Infitias ire
I feel as though I'm sinking, trapped underwater by some unseen force. Panic tinged voices swim above me, the words lost to the crashing of the waves. I'm not even sure they notice me. In truth, they probably don't.
I'm pretty sure this is someone's idea of a joke. A twisted, sick, completely unfunny joke. Because there is no way he's been shot. I saw him, spoke to him. He was here, laughing and smiling and making plans for breakfast. And that can't have been taken away from me. It can't.
Any minute now he's going to come through those doors, a grin spread across his face. And we'll joke about how freaked Grissom was. And then we'll go out for breakfast, because that's what we always do. And he'll complain about the eggs being too runny. Even though he knows and still orders them every single day.
Because he hasn't been shot. He hasn't.
~*~
Irascor iratus
No one knows.
And I think maybe that's the worst part. Not the pain, even though it cuts through me like white hot steel. Not the weight that has settled into my chest, even though it buckles my knees and threatens to send me careening to the ground. Not even the knowledge that tomorrow I'll wake up, alone.
No one fucking knows and that doesn't leave me many options. Certainly not the right to attend his funeral and grieve. I know it's selfish, thinking maybe; just maybe it would be easier if I had some discernible part in it. Not that it would change anything.
Except maybe it would change everything. Maybe instead of sitting here reprocessing samples for the third time today, I'd be there with his family. My position in his life would be recognized, mean something. I wouldn't have just lost a colleague and friend. I would have lost the only person I've ever actually loved. Because it does mean something, even if no one knows.
"Greg, are you done with those yet?"
And maybe Grissom would understand that I don't want to be here, that I'm not even capable of being here. And maybe he'd cut me some slack.
"Um, yeah, sorry," I reply. And wouldn't Nick be proud, not even the slightest waiver.
"I need to know you're focused on the job Greg, otherwise you might as well go home," he tells me.
"I am," I reply, the lie becoming almost believable now.
I tell myself I'm not disappointed when he leaves. Tell myself I don't want him to push until it all comes pouring out. Except that I do and it's too late now. I just want the shift to be over. Or maybe I want it to never end because at least then I don't have to go home. I don't have to stare at Nick's shirts hanging in my closet. Don't have to remember that I haven't changed the sheets since the last time he slept in my bed.
I told myself I could get through this. I could sit here and pretend to be stoic, pretend this wasn't killing me. Pretend I was okay. The problem is I'm not, and I don't think I ever will be. Because he wasn't supposed to leave me. He wasn't supposed to fucking hide everything that we were and then leave me with nothing.
And I hate him for it. I hate myself for hating him.
~*~
Efflagito
I think I've given up trying to convince myself to get out of the car. It doesn't help that the CD in my stereo is his. And I still hate it. I keep telling myself I can do this. I need to do this. Except the stairs to his apartment seem foreign and I'm not sure I want to ruin their memory.
But everyone else is already here, and I know Nick's family is expecting his things. I understand why they couldn't do this themselves. I understand and yet I don't. Because it leaves me to do it, and I'm not sure I'm ready for this. It seems so wrong, packing all his things, his life into tiny boxes, like that's all it amounted to.
But it is my burden, and it's the least I'm due. So I leave the car, and walk up the stairs. I don't even tear up at the familiar scent of his home, or the familiar sight of his things. Even when I notice Catherine crying softly in the corner, I swallow my pain and move forward. Because this is my responsibility, and Nick would want me to be the one to do this.
"I'll start in the bedroom," I say to no one in particular.
I'm half expecting Sara to argue but can't even force surprise when she mutely nods. And suddenly this is a bad idea. Because his scent is stronger here, his things more personal. And I'm the only person in the apartment who knows that. Who understands what any of this means. Understands which items he'd want wrapped, and which ones he didn't care about.
I just wish there was some way to undo all of this. If I could just wake up tomorrow and realize this was all some sort of bad dream. Nothing more than a nightmare. And Nick would still be here. And I could tell him how much he means to me. How much I need him.
I just want him back.
~*~
Miseria
The phone is ringing again. I know it's Grissom wondering where I am. I'm actually surprised he hasn't given up. I don't answer it.
They all know now. I feel like I somehow let Nick down. Revealed something he tried so hard to keep concealed. I didn't mean to. It just sort of came out. Not that it matters anymore. In a way I'm kinda glad they do know, at least now they're aware of my existence.
I can't remember the last time I was at work. The last time I left my apartment for that matter. I can't stand the way they look at me. All mixed up shock and pity, blending together into something so ugly it makes me ill just thinking about it. I don't want their stares, their words of comfort or the hushed whispers they think I don't hear. And maybe this is why Nick didn't want anyone knowing. Maybe he knew on some level that they wouldn't understand. Or if they did, they'd tiptoe around it like it was something forbidden.
And maybe it was. Maybe all this is my fault. Maybe if I hadn't pushed, hadn't begged and badgered we wouldn't be here. Because maybe Nick would have met some girl and would have taken the day off. Or maybe he would've spent more time in the lab without having to worry about everyone finding out. Or maybe this is all just punishment for something I never should have had, something I never should have wanted. Something I never really deserved.
Part of me thinks I should just give up. Give in to the wave of darkness crashing around me. Allow the shadows to overwhelm me, cloak me in their embrace. Because anything is better than this. It has to be.
~*~
Accredo
I'm half expecting to find a mountain of dirt, still fresh and slightly damp. I can almost smell it. Close my eyes and conjure up the slight stench of earth and decay. I'm almost overwhelmed with relief at finding grass. There's no one else around and I feel slightly odd sitting here. I wonder briefly if I should have thought to bring flowers. Except I've never brought Nick flowers and I'm not certain he'd want the gesture, even now.
I'm not sure what I was expecting to feel, but the only emotion that comes to mind is detachment. I think maybe it's a reflex, natural preservation, or something. Even sitting here, fingers absently tracing over his name, it all seems so permanent, so final. I don't dwell on it much, I can't. I need to know that there's something more. Some chance, however slim, that I might see him again. Feel him again.
I've spent the last six months avoiding this place. Six months driving out of my way so I wouldn't have to pass it. Being here now it seems somehow surreal and I'm not certain if it's the place so much as the comprehension of what it means.
Nick's gone.
Nick died.
And there's nothing I could have done to stop it. Nothing I could have done to change it.
The pain recedes a little every day, but it's still there. It lingers around me, blanketing me in a way I find oddly comforting. I know Nick would want me to move on. I get that. But I'm not ready, and I think he'd understand. In fact, I think he'd be proud that I even managed to come here today.
"I miss you," I hear myself whisper.
It's the first time I've said those words. They sound hollow even now. It's as though they're not enough, and maybe they aren't. Maybe the words don't actually exist. And maybe they shouldn't, because no one should have to use them. No one should have to feel this emptiness. No one should have to lose a part of themselves.
Fin
Author's notes:
The title, Moeror, is Latin for grief. The story follows the five separate stages of grief. The five sections are loosely translated as follows: Infitias ire (to deny), Irascor iratus ( to feel anger), Efflagito (to beg, plead, bargain with), Miseria (sadness, depression), Accredo (to accept, come to know as true).
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