Sanguine

by Emily Brunson

Fandom: CSI

Pairing: None

Rating: R

Warning: Cutting

Sanguine
by Emily Brunson
(c)2003

Here's how it works.

The cycle completes itself every three months. You have no idea why it's so predictable, but it always has been, and probably always will be. At least until something changes, and that change is so fundamental in theory that you can't imagine it ever happening. It's like a very elongated version of the ocean's tides: slower, but just as inexorable, and every bit as unstoppable.

About a week before the turnaround, you start to feel the tingle. It's physical, a gut-deep sensation like champagne fizzing in your belly, and it's mental, too, dark excitement and calculation. Tide's turning, the water's sloshing around your ankles and rising by the minute, and you learned a very long time ago that dreading it or fearing it would make absolutely no difference anyway, so these days you welcome it. Come on, baby. Let's dance.

Sometimes when things happen, bad things, unexpected unplanned-for things, you feel the preparation weeks ahead of time. You think, That one's going on the list. And stocking up like this makes you feel better. Can't do anything about it in the moment, but later, yes, you'll fix things. Everything can be fixed. It's your mantra, the one you never say aloud but repeat to yourself silently so often that it's relaxing by itself. Everything will be okay, just as soon as you get the chance. And you'll have the chance. You'll make sure of that.

The tingle makes it harder. It makes you impatient, snappish, annoyed by all the other things you have to do before you can get on with it. You need this; you depend on it like food or water. You have to have it, and work and other responsibilities, normally welcomed, become tiresome and downright ridiculous. Cabe used to ask you sometimes, back when you were teenagers and it was all still a little new, if you were about to be on the rag or something. Adolescent humor, and more than once you ended up fighting about it, rolling around on the grass in the back yard and punching each other, because Cabe was older and knew just how to get under your skin. But even before your mom or your dad came outside and separated you, lecturing about how this wasn't how brothers behaved and Nicky you should be ashamed of yourself, and you, too, Cabe, you knew he was a little right. It was like that, sort of. You had five sisters; you knew. So it wasn't exactly that, but yeah. Kind of.

As an adult you've had to learn a few different coping methods, of course. You can't just hit someone who pisses you off. So you grit your teeth and feel the burn in your muscles, the impatience simmering like a vat of hot rancid oil, and you get through it, until it's the right time.

You pass Catherine in the hallway, and she touches your arm to get your attention. "Listen," she says, "can you come in early tomorrow? We can go over the testimony before next week."

You shake your head. "I'm off tomorrow. Sorry," you add without sincerity.

Catherine makes a face. "This weekend? This is important to me, Nick. You know that."

"It'll be fine," you tell her, smiling and wanting to snarl at her suddenly, get the fuck out of my face, lady, I got things to do. Instead you're nice, because that's what they expect. Nick is a Nice Guy, right? Dependable. "Sorry, Cath, I'm out of town for a couple of days. I'll call you Sunday, all right?"

"Okay," she says, still looking like she just took a big bite of something sour. "Where you going?"

"See some friends," you tell her blithely. "Back Sunday. I'll call."

"Do. We need to talk about this."

You nod and smile and get the hell out of there as fast as you can. Not fast enough to miss Grissom, who's standing by his truck and watching you with that sphinx look and not quite smiling. "On your way to a fire?" he asks calmly.

"Hey, I'm on vacation, remember?"

"That's right. Going anyplace?"

You repeat your line about visiting your anonymous friends, and he seems to buy it. "How are you doing?" he adds, the half-smile going away completely. "I haven't had a chance to talk to you since the Winthrop case."

"I'm okay," you say, with all the sincerity you can muster.

"I know you don't really want to. But maybe you should take Kathy Lopez up on her suggestion."

You frown at him, and try very hard not to show any other reaction. "Look, Griss, I'm okay. Really. I mean, that was months ago."

"There's no shame in seeing a psychologist, Nicky," Grissom says with soft emphasis. His eyes are like x-rays, penetrating Nick's defensive shields like a knife through warm butter. It's disconcerting. "And you look tired."

"Hey," you say with heavy joviality. "That's what vacations are for."

Grissom smiles. "True. Well, enjoy yourself. And get some rest, will you? Aren't you in court next week?"

"Yeah. I'm ready."

"Good. Have a good trip, Nick."

"Plan on it. Later."

You're aware of his gaze on your back as you walk to your truck. You can fool Grissom most of the time, because let's face it, most of the time he isn't paying close attention to you. Why should he? You get the job done, and barring episodes like the one two months ago, or shit like Nigel Crane, you don't warrant any excessive attention. But this morning, for whatever reason, Grissom's got his sights trained on you, and you've learned that the best thing to do when that unwelcome gaze is centered on you is to beat it, fast as your feets can take you. The alternative is interrogation, that mild, almost unbearably kind examination you've seen tear right through a hell of a lot of suspects' stories. It'd do the same to yours.

Inside the truck you relax a fraction. Hear your pounding heart, feel the excited hiss of the blood in your veins. Oh, thank GOD, it's nearly time. You put the truck in gear and see Grissom still watching, watching, while you drive past. A wave, that Grissom doesn't return but nods, and you're out of the parking lot and heading to the highway, and this grin doesn't feel fake at all. Just eager. So eager.

~~~~~~~

You park the truck in your usual space. Yes, you're supposed to be going out of town, but there is hardly a chance that anyone you know will come by. And even if they do, and you don't answer, you can always say that you flew. Those kinds of alibis are simple and direct, and they always work.

Inside the house you pat your growling stomach. It'll stop after a while, and in a way it's welcome. You started the cleansing process two days ago, and you already feel lighter, faster than you did weighted down with food. You make sure the blinds are closed, lock the front door securely. Everything else is ready. You planned it that way.

You hang your clothes in the closet, and look at yourself briefly in the full-length mirror. All the prevarication is done; you aren't hiding anything, not even from yourself. Your face is familiarly tired, and you see the burden in your own eyes. You see the memory of Zack Winthrop, hear that gunshot again, and a tidal surge of grief swells and breaks over you. There was nothing you could do. And knowing it doesn't help. You were hurt, and the cops were late, and it happened.

It's cold, and you turn up the thermostat before going into the bathroom. All your stuff is there, laid out the night before. You lean over to put the plug in, and then turn on the hot water. While the tub fills, you get out a couple of towels. The mirror steams over, turning you into a vague human-like form, anonymous and unknowable. You like that.

Are you going to save me? Zack asks.

You swallow thick useless grief and step into the tub.

Once you have the blade in your hand, the urge to cry fades. You're all business now. Carelessness will cost you, and you aren't here to die. Just to cleanse. Let out the bad, pave the way for the new and clean. Arrayed around the tub are various things to help, and a few just in case you lose focus. One time two years ago you grayed out and actually slipped under the water, and that's definitely not in the plan. So you have a bottle of fruit juice there, and ammonium carbonate. You haven't had to use the latter and really don't want to use the former, but it's better to have them and not use them than need them and have nothing.

Over the years you've known a few people who did what you do. You've learned enough to know you're a little different from them. They wear their scars like badges of a mutant sort of honor. You hate scars. You hate anything to show. Scars mean someone might see, and know. This is your best-kept secret, the beating heart of your psyche, your most treasured and illicit knowledge. It's yours, and no one will take it away from you. Ever.

Your outstretched arm has few scars. You learned some anatomy a very long time ago, and weight training and exercise have made your vessels prominent, easy to identify. It takes only a little snick of the razor over the radial artery, more depth than width, and brilliant red plumes out into the water. It's beautiful, starkly, intensely gorgeous.

The razor goes into its little tray by the tub. You lean back, suddenly relaxed, relishing the feel of the hot water on your body. It all feels so good. You decided a long time ago on the bathtub, because of the potential mess, but the water also keeps your tiny wound open longer, lets more of your polluted blood out. It's odd that something so beautiful and necessary could be so tainted. But it is.

When you see Zack's scared, doomed face again in your memory, it doesn't hurt quite as badly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There's some kind of noise. You can't quite identify it. What day is it?

Knocking. Someone's at the door. You can ignore it. You will ignore it.

Your heart's beating so fast. When you stand up the room goes murky, and your empty stomach turns. It feels terrible, and wonderful.

This is the wrong time for someone to be here. Why would someone be here? Who would know to come? No one. It's Saturday. Or maybe it's Sunday, you aren't entirely sure. That surprises you; you always keep track. But now you can't tell. Parts are clear. The trips from the bedroom to the bathroom. Cleaning out the tub, you can remember doing that at least twice. That's the thing about blood, you have to clean, or it becomes a problem.

Your arms are bleeding. You stare at the slow-moving tracks of scarlet and feel a savage gleeful urge to just let them keep going. This time, just keep going.

There's another knock, making you flinch. You reach for the box of bandages, but it's empty. That's okay, there are more in the cabinet. Christ, it's so far away. It smells odd in here, coppery and hot and disgusting. Have you lost control this time? Go away. Go away, leave me alone, it's almost done. It takes a long time to do this, don't you see? Three days, and now it's almost there, almost all the old is gone. And I feel so much better.

You feel yourself slipping, but there's nothing you can do to stop it. You land butt-first on cold wet tile, and you just sit there for a moment, stunned. Doesn't hurt, there's no pain, but it's not the time for doing what you're doing, all this red everywhere, but this is the good stuff, this is the stuff you need, and you need to stop it, but you can't.

Oh, you think. So this is how it happens.

Your heart flutters like a frantic animal in your chest. Just a second. All I need is a second.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Your head snaps back. A flood of stink in your nostrils, pure ammonia, rank as death. You cough and shake your head. You're lying on the floor.

"Look at me, Nick."

You peer up through the fog and see an anonymous face. Someone is here. That's new.

The someone slaps your cheeks lightly, enough to make the fog dissipate just a little. Blinking, you look again.

"That's right," Grissom says evenly. His face is tense, a vertical line between his eyebrows. "Stay with me. Listen to me. Don't go to sleep."

There's another sound, but you can't quite make it out. You are so tired. The air feels thick, hard to breathe. There are bandages on your arms, and your legs. Cuts on your belly, but you don't remember making those. You haven't done that in years. Scars, those will leave marks, and the knowledge fills your eyes with tears.

"I've called an ambulance," the man says from a far-off place. "Hear it? We'll take care of you. You'll be all right. Just keep looking at me. Will you do that? I want you to look at me, Nick."

You've thought it was Grissom, but now this face looks unfamiliar. Nothing looks familiar, everything's wrong, and now you're scared and confused and nothing makes sense. "Who are you?" you whisper, but it's just a wheeze, barely audible.

How'd it all go so wrong? How did you lose control like this? So many times before, you've had it down to a science, but this time --

There are other noises now. Other voices, and a door slamming, and you try to sit up to see but your head floats away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You stare at the ceiling. Lights, and old yellowing tiles. It's painfully bright in here, noisy, and it stinks. You wrinkle your nose and sigh.

There are tubes attached to your arm. Putting blood back into you to replace all that you lost. That pleases you; it's not your blood, not your poisoned blood, but fresh and clean, someone else's. You fucked it up this time, but the end result will be what you need. Start over, no more need, everything right.

You look to the side and see Grissom sitting there. Surprise lances through you, hot and sharp. How'd he get here? Who called him?

Grissom looks tired, and for some reason that touches you. There's no need to be worried. You clear your throat, and he flinches. His eyes are weary, too.

"How do you feel?" he asks in a rusty voice.

You smile. "Okay, I feel okay." And you do feel good, can't he see that? Light as goosedown, cleaned, refreshed.

Except he's not smiling back. "Why didn't you say something?" Grissom whispers, slumping in his chair. "Jesus, Nick. Why didn't you talk to me?"

Your mouth is very dry, and suddenly the idea of drinking something, even eating something, is stunningly alluring. "Talk to you about what?" you ask without thinking, licking your dry lips.

"You tried to kill yourself." Grissom's voice cracks.

You stare at him. "No, I didn't."

His blue eyes flare with anger. "What do YOU call it?"

You can't think what to say, just then. You're too thirsty, and not even Grissom's censure can quite pop your satisfied bubble. So it didn't go exactly as it should have, no. But that's all right, as long as you feel this way.

The shrink comes in, and makes Grissom go away. That's a relief. You're not comfortable with him at the moment.

"Want to talk about it?" the man asks.

"May I have something to drink?" you say.

He gets you water, and introduces himself as Dr. Harriman. He watches you gulp your water, leaning his hip against the bed. "Were you trying to kill yourself?"

You finish the water and wish for more. You shake your head.

"Honestly?"

"I wasn't."

"You were cutting."

"I guess."

Harriman looks grim. "If your colleague hadn't gotten worried and come by when he had, you would have died, Mr. Stokes. You were in shock when they brought you in. You did more than just cut."

I lost control, you think. That's all. And it won't happen again.

Harriman doesn't want to let you go, but with your promises he doesn't have too much of an excuse to keep you. Your blood pressure is back up, you're okay. More than okay, you want to tell him, but something keeps you quiet about that.

Grissom drives you home. It's Monday, which is astonishing. You did lose track of time, badly. You mustn't let that happen.

Your apartment smells familiar, wonderfully so, and once you're home you're incredibly sleepy. When you glance at yourself in the mirror, the haunted look is gone, as you knew it would be. Why can't others understand that? It's all good. So why do they treat it like something bad?

"Tell me you'll be okay," Grissom says. When you look around you recoil at the pain in his eyes. "Please, Nick. Tell me you won't do it again."

You smile. "Don't worry about it."

"Damn you. How long have you been doing this? How long?"

"I'll be fine. You'll see."

His mouth works. He looks old, and miserable, and helpless. The look doesn't suit him. "I'm staying here tonight," he announces, jaw jutting. "In case."

You feel nothing but a sudden surge of love. Grissom's a kind man, beneath the too-calm surface. He does care. "Okay," you tell him, still smiling. "Thank you."

He looks at you, and doesn't reply.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

You go back to work two nights later. If anyone knows what happened, they don't say. And they don't treat you any differently, so it's pretty safe to believe that Grissom hasn't spilled the beans.

You testify the next afternoon, and by Friday the jury returns a welcome guilty verdict. Catherine's elated, and buys you a drink that night, just one since you both have to work.

"Just doing my job," you say when she thanks you.

"And I appreciate it."

After a month Grissom stops being so walleyed around you. You're fine, anyone can see that, and so does he. He mentions it once, when the two of you are finishing up in the fibers lab late one morning. Asks you how you're feeling. It's easy to hear what he doesn't ask. Are you doing it again?

"I feel good," you tell him, and this time he smiles.

In two months it is as if it had never happened. So when the tingle comes, it actually surprises you a little. With everything that went wrong before, maybe some part of you bought your own lines. Maybe it was gone after all.

Except it isn't. And this time it won't go wrong. You've learned. Just another fine-tuning of an old system, that's all.

You skip dinner Friday evening, and think about Saturday morning. About the razor blade you put out that morning, and the bottle of apple juice. And you say good night to Grissom before you leave, and there's no hint that he knows this time.

"Have a good weekend, Nick," Grissom calls, down the hall.

You smile at him. "You, too," you say.



END