Title: Sixty Minutes
Author: cinaed
Characters: David Hodges, Greg Sanders
Prompt: 040. 'Unwell'
Word Count: 2,132
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Spoilers: Profanity, spoilers for "Play With Fire", post-ep "Grave Danger"
Summary: David Hodges hates psychiatrists.

***

One of them, David realizes, will break eventually. There has been almost thirty minutes of utter silence, save for their steady breathing and the quiet ticking of the clock (the clock, frankly, was getting on his nerves).

One of them will knuckle under and destroy this silence, but for the moment, David is steadfast and stubborn, watching the minute hand inch closer to the end of the hour and ignoring the tension tightening between his shoulder blades. After all, they were all committed to one session with the psychiatrist, a Dr. Michelle Peters. There had been no mention of actually talking during said-session.

After about thirty-three minutes, the psychiatrist sighs, and David's gaze flickers towards her. Dr. Peters is looking both amused and exasperated, and when she speaks, the words are low and tinged with an emotion David can't quite name. "You really are planning on spending the entire hour in silence, aren't you?"

David just folds his arms against his chest and raises an eyebrow.

"Fine," Dr. Peters says simply, and both of David's eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. As much as he appreciates the psychiatrist's compliance, the woman's a shitty shrink if she's going to give up this easily. As though reading his thoughts, Dr. Peters smiles ironically. "I'll talk then."

David leaves his arms folded against his chest and just stares back, keeping his expression purposefully blank as the psychiatrist shuffles through some papers.

"You agreed to this session because the directors of the crime lab ordered one for everyone on the night shift and swing shift. They believe that everyone needs a psychiatric evaluation after the traumatic event of your friend Nick Stokes being abducted--"

"He's not my friend." And damnit, David hadn't meant to say that aloud, and he scowls darkly. One point for Dr. Peters. When she looks at him, he shrugs. "He's a CSI, I'm a technician. Different circles."

"I see," is all Dr. Peters says, and then she goes back to shuffling through papers. "Now, it says here that you've worked at the Clark County Crime Lab for almost two years now, and that you experienced a bit of trouble assimilating."

He snorts at that, but when she looks at him, he just raises an eyebrow and doesn't elaborate.

"Before that, you worked with the LAPD, where you apparently also had trouble getting along with your co-workers who..." She pauses, squints down at the sheet of paper. "...who said that you had an attitude and superiority complex."

David cannot help but roll his eyes. "And the point in bringing up my attitude problem is...?"

"You have a history of problems interacting with and befriending people at your work," Dr. Peters states, and he blinks at the bluntness of it. "However, you actually tackled a deliveryman and faced possible assault charges to obtain evidence that ended up helping to save Nick Stokes' life."

"I was doing my job," he says flatly. "That idiotic deliveryman was going to ruin any chance at a trace."

She meets his eyes steadily. "I also have a statement from a receptionist here, one Judy Tremont, stating that she found you hyperventilating in your lab after you'd called Catherine Willows to let her know that there was a bomb rigged under Nick's coffin."

He tastes something bitter in his mouth suddenly, and it isn't until she raises an eyebrow that he realizes he's gripping the arms of his chair, white knuckles a sharp contrast against the black leather.

Gritting his teeth, David forces himself to relax his grip, and when he speaks, he tries to keep his voice low and controlled, but his words start faltering halfway through. "One, Judy needs to mind her own damn business. Two, of course I was hyperventilating. If I'd called two, three seconds later, Nick, Grissom, Sara, Catherine...everyone would've been killed. Even if...even though I might not get along with most people, I certainly don't want the entire CSI night shift dead or maimed or horribly burned because I--I misdialed."

Dr. Peters is watching him carefully now. "Have you had nightmares about what might have happened if you'd called too late?"

The bitterness is coating his tongue and throat now, and it is hard to swallow, much less speak, but he suspects the expression on his face is enough to answer her question. How many times has he woken up, a strangled shout escaping his lips, sweat dripping into his eyes, since that night?

Finally, he forces himself to speak, though the words come out hoarse and weaker than he would have liked. "I'm sure everyone's had nightmares. Nick's the Golden Boy of the lab."

"But you two aren't close," she says, and he inclines his head in acknowledgment. "Is there any CSI that you are close to?"

David feels himself tense at the 'innocent' question, and eyes her warily. "Not really," he says, guarded. "Like I said earlier, CSIs and technicians are in different circles."

Dr. Peters frowns at that and flips through her notes. "Isn't one of the CSIs a former technician?"

"Greg Sanders is," he says, and tries for a nonchalant tone. He's not certain if he succeeds.

"Are you two friends?"

The tension between his shoulder blades is so intense that it feels like someone's slowly twisting a knife into his back, and before he can restrain himself, he's growling, "Why the hell does that matter?"

"It's a simple question--"

Before he realizes what he's doing, he's up and pacing the room like a caged animal. "If you're going to ask questions, ask questions that matter. Am I friends with Nick Stokes? No, but I think he's a good man. After all, he's the Golden Boy for a reason. Was I worried for the night shift? Damn straight. Even if they're not my friends, they're my co-workers and good at their jobs. Do I have nightmares? Of course I do, but they're not affecting my work, and I'll stop having them eventually, so there's no need to poke and prod about the reasons why I'm having them. Don't ask me pointless questions about my friends. If I don't want to have friends, that's my own damn business and has nothing to do with Nick's abduction. Okay?"

Dr. Peters doesn't immediately respond, and she is looking almost intrigued, and David has a feeling he has given himself away. She looks down at her papers. "I understand that you do have friends. Jacqui Franco and Archie Johnson have already had their sessions. They both mentioned their concern for you."

Well, that figured, didn't it? He scowls. "They're over-protective. I came in after a bad nightmare, and you'd have thought that I was about to commit suicide or something, the way they jumped on me and fussed."

She looks at him steadily for a moment. "Greg Sanders also mentioned that you were having nightmares."

He flinches a little at that. Of course Greg wouldn't keep his damn mouth shut. "He overheard me telling Jacqui about one of my nightmares."

"Really?" Dr. Peters raises an eyebrow. "He told me that you two had discussed one particular nightmare, where you tried calling Catherine too late."

"Because Sanders has no concept of privacy," David snaps. "He wouldn't shut up and leave me alone until I told him about one of the nightmares."

"After his session, I was under the impression that you two were friends."

"Sanders thinks everyone loves him," David says dryly. "He is stuck in the delusion that his annoying habits are in fact charming, and that his terrible puns are witty. You shouldn't believe half of what he says about himself."

And the psychiatrist is looking amused almost, as though David has let something slip that is entertaining her. "I see. I think we should discuss your nightmares."

"I think we shouldn't," David informs her, and scowls when she says, "I'm afraid if you don't, I'll be forced to tell Mr. Ecklie that you were uncooperative and that I was unable to determine that you are mentally fit to continue working."

David is beginning to think the woman a bitch rather than a shitty shrink, and his voice is cold as he says, "Fine." He's vaguely aware he's resumed pacing, not looking at Dr. Peters as he begins. "The nightmares are pretty much the same. I call too late, or I don't figure it out, and they die. Or most of them die. Sometimes a few survivors are just horribly burned." He should stop there, but more words tumble from his lips. "And there's always people looking at me, blaming me because I should've called sooner, I should've figured it out, I should've saved them. Or if Warrick survives -- he usually doesn't -- he's looking at me with his face half-covered in burns, telling me to 'start dialing' because he'll make sure I'm going to get fired for letting everyone die."

"Start dialing?"

He snorts, and the sound is bitter. "It's what Warrick told me to do after the lab explosion where Gre-- Sanders almost died, when they thought I was responsible for the explosion."

"Does Greg usually die, in your nightmares?"

"He always dies," David says flatly, and feels something twist in his stomach. For a second, he thinks he might be sick. "Always. Not always immediately, sometimes slowly, painfully, but he always, always dies."

"They're all alive, David," Dr. Peters reminds him softly, and it takes him a moment to swallow against the nausea and look at her. She is wearing an earnest, almost concerned expression, and he wonders why for a second before he realizes he's feeling dizzy on top of the nausea and probably looks about ready to topple over. "You figured it out. You saved their lives."

"Which is why the nightmares will go away." He rubs at his face, suddenly exhausted. He hadn't had a nightmare before this shift, but he has the feeling he'll be having one tonight. "Look, the nightmares aren't affecting my work. I will be fine."

Dr. Peters studies him for a long moment, and then nods to herself. "I am going to mention the nightmares in my report, and ask you to come back in two weeks. If the nightmares haven't gone away or at least diminished in number by then, I'll suggest having a few more sessions to try and figure out how to get rid of them. However, I see no reason why you shouldn't continue working."

"Thank you," he mutters, already making a beeline to the door. "The nightmares will be gone by then."

If she says something in response to that, he doesn't hear her, already out of the room and heading towards the nearest restroom. When he gets inside, he sighs and presses his forehead against the cool glance of the mirror, closing his eyes and willing the dizziness to go away.

"Hey," a voice says quietly, and he doesn't open his eyes. "You okay?"

"Did you have to tell her about the nightmares?" David says, and Greg makes a noise that's vaguely affronted and somewhat embarrassed.

"I thought she might know how to help get rid of them."

A soft hand rests against the back of David's neck, and he's leaning into the touch before he realizes what he's doing. "She said to come back if the nightmares persist for two weeks." He snorts. "I hate psychiatrists."

"David, you hate everyone," Greg says.

"Damn straight," David mutters and finally lifts his head to meet Greg's gaze in the mirror. Concern fills the younger man's eyes, though he's managing a dimmed version of his normal lopsided smile. "I'll be fine, Greg."

"Yeah," Greg murmurs softly, and his hand tightens on David's neck briefly before he drops his hand to his side. David shoots him a puzzled look, and then understands as he hears the door start to open.

A second later, Warrick walks into the bathroom, raising an eyebrow at them both. "What're you two doing?" he asks, though his tone suggests he doesn't really care.

"Talking about our sessions with the psychiatrist," Greg says with a shrug. "Hodges was just telling me how he made her face turn tomato red."

David smirks. "What can I say? Women just can't resist my charm."

Warrick snorts at that, and as soon as he turns away and heads towards a urinal, David leans a bit closer to Greg and mutters, "By the way, Sanders, if you keep persisting in giving people the impression that we're friends, I'm going to have to hurt you. We are not friends, understood?" After all, there was a major difference between friends and lovers.

Greg just grins and shoots him a pseudo-innocent look, knowing exactly what he's thinking. "Understood."

He hesitates for a moment, but Warrick isn't paying attention, and murmurs, "Come over after shift?" After all, he can't have a nightmare if he's...otherwise occupied.

Greg's smile is back to its former brilliance at that. "Definitely."

Unwell by Matchbox Twenty

All day
Staring at the ceiling
Making friends with shadows on my wall
All night
Hearing voices telling me
That I should get some sleep
Because tomorrow might be good for something
Hold on
I'm feeling like I'm headed for a
Breakdown
I don't know why

I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell
I know, right now you can't tell
But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see
A different side of me
I'm not crazy, I'm just a little impaired
I know, right now you don't care
But soon enough you're gonna think of me
And how I used to be
Me

Talking to myself in public
Dodging glances on the train
I know
I know they've all been talking 'bout me
I can hear them whisper
And it makes me think there must be something wrong
With me
Out of all the hours thinking
Somehow
I've lost my mind

I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell
I know, right now you can't tell
But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see
A different side of me
I'm not crazy, I'm just a little impaired
I know right now you don't care
But soon enough you're gonna think of me
And how I used to be

I been talking in my sleep
Pretty soon they'll come to get me
Yeah, they're taking me away

I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell
I know, right now you can't tell
But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see
A different side of me
I'm not crazy I'm just a little impaired
I know, right now you don't care
But soon enough you're gonna think of me
And how I used to be
Hey, how I used to be
How I used to be, yeah
Well I'm just a little unwell
How I used to be
How I used to be

***