape, but I am not even able to do my work.

I tried for a while. For two weeks after I first walked into that crime scene and found Natalie dead on the bed, I tried to do my job, only to miss evidence, losing tracks of my thoughts and not being able to follow up on orders given to me by others. For two weeks I tried, before Grissom called me into his office telling me to take sick leave. I could no longer do my job, and I had failed in yet another area in my life. Yet again, I am not reaching up to my expectations and I know I am worth nothing.

*



I’m worth nothing. I am nothing.

What am I when I am no longer a father? When I can no longer do my job? I have lost all that I was, all I was ever meant to be, and I am no longer…

I just exist, in a world where I no longer have a place. I simply take up room. I have no purpose. I have lost my groundings and I fall. I fall into the abyss, and there is darkness all around.



Wonderful is the Earth,
mighty is God's heaven,
beautiful the pilgrimage of the souls.
Through the fair
realms on the earth
to Paradise we walk in song.



Part 2: kin shall follow the path of kins
Timestamp: GREG, about 2 months into Pieces of Memory: 15th October 2008.

Tider skal komme,
tider skal henrulle,
slekt skal følge slekters gang,
aldri forstummer
tonen fra himlen
i sjelens glade pilgrimssang.




It is in the middle of the second verse of the song that I notice Nick staring at me.

I didn’t hear him come in and I don’t know where he’s been. I am glad he has been out though. He needs to get out of the house a little more often. To be honest, I also found it relieving that he wasn’t here when I came home. I needed that time alone. Needed to clean up the place efficiently and even with a bit of anger in my movements, and without his eyes on me.

They unnerve me, his eyes. I am always scared of showing him truly how frustrated I am. Scared I might come off as angry, when it’s not him I am angry at, it’s the whole situation, not him as a person.

People ask me how Nick is doing. I have no answer.

I don’t see him anymore. I see an image that looks like him, but he is not really there. Not fully.

Sometimes I get a glimpse of the man I once knew, the man I fell in love with. He is there, behind the shell of discouragement.

He tries, he really does.

But he doesn’t let me in. He doesn’t show me how he is. It’s been six weeks since we touched now. I don’t know if he notices. Whenever I try to touch him, he leans out of the embrace. I don’t think he means to. I cannot reach him anymore.

On the surface he seems the same. He does the same things, makes the same movements, but it is all mechanical. His smile, if he smiles at all, doesn’t reach his eyes anymore. He doesn’t have initiative anymore.

I think that’s the largest difference, for me, his lack of initiative.

He only reacts when I act towards him, he is no longer the driving force in his own life.

And I get angry.

I don’t want to be angry; I cannot let myself feel anger, because I know he’s without blame.

I know it’s a reaction to what he is fighting in his own head. The war he doesn’t let me take part in. And it must be up to him if he wants to let me in.

But I get so frustrated.

Yeah, I think frustrated is the right word. More frustrated than angry. Or maybe they go hand in hand.

I get frustrated when I work my ass off at work, because we are constantly two people short. Nick isn’t working, and we still haven’t a replacement in place after Sara left. So I work long hours and double shifts only to come home to a house that looks like a pig sty.

So when I am exhausted after working too many hours, I am still the one who gets to do house work when I get home.

And I get angry.

*



I couldn’t take it today so I sat for an extra-long time at Mrs. McCormick’s breakfast table.

All I could think about was how much I wanted to scream.

“How are you?” she asked me today.

Me?

I’m not the one in pain here, that’s Nick. It’s Nick everyone wants to ask about, so I was totally caught off guard when she asked about me.

How am I?

I hardly know. Tired. Exhausted. Haven’t had time to think it through really. And when I let myself feel, all I can feel is how frustrated I am. And I feel bad for thinking so.

For better, for worse, right?

We haven’t actually taken vows, not publicly, but in my heart I have already promised my eternal love to Nick; my faithfulness.

Now it’s time to face up to that. My ability as a caregiver is being tested, and I am scared I am failing big time.

Where is that total conviction that this is what I want to do? The feeling that it’s not a problem because I’m doing this for Nick?

I know I want to carry on. I’m not close to giving up, because life without Nick is unbearable.

Love helps me carry on, but it is still damn hard.

Which is why I sat in Mrs. McCormick’s kitchen crying like a little girl. Greg Sanders, CSI II, crying bitter tears because I was too tired. Pathetic.

Frustrated, discouraged and totally surprised when she asked how I was doing in the middle of it all.

*




“Honey,” Mrs. McCormick laid her small soft hands on mine and snapped me out of the trance I had fallen into.

“It’s okay to cry,” she said when I apologized for crying all over her kitchen table.

I pulled one hand out from underneath hers and wiped my tears, uncertain whether or not I was embarrassed .

Mrs. McCormick’s kitchen is my safe place. This is where I can let my mask fall.

She reminds me of my grandmother. Just as wise and she sees just as straight into my soul. If they hadn’t lived so many years parallel here on earth, I would have suspected she was my Nana reincarnated.

“I’m frustrated,” I finally answer her and know it’s true the moment I say it. “Frustrated and discouraged, it’s nothing I can do to help him.”

She gives me a kiss on the cheek and tells me how I only need to be there for him, not to know all the answers.

“You don’t want to protect him too much,” she tells me while she makes coffee from the special blend I brought her. “He can take you telling him how you feel as well.”

“It won’t give you all the answers on what to do,” she continues, “but it will at least tell you where you have each other.”

No, I think. Only where we have me… I’m not reaching in to Nick. I want to take a sledge hammer and tear down that wall he has built around himself, but I know that currently that wall is all that keeps him upright.

I wish he instead would lean on me.

“He doesn’t want any help,” I say.

It makes me sad to think about how Nick doesn’t trust me enough to let me share his grief.

“Oh, he probably will,” Mrs McCormick tells me. “He just doesn’t know how to ask for it.”

But he doesn’t have to ask when I am volunteering the help, does he?

“It’s not easy accepting help when you don’t know what kind of help you need,” she says, almost as if she has read my mind. “I know, because I’ve been there myself.”

That’s right. She too has lost a child.

“That’s true,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”

I feel awful having completely forgotten about her loss.

“That’s okay,” she says and pats my hand. “It was many years ago now, and I have long ago learned how to live with my loss. It’s the longing for my daughter that I can’t cope with these days.”

Her daughter... She doesn’t often talk about her daughter, and I haven’t wanted to ask. I know they are barely in touch, but why that is, I have never found an answer to.

“Yes, my daughter,” she says when I ask. “My daughter and I grew apart in the time after my son died. I was so obsessed with my own sorrow that I couldn’t see my living child. I couldn’t let him go. I was so bitter that I spent all my time working to see that no one else should have to go through the same as I did. I worked anti-drug campaigns, led grief therapy groups, I did all this work to honor John’s memory. All my time was consumed by this work. And in the midst of that, this young girl grew up, without a mother that saw her for what she was. I couldn’t see that she needed to move on. That she needed to find her own path, her own personality. All I could see was the one I had lost.”

She takes a sip of her coffee before she continues. I stay silent just listening to her.

“I didn’t notice how she slowly pulled away from me. She stopped telling me things, and I didn’t notice. I was just happy that she didn’t make any problems for me. I didn’t need to worry about her, so I didn’t. I never worried about her. What kind of a mother doesn’t worry about her child?”

A tear runs down her cheek, and she does nothing to hide it. For a moment, I feel a bit of happiness that she lets me so close to her that she is willing to share this with me.

“The result was that she grew up without a mother that saw her. Without a mother that cared. So I can’t blame her for not wanting to care about me today. I put this on myself. And if there is one regret I have in life, it is that I sacrificed the living child for the dead.”

I am more than a little shocked by what I just heard. The most caring person I know was carrying this dark secret. I have no words, and for once I am speechless.

“I’m not telling you this to confess,” she says. “I just wish to show you that sometimes the grief is so deep that you cannot see the needs to those around you. My girl wasn’t strong enough to stand up to her mom. But you, Greg, you are strong enough to tell your life partner what you need. You can tell him how you are dealing with this, how you are suffering as well, so that he gets the opportunity to still see you. You cannot expect him to be strong enough to do that on his own, so you need to help him see you. Once you show him how you feel, it’s up to him what he does with that knowledge, but I am certain that you two can get through this together.”

*



Which is why I am sitting here, watching my spouse (in all the important meanings of the word, if not legal) eating my spaghetti and losing concentration when I tell him I visited Mrs. McCormick today.

I realize there is only one thing I can do to make him see that we are in this together.

“Let’s go to your parents and find the box with Jenny’s belongings,” I tell him, “it‘s about time I got to know her, don‘t you think?”

Ages shall come,
ages shall pass,
kin shall follow the path of kins
never ceases
the heavenly tones.
in the soul's joyful pilgrim-song



Part 3: From soul to soul in joy it passed.
Timestamp: future: one year after Pieces of Memory ended: NICK, Christmas 2009.

Englene sang den
først for markens hyrder;
skjønt fra sjel til sjel det lød:
Fred over jorden,
menneske, fryd deg!
Oss er en evig Frelser født!




I watch Greg find his place on the church bench. He’s not comfortable in church, and I think Christmas is about the only time he attends mass.

It’s a small church, the Norwegian church in San Pedro. We have found our way here as Greg’s family always attend Christmas Eve mass here before going home for Christmas dinner.

I cannot help thinking back a year, to Christmas in Dallas. How Greg was such a huge support when we went to visit Jenny’s grave. I couldn’t have done it without him. Without him I would have let darkness swallow me. But Greg made me open up for my memories of Jenny. He gave me space, yet pushed me all the same. But with every push, he let me know that he would be there right beside me. He let me know that I was not alone in this.

I can’t help but think of how much has changed for me in the year since last Christmas. Then I was only at the beginning of healing; now I feel I am ready to move on. And I have Greg to thank for that.

I wasn’t prepared for the enormous amount of feelings I would be met with the moment I lifted the lid of the box.

Neither was I prepared to experience good emotions.

The memory of Jenny had been stained with dark thoughts and hard feelings. It was a sickening stench and a feeling of despair that I had hidden behind an iron door, where no emotions could seep out.

I wasn’t prepared to set all my emotions free when I finally opened the door to my darkest thoughts. Good feelings, attached to the bad, were also hidden in there. Thoughts I didn’t remember. Memories I thought had faded, but that I now see have been there all along. Just as colorful. Just as filled with smell, taste and sounds. Memories I just had to be reminded existed; all pouring out by the sight of her teddy.

It looked new; unused.

It used to sit by the side of her head every night watching over her. Keeping an eye on her and making sure she was okay.

Even that night he was there, the night she filled her lungs with her very last breath. And he watched over her, making sure she was okay.

Okay?

How could she be okay?

I can see her now.

We, she and I, we share souls. Not as one soul, but our souls are linked and they cannot be parted. Not by death. Not ever. And sometime we will yet again be together.

You see, I had a dream. I dreamt I was back in that box. That dreaded box six feet under, but this time I was not rescued. When the lid was opened and Warrick stood before me, it wasn’t Warrick as I knew him. It was Warrick as he appears in the after life. I knew he was dead, and he had come for me. And he led me to the light.

I dreamt I was in the Light. It was the brightest light I’ve ever seen, but it was not blinding. On the contrary, it was easy on the eye. And the Light was Love.

In the middle of that light was I. I was surrendered by it and a part of it. There wasn’t any separation between me and the light, we were one. And in that total love was everyone I had ever loved; both those who had left me a long time ago, and those who I had just left behind. Everyone that is dear to me, both dead and alive.

In that Love, I was whole.

And I could see that I always had been part of that Love. Even though I live my life on earth I am still united to Jenny through this light. We are always together, although she is on the opposite side of death than I am.

It’s like she is on the other side of the mirror, seeing the whole picture that I cannot see from this side. I can only see bits and pieces, and all I see is a distorted image of what is really me.

We are one, and I understand that this, this life here on earth, is not what defines me. This life is only my experiences, tools I carry with me and take use of, but it is not really who I am.

Whenever I look into the mirror of my bathroom now, I no longer see a true image. Now I simply see a reflection of who I am.

I am someone. I am something, and I am worth a lot.

I might not see it yet, I might not completely see it here on this side of death, but in parts I’ll get a glimpse of who I am and what I’m worth.

To Greg, I am worth the world. That is something.

To my mom and dad, I am what Jenny is to me. That is overwhelming. That is too much to comprehend.

To my siblings, I am what they are to me, and that is more than I can put into words. I would die for any of them, and I think they would for me as well.

For Jenny… For Jenny I am her dad. There is no “was”, I still am. I am. I am her dad, and she is my daughter.

As the congregation rise to sing the last verse of “Deilig er Jorden”, I take Greg’s hand and look at him. And I know that I can live now, I can move on. With Greg by my side, and the longing for Jenny in my heart, I can look forward.

I can live my life with Greg, and now I hope for a long life. A long life to live and to love. To cherish this man that has been by my side through this tough period of time, and hopefully, in time, I can pay him back all he has given to me.

It’s not unbearable anymore. I know I have more to do in this life, so I can carry on living. I know that she is always with me, always present; if I only close my eyes I can still feel the sweet scent of my baby girl.

We are just parted by a temporary barrier I have no strength to see through. I haven’t yet been given the gift to see it all, but I am in no hurry now. I can feel her within me, and as long as I keep her in my heart, I can live on this earth for as long as I’m meant to be.

Angels first sang it
to the shepherds on the field;
from soul to soul in joy it passed:
Peace on Earth!
Humans rejoice.
A saviour for all time is born!



-the end

~*~



The song used in this fic is “Deilig er jorden.”

In 1850 Bernhard Severin Ingemann wrote a Danish text to this Silesian folk melody written down in 1842. His text is translated to Norwegian and Swedish and this is the version used in Scandinavia. Deilig er jorden is mostly just used as a Christmas song in Norway, and the Christmas song above all others. It is sung at the end of every Christmas mass, and the congregation sit while singing the two first verses and rise up to sing the last.

Other versions of the song, different text on the same melody, is commonly used as hymn, especially in the Lutheran tradition. (Fairest Lord Jesus/the Crusaders hymn)

The version Greg is listening to is recorded on Jan Werner Danielsen’s Christmas CD from 2007. The CD was made after his death. He had signed a contract with Salvations Army to make that the 2007 Salvations Army’s Christmas CD. Unfortunately he died before he could start that work (28. September 2006, at age 30) and Salvations army worked with his family to collect songs from Jan Werner’s many Church concerts (he toured the country with Church concerts along with singer Elisabeth Andreassen, every year before Christmas) to put together a Christmas CD anyway (because they thought this was what Jan Werner would have wanted.)

This particular recording he sings along with Elias Akselsen (which is who sings first verse) and Elisabeth Andreassen.