By the way, I work on the assumption that Greg has extensive scarring from his ordeal. In real life, that would be the expected and indeed inevitable result of such injuries. I have concluded that they failed to do body makeup due to the brevity of that one shower scene where he is without a shirt. I doubt they expected that so many of us would grab caps from the scene, view them with extreme interest and some drooling, use them as wallpaper, etc. (Yeah, I like Eric. I like him a lot. I did this - did YOU? Testify...)
Characters are not mine. Nobody made any money from this, though chores were ignored and housework left undone as a result of the writing of it.
I felt a warm maternal surge edge in next to the guilt as I watched Greg sleep uneasily. He looked so small and helpless in the sea of white covers, his sleeping features almost child-like. At the lab he always seemed larger, a being of light and noise and energy, a joyful soul always trying to sweep those around him free from their cares. When we first met I thought him silly and childish and shallow, perpetually flirting with quite literally every woman he met and bragging about exploits and adventures I knew full well he'd only read about, but in the same way a bumpy green bud opens to display the beautiful rose that was there all the time so time revealed in Greg a sweet, compassionate soul who just wanted to be accepted and loved and wasn't sure the unadulterated him could attract that. A brilliant mind lurked beneath the ribald jokes and suggestive comments - sometimes perverted, but bordering on genius. He told a dirty joke like no one else could, and he knew more of them than anyone I'd ever met, yet he was serious and passionate and weirdly philosophical about his chosen specialty of genetics. "Just think, Catherine," he said once as we shared breakfast after work. "Everything you are, from your hair to your nose to the fact you have ten fingers and toes, all of that is encoded in your DNA. We carry our own blueprints with us, complete in every cell except the reproductive, and there you get exactly half, all ready to be combined with someone else's in the ultimate act of sharing. It's mystical, Cath. The plans didn't draw themselves."
I was shaken from my thoughts when he groaned and shifted. He winced as he readjusted himself. I guess even morphine has its limits, especially with burns. I caused this, I thought sadly . From the records and from photographs I knew that his back and neck were covered in second and third degree burns. His shirt had melted onto him over much of his shoulders and back. I myself processed the pieces of burnt fabric and tissue they'd removed. Thankfully the burn on his cheek was first degree, so at least he wouldn't be going through life with a ruined face. His neck would have some scarring, but his shoulders, back and side... they were going to forever be a shocking sight. They had required extensive skin grafts. The donor sites on his legs and belly would be scarred as well. Yes, there was a price for my carelessness, and Greg Sanders would pay it. Now when he went to the beach he'd wear a T-shirt. When he was with a new lover he'd have to explain himself, prepare her for what her eyes would see, what her hands would feel. What would this do to his confidence, to his sense of body integrity? Would he begin to think of himself differently, as damaged? I felt sick as I thought about it. Every time his shirt came off would he think of what I did to him? I couldn't imagine how he could fail to hate me for it.
Oh, Greg, what I did to you - and all the sorry in the world can't undo it. He stirred again. "What time is it?"
"Late."
"How long have you been here?"
"A while. I've got a little time on my hands."
"Figured out what happened in the lab, didn't you?"
"Yeah. Yeah, and I wanted you to hear it from me..."
He forgave me, just like that. I couldn't believe it. I told him the truth and he forgave me. I was almost in tears by the time I finished, and he reached out his hand and took mine and told me it was alright, that it would probably have happened whoever had processed the scene. "Hot plate needs its own separate hood," he'd said quietly. "I tried to tell Grissom last year sometime, but he brushed it off just like he does everything I say. Stupid to have a hot plate where you're storing questionable chemicals." He sighed then and closed his eyes. I stayed until I was sure he was asleep and slipped out. On my way out I wondered fleetingly how I'd feel if Lindsey was lying there on her side instead of Greg. My eyes burned at the thought.
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
The next evening I stood in the hall by door of the same hospital room. He was still alone. No one but his friends from the lab had even bothered to visit. He had two vases of flowers - one from Jacquie, the other the official offering of the Las Vegas Crime lab, extended to any and all employees finding themselves hospitalized. He had a stuffed hedgehog from me and a bag of M& M's from Sara. Where was his family? Where were his other friends? I realized that Greg's life wasn't quite as bright as he'd like me to believe.
He was awake and sitting on the edge of a chair. "Hi."
He favored me with the shadow of a smile. "Catherine. You're back."
I grabbed his hand - probably the first pain-free touch he'd had since the accident. "I wanted to see how you're doing."
He shrugged. "Little better. They say it's going to take a while. I'm in here for at least another week."
"I was hoping to meet your family."
He shook his head. "They're not able to come. " His voice was soft.
"I'm sorry. Where do they live?"
"San Francisco," he said quietly. His eyes met hers. "My mother's dead. She died from an aneurism when I was in college. My dad I haven't heard from in a long time, but last I heard he was living in New York. My grandparents aren't in great health. Nana Olaf has been... she's been having chemo. She, um, they've been calling every day, but it's hard, you know; she's sick from the chemo, and she has to get the treatments every day."
"I know you must miss them."
"I go visit pretty often. She and he sister Anna and Papa Olaf act like it's a national holiday when I come. I'm the only grandchild."
"And I'll bet you lapped up all that attention like a little kitty cat when you were a child."
He smiled, the first time I'd seen him do so since the explosion. "I still do. You should know that." He looked vaguely westward and sighed. "My parents and I lived with them for my entire childhood. Nana Olaf was always baking something - cookies, breads, cakes - and Papa Olaf was waiting with his chessboard every day when I got home from school. My Mom was a police dispatcher, she worked long hours, and I was usually in bed by the time my Dad got home - he drank, and he didn't come home until the bar closed - but Nana and Papa Olaf were always there."
"Maybe when you're released you could fly out, recuperate with them."
"No," he whispered. "I can't let Nana Olaf see me like this. Besides, I'll have physical therapy and regular doctor's visits for a while, and the airplane seats..." He shook his head. "I'll go see them when I'm better."
I watched him close his eyes hard and turn his head, too slowly for me to miss the telltale quiver of his lips. Something inside me shifted, that weird maternal thing again, and a single feeling coalesced in my gut.
Mine. My clan. My family.
I let it sink in, and in a moment I knew what we both needed. There was a bond between us created by molten flame and flying glass, a moment that would live forever for both of us. I couldn't take back my part in it, but I could do one thing, and that was make sure he didn't travel down his hard road alone.
"Greg." He looked back at me, frowning at my tone. "You have me."
He studied me for a moment, then his eyes lit with something close to joy. He squeezed my hand. "Yeah, I do, don't I?"