A Catalogue of Personal Disasters
by elfin


 

 

I read up on PTSD.  I spoke to a psychologist friend of mine.  Peer group therapy, he told me, was a good tool.  Problem is, I don't know anyone else who was abducted, buried alive in a transparent box, unintentionally tortured by his colleagues, bitten by ants and sent into toxic shock, then when eventually found by his colleagues, half-dead and out of his mind with terror, got a half a tonne of earth dumped on top of him.

Nicky's doing okay.  That's what he says when he's asked.  It's been a couple of months and yeah, I think he is doing okay.  The rest of us… we're not doing so well. 

I watch him, like we all watch him, waiting for him to fly apart, waiting for the thin veil he's wrapped around himself to rip at the seams and the chaotic trauma to tumble out.

He catches me now and again, leaning against a doorframe at the lab, eyes moving over him, assessing, witnessing.  After he was taken we sat for hours and hours in front of a webcam feed, watching him.  We couldn't take our eyes off him then, couldn't - wouldn't - leave him alone, and it was for our sakes because it couldn't be for his.  Now, it's the same reasoning.  We can't let him out of our sights, just in case… because we couldn't go through that again, and neither could he. 

So he's spent a couple of months being safe, being mollycoddled and mother-henned to beyond an inch of his life.  But still when he catches me staring, he smiles at me - a soft smile that's melting, a little at a time, these patches of deep cold inside me.  Nicky's holding it together; we're the ones falling apart.

That's not to say he doesn't lose it once in a while.  With what he's been through, he's allowed to.  It's supposed to be up to us to watch out for things that can trigger flashbacks and panic attacks.  We have been doing since Catherine took him with her out to a body in a bunker.  It was stupid.  They were out already, on their way back from re-visiting bloodstains on a guy's kitchen floor, when the call came in.  They were close to the site and took a detour. 

Catherine beat herself up for days after having to peeling Nick's fingers from the metal railing next to the stone steps they'd descended into the underground bunker.  He'd actually got almost all the way down before a memory, a flashback, whatever it was, had hit him full force.  His breathing had quickened, sweat breaking out over his skin, muscles going into spasm.  A full-blown panic attack.  Catherine called me out to pick him up, once she'd coaxed him back above ground.  I thought about taking him home, but by the time he was settled in the Tahoe, he was okay again, apologising to me for our mistake.

It makes organising the rotas a little more tricky but what's 'a little more tricky' when he's survived something the rest of us aren't sure we would have?  Underground scenes are out, but we don't get many of those - the bunker was just a fluke.  We've kept him away from burials since he came back to work so we don't know as yet if he'd react badly, but I'd put money on a serious insect phobia being in development in Nicky's mind - I've already cleared anything live with more than two legs out of my office - and with outdoor body dumps you always get bugs.   

So one very hot night, when I got three new cases at the start of the night, with people from the Swing Shift still out in the field, I looked at them with Nicky's welfare in mind.  A body buried under another body at a body farm, a severed hand found in a beehive out at a local ranch, a dead man on the 51st floor of the Bellagio.  Burial, bees, Bellagio.  No contest.  I gave the extra body at the body farm to Warrick and ensured he took an officer with him to join the one already out there. 

After Nick had returned to work I'd kept him in the lab, giving him the illusion of safety; his and ours.  And for a week or so that was okay with him.  But the lab's a glass tank and even I could see he was getting antsy by the end of it.  So we put some rules in place.  Three people at least at every crime scene.  Two CSI's if possible, and a police officer, if not then two officers accompanied any lone CSI.  And they never - never - let that CSI out of their sight.  Not for a single moment.  After what happened to Nicky, no one was going to get careless again. 

Sara and Greg got the bees.  I took Nick with me to the Bellagio.  A body in a hotel suite - what danger could possibly be inherent in that?  If he got tense, he would just need to look out of the window.

We knew we couldn't lose ourselves in worrying about the dangers, but I could easily lose myself worrying about Nicky.  Our fears, those worries, have always been there, it was just that now someone had exploited them, taking all of us to the place of our worst nightmares - especially Nicky.  So we were simply being aware. 

The LVPD shrink's been working overtime.

I drove.  Nick was quiet on the short drive over.  He sat with the window down, arm hooked over the sill, hand spread of the hot black paintwork.  He would do exactly the same if it was raining, however wet his arm got.  At the traffic lights I glanced across at him.  There are feelings I can't put into words, feelings I don't believe I'll ever put into words.  No point in asking him if he's all right.  People kept asking him that when he first came back to work.  What the hell kind of answer they expected I don't know, but he just kept saying, 'I'm okay'.  'I'm okay'.  I didn't fall for it, none of us did. 

Dead body, hotel suite, 51st of the Bellagio.   It wasn't until we stepped into the hotel lobby that I realised however bright and airy and open the location was going to be, we were going to need to take an elevator to get up there.

I spent thirty seconds having an argument with myself, weighing up the option of leaving Nick in reception while I went up and processed the scene against the hundreds of stairs we could climb.  Nick had already called the elevator and was waiting for me to accompany him.  He didn't say a word as it started its ascent, as I watched him, cursing myself silently over and over again.  The only outward sign of his distress then was the tapping of his right foot quietly against the polished floor of the elevator.  I was so proud of him for actually getting into the car.  I was wondering whether or not it would be a good idea to tell him so, once we were up on fifty-one.  There was only one other person in there with us - a young woman who, according to her Bellagio staff ID, was called 'Shauna'.  Didn't want to say it in front of a stranger. 

What I did say, quietly, halfway up, was, "I'm sorry, Nick."  It was pointless. 

But Nick glanced at me, reassured me that it was okay.  At least, he gave it a go.  I wasn't convinced and apparently neither was he.  "I'm okay.  It's just an elevator, right?" 

Right.  A ride that lasted ten seconds tops.  I stared at the floor counter as if I could move the car by my will alone.  But just after '47' changed to '48', the elevator lurched to a bone-jolting stop.  Nick's famous luck still holding.  I heard his intake of breath, turned to him, and heard Shauna swear brightly and mutter something about being stuck between floors and them having had the same problem last week.  An English couple, she said, had been stuck for a couple of hours.

I saw Nick's fist tighten on the metal handle of his kit, saw the colour drain from his face.  Shauna was already lifting the emergency phone, and a second later she was speaking calmly to someone on the other end of the line.  "Between 47 and 48....  A couple of cops....  I'm fine, Barry....  As soon as, okay? ....  Thanks."  Then she turned to us, told us they wouldn't be long. 

As soon as Nick dropped his kit to the floor of the car I knew he was far from okay.  When he started to speak, to correct her… "- we're... we're not cops, we're Crime Scene Investigators," his voice sounded almost normal.  But I heard the tremors.  More than that, I heard the words.  Usually, he wouldn't have bothered to set her straight.  She asked if there was a problem and he took it to mean the hotel, answered, "No, Ma'am, we're just... we're...."

I stepped in.  "We're investigating an incident, that's all."  I directed the explanation at Shauna but I didn't take my eyes from Nick.  His chest was rising and falling, breaths coming faster than usual, face flushing as his heart started to pump blood faster - adrenaline starting to rush into his system, fight or flight.  And when neither was possible, panic would set in. 

"Nicky… you're okay."

He took three deep breaths and nodded.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I'm okay." 

Shauna was obviously as concerned as I was.  Okay, maybe not as concerned but definitely worried.  I stopped her from asking if he was all right, because it was clear as crystal that he wasn't.  He was rubbing his hands together, a sheen of sweat visible on his skin in the bright light of the elevator.  His breathing was getting harsher, his face paler - the effects of the adrenaline rush.

Dropping my kit, I took a step towards him and he backed away.  I took another step forward, towards him, put a hand on his shoulder and got on a line of sight with him.  "Come on, Nick.  Sit down."  It didn't take much persuasion to get him to slide down the wall and I went with him, dropping carefully to my knees, first left then right, close to Nick's side.

Nick, who was hyperventilating.  Nick, who had tears blossoming in his eyes. 

"Close your eyes."

A piteous sound, "What?" 

Keeping my movements slow and deliberate, I put my hand gently over Nick's eyes, bringing his lids down, repeating myself in a murmur, "Close your eyes."  I curled my other hand around the back of Nick's long neck, rubbing the tiny hairs at the base of his scalp with my thumb.  "I want you to imagine you're up in the hotel suite - okay?  A big, open-plan area with a huge window overlooking the strip."  I felt a hesitant nod into my hands and continued to purr.  "Now go to that window for me and look out.  Imagine yourself flying out of it, up the strip, with the road far below you and open sky all around you.  Are you flying, Nicky?"

Another nod, this time less jerky.   

"Good.  Now leave the strip behind and go out, over the desert, where it's all rich, warm sand, and deep blue sky.  You can feel the sun on your face, the heat warming your skin.  You're perfectly safe.  Nothing can touch you."  Carefully, I moved my hand from Nick's eyes, leaving it hovering close by, keeping up the stroking at the back of his neck.  "Nothing can touch you.  Nothing at all.  Just warm air all around you."

Nick's breathing had slowed, evened out.  And looking around I saw Shauna leaning against the other wall of the elevator, close to the controls, eyes closed.  Couldn't keep the wry smile to myself.   

In the next moment, the car jolted once and started up, doors sliding open smoothly on the 51st floor, Brass waiting for us, concern written all over his face.  We must've looked somewhat amusing; me crouched on the floor with my hand curled around Nick's neck, his eyes closed, Shauna too, in the other corner, her eyes still closed.

"Trying hypnosis now, Gil?" 

He at least spared him the embarrassment of having to climb to his feet under everyone's gaze, clearing out the hallway for us, meeting us in the suite.  And while we were up there, Nicky didn't look out of the window once, like he knew what was already out there.

He did walk down fifty-one flights of stairs though, while I took the elevator and waited for him on the ground floor.  And while I stood there, a strange thing went through my head.  Silk, silk, silk.  What do cows drink?  Did he wish he'd never been good enough to work a crime scene alone? 

~

For once my whole team's in the lab.  I need to get over this fear of sending them out to do their job, I don't let it cripple me, don't let it stop me from doing my own, but I'm no longer comfortable when one or more of them out in the field.  I can't settle.  It's something I have to deal with, something I do, Catherine does, even Ecklie, and I never thought I'd be thinking that. 

Nick and Warrick are going through two tonnes of rubbish from a suspect's place - I checked on them not long back, on the pretence of getting a coffee refill.  Sara's with Greg in the garage happily taking a six-figure sports car to pieces.  Catherine's writing up evaluations in her office, the one she's always complaining is too small.  Even Jim's around, I heard his dulcet tones a couple of minutes ago.

As much as I want to keep them all here, where I know they're as safe as they can be baring accidents, I know I can't.  I spoke to Nick's mother on the phone, the day he flew back from staying with his family, recovering for a couple of weeks.  She told me that he'd been surrounded by love, allowed to mourn what he'd lost of himself and to start to heal in his own time.  She made me promise he'd be looked after here in Vegas too.  Nick's still drawing his strength from those weeks he spent with his family.  With us around, he needs all the strength he can find. 

Catherine's the best at this.  She knows when to comfort and when to act like nothing's happened, when Nick needs to work and when to drive him home.  Warrick… Warrick is Nick's best friend but with his guilt levels about it being Nick who went to the trash site and not him, it'll be a long time before they're back to where they were; another tragedy in all of this.  Sara's just being Sara.  She's dealt with a lot of bad things in her life so when she's presented with the problems of others she goes one of two ways - excessive emotional involvement, or cold-shouldering it.  She and Nicky never really talked anyway.  Greg's amazing.  He can make Nick laugh.  He can mention the incident and Nick doesn't run from the room to start shaking and throw up the moment it's convenient.  Greg is what and where Warrick would have been for Nick had he not been the one on the other side of the coin toss.

And then there's me.  And I have my moments. 

Like at the scene that night when I had to make him promise not to get out of the box when we opened the lid, when I had to persuade him through the thin layer of sand and the film of tears in my eyes.  Like at the hospital when I sat for twelve hours straight holding his hand because he kept screaming if one of us wasn't in the room.  Like when he came back to the lab and I was the one chosen to tell him about the webcam as he sat and wept in front of me, eerily silent, just these tears that kept coming until I had no choice but to wrap my arms around him and hold him tight, tell him he was safe.  Strange thing that.  Especially when his strong, trembling arms came around me and for the first time in a very long time someone held me.  Not just someone.  Nicky.  I hadn't realised how much I needed it until my tears where falling on his shoulder and he was the one comforting me.

Like the elevator stuck between the 48th and 49th floors of the Bellagio. 

And like last week, Tuesday night, when the storm hit and the power went out.  I didn't think twice about it when it happened.  The emergency lighting came up almost immediately and despite its weird green hue it's easy to carry on working in those conditions.  The backup generators keep the computers, the storage freezers and fridges, all the technology working.  I needed to check on my evidence anyway, and took a walk over to Trace.  Which is where I found Nicky alone, pressed against the plexi-glass wall, eyes screwed shut, fingernails scratching into the plastic surrounds.

I said his name, laced it with concern, like I had no idea what had triggered the panic attack.  But looking at him brought up a very sharp, very raw memory; the image of him lying in that fucking box in the earth, with a white bulb that was slowly killing him and then only those green light sticks Gordon had tossed in for good measure.  He looked at me, his expression a terrible mix of heartfelt apology and abject frustration with a touch of embarrassment and self-disgust.  He tried to voice it, to say, 'I'm sorry', but I shook my head.  Nothing for him to be sorry for. 

"Come on.  Let's get you out of here."

There was a time, just a couple of weeks ago, when this kind of break would have had him clawing his hair out as he curled up and sobbed until there was nothing left.  Now he'd come to a strange peace with his own reactions.  He just hadn't come to terms with ours, and neither had we. 

So it was okay to carefully reach for his wrists, lift his arms from his sides, stay close and coax him forward, away from the glass wall.  The trick was to stay close.  And what had happened that first night in my office - with us up clinging to one another, it had somehow earned me the right.  Once out of Trace, I got my arm around his waist and led him the most direct route out of the labyrinth.  No one questioned us.  A few of our colleagues glanced up and I caught sympathy in Catherine's eyes, empathy in Greg's, pain and guilt in Warrick's. 

I got him down the stairs, out through the lobby, out into the night.  The whole block was down from what I could see, but the moon was full and bright - plenty of white light.  He looked at me once we were out there, smiled his self-conscious little smile and thanked me.  I told him, 'anytime'.  And eventually I remembered to take my arm from around his waist.  It wasn't like he seemed to mind it being there. 

So, like I said, we're healing.  All of us.  At our own pace, in our own way.  I have my team back together and yes, that makes me happy.  Some nights I pick Nicky up on my way in and drop him home on my way out.  His place is on the way to mine, so it's no hardship.  Wouldn't have been if he'd lived the other side of Las Vegas either, I'd still have volunteered.  Catherine asked me one morning, when we were attending a scene together, when the altruism had set in.  I didn't answer, didn't tell her that I'd watched Nick record his last words while he'd been trapped in Gordon's nightmare, didn't mention what he'd said.  He'd never disappointed me.  And in my own unique way, I hoped that doing these little meaningless things for him - like driving him to work and home again - would finally make him believe that he never had.

I don't want to tell him face to face because that would mean telling him that I 'heard' words I wasn't supposed to 'hear' because he hadn't died.  No one wants to live through their suicide note being read out, and that's what it was in essence, that's what it would have been if we'd been one minute later.  Less, even.  His finger had been on that trigger when Warrick had cleared the first patch of sand from the lid of the box.  One squeeze of his finger and we'd have found his corpse and an unrecognisable, bloody mess.  I don't think I could have dealt with that. 

Everyone else seems to think I could have.  Everyone but Nick that is.  He knows because I told him.  A couple of mornings ago, over breakfast.  We've been sharing a lot of breakfasts recently, on our way home.  He was tired on this particular morning… last Friday if I remember correctly.  He was fiddling with the condiments while we waited for our orders, and when I asked him if he wanted to talk about it he told me he'd worked the suicide outside the Luxor.  I knew that of course, I was the one who'd handed out the assignments.  It was that, a decomp in an abandoned store (bugs), a body in the desert (burial), or a young child who'd been in a shallow grave for a couple of weeks at least (bugs and burial).  At least the man who'd shot himself in the head in his car after losing his house at the casino tables hadn't triggered a panic attack.

But it had upset him, and although he needs to work through everything, I hate to see him upset any further. 

"The mess the bullet had made.  Oh man… the inside of the car was red with blood and brains.  I just kept thinking, if I'd shot myself that would have been the sight to meet you guys.  And I don't know what that would have done to you, if anything, but…."

I had to stop him.  "You're right, Nick.  You don't know what that would have done to us.  To me.  I couldn't have dealt with it." 

"With seeing it?"

"With knowing we were too late, too slow.  Knowing we'd failed you."

He stopped playing with the condiments, reached over and wrapped his fingers around my hand.  They were cold, that much I managed to process, and I closed my fingers over his just to warm them up.  That's what I told myself.  He smiled just slightly.  "You didn't fail me, Gil, you saved my life." 

I stared at our joined hands.  "Are there times when… you wish we hadn't?"

"No."  He was adamant about that and I couldn't keep the relief from my face.  He's lived through something none of us could imagine enduring, it's good to know that the only way he's looking is forward, not back.  "I'm alive.  I owe that to you." 

"We all had a hand in finding you, Nick."

"If it wasn't for you and your ant fetish…." 

"If it wasn't for you shooting out the light and letting the ants in," Nicky's hand tightened almost in spasm and I squeezed back, almost as unconsciously, "if it wasn't for Sara knowing about Kelly Gordon, if it wasn't for Greg and Catherine and Warrick finding the prototype box, for Hodges working out the explosives…."

Nicky shook his head.  "Please don't mention Hodges." 

I wanted to climb over the table into Nick's side of the booth and hug him.  "It wasn't his fault.  We'd have all been injured in the blast, you'd have been killed."

"I know that."  And by the tone of his voice, he did.  "But it doesn't change the fact that his phone call took you all away from me at the moment when I needed you the most.  I remember seeing you, and then you all backing up and I thought… that I was either still hallucinating, or that I was dead already and I just didn't know it yet."  How do I ever apologise for doing that to him?"  "But you came back.  You refused to leave me.  You stayed with me, and you called me 'Pancho'…." 

He trailed off when the waitress brought our plates over and refilled our mugs.  I noticed her concerned glance at Nick; I was still holding his hand, he was still holding mine, and I was determined to get him through this.  I didn't care what our waitress thought, didn't care what anyone thought.  I don't care about anyone but Nicky in all of this.

Once she'd gone Nick took his hand back, and despite me thinking maybe he'd lost his appetite because of our conversation, he tucked in to his maple syrup pancakes and bacon like we'd been talking about the weather.  I was the one who'd lost his appetite but Nick told me to eat; didn't beg me but he asked me to and I did.  He wanted to have these conversations without them tearing him apart, wanted to talk without adding to the baggage he was already carrying.   

And, quite obviously, he was hungry, and so was I.

~ 

"Sneaky little bastards!"  I could hear him, the nervousness underlying the black humour in his voice.

In this job, bugs get everywhere.  It doesn't have to be a decomposing body or a buried corpse.  It can just as easily be a bag of rubbish left outside for too long.  I didn't run into the layout room, I ran down the corridor and stopped just outside the layout room.  The last thing he needed was me losing my composure.  Nick had opened a black trash bag, upended it on to the table, and found his hands covered in ants. 

To his credit he wasn't screaming.  He was shaking his hands, trying desperately to brush the little black insects from his skin.

"Nick?"  At my voice he looked around and I could see his beautiful brown eyes wide, mouth curled into a painful grimace, colour gone from his face.  "It's okay." 

I grabbed some paper towel from the work surface as I stepped into the room and approached him carefully, taking one wrist then the other, brushing the ants off him quickly, making sure I got each and every one.  I checked between his fingers, under his nails, up his sleeves.  Then I got him out of the room, into the corridor, got him to remove his shoes and socks and checked his feet, between his toes, a couple of inches up his trouser leg.

When I straightened, not only was Nick staring at me with a combination of relief, thanks and slight disbelief, but Greg and Sara were watching me too.  And their gazes were less kind.  They were looking at me like I'd finally gone nuts.  "There were ants."  Under usual circumstances, that wouldn't have been enough, it would have been the start of a long explanation interrupted by teasing remarks and unfounded innuendo.  But as they nodded and left without another word, I glanced up at Nicky and saw the sadness on his face. 

"They'll come around," I told him gently, standing.

He half-nodded, "You know, part of me wants everything to go back to normal and part of me…"  He trailed off, so I finished for him softly, 

"Wants everyone to remember."

Nick nodded, head bowed, and I'll never know what made me do it but I touched the hair at his temple.  Just a couple of strands, just with the tip of my middle finger.  I watched him swallow, watched the tears bloom in his eyes at one simple kindness, one tiny touch.  I didn't think it was possible before, but at that moment I thought my heart could break for him given much more of this. 

"Breakfast?  After shift?"  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and smiled at me.

"Yeah.  Thanks." 

We both glanced at the layout lab.  "I'll get rid of the ants, you go get a coffee."

"You don't have to do that." 

"I do.  And I'll explain why over pancakes and bacon, okay?"

Okay. 

I did.  I explained that he was hurt because of what he did, because he was a CSI, because he worked in Las Vegas.  Not because he was Nick Stokes.  This time it really wasn't personal, this time it could have been any of us.  But it meant that the job owed him.  It had taken something from him that the rest of us had never been asked to give, and in return, we got to give him whatever he needed for however long it took.  He would never get over this.  All we could do was help him to live and work from day to day.

He didn't cry then.  But he invited me in when we reached his place, told me to make myself at home, and disappeared for ten minutes.  When he came back he'd been crying.  I did exactly what  I'd done at the lab,  I reached out to him, and this time he came to me, like he'd done that first night, put his arms around me as mine went around him.  

Neither of us spoke.  Neither of us needed to.  Just like the time in my office, only this time something changed; something in the quality of how he was holding me, the way his body relaxed infinitesimally against me.  I let my shoulders drop slightly, tightened my arms; brought him closer to me.  His forehead touched my neck, just below my ear, and he turned his head, left then up.  I thought I felt breath against my skin and I know I didn't imagine the nervous touch of his mouth against my throat.

If I'd let him go then it would never have happened, we would have gone on as we had been doing.  I might even have stayed over, just another body in the house.  But I didn't want it not to have happened.  As screwed up as we both are, Nick's someone I care for very, very much.  And I reasoned that if the two of us in his bed was what he wanted, that's what he was going to get.  Not because the department owed him.  But because I wanted it too. 

I stroked one hand up over his back, tracing the line of his spine through his white cotton shirt before following the curve of his shoulder, soaking up the warmth of him through my palm.  The next wet touch against my throat was definitely a kiss, and Nicky was making these incredible little sounds, somewhere between terror and desire.  I definitely didn't want him to be afraid.  Pulling on his shoulder, I got him to straighten up just enough so that I could get my mouth over his.  After that… well, it's personal.

~ 

"I'm sorry."  I don't usually go for apologies after sex.  Not that I get many chances, but it does nothing for either ego, and it's utterly pointless.  So hearing Nick mutter those words as he lay wrapped around me like a limpet sometime later that morning didn't amuse me one bit.  If he hadn't have been lying where he was, I'd have had the following conversation with him eye to eye, but I was comfortable, I didn't want to move him.

"What are you sorry for?" 

"Assaulting you in the kitchen.  After everything you've done for me…."

"You didn't assault me.  I hugged you, you hugged me, you kissed me, I kissed you… we wound up in bed.  Unless you're regretting it…." 

"No."  He moved his head, side to side, "absolutely not.  I might at my next evaluation…."

"You didn't sleep with your boss, Nick, you slept with me, Gil Grissom.  Sorry if that disappoints you…." 

He lifted his head, rested his chin on my sternum, and looked at me with such an intense expression, I realised it wasn't going to be a one-off.  And I know now it's something serious.  And that, surprisingly, is okay with me.  "You've never disappointed me, Gil."

My breath caught in my throat, lodged right along with my heart for a moment.  Those words, what he'd said on the tape….  I put my arm around his shoulders, rolled him until he was on his back and I was leaning over him, fingers combing through his hair, kissing his mouth, his jaw, his throat.  Nick's hands were running up and down my arms, and after a couple of seconds I realised he was soothing me.  Hearing those words, I'd gone a little crazy for a moment.  I lifted my head, looked at him, at those chocolate brown eyes, and told him I loved him.  We all love him, it's difficult not to.  But I knew what I was feeling for him right there and then and it was more than I feel for any other member of my team.  Maybe it's all tied up with what had happened, what he'd been through, the horror I'd witnessed.  But it's always going to be, there's no point in denying that.

Since then - many times since then - I've asked myself how we went from sharing breakfasts to sharing a bed.  I don't need the answer, I'm just curious.  Nick still has panic attacks, there are so many triggers in the job he loves but his doctors say he'll always have them, whether he was working as a CSI or a trash collector.  We take precautions, and when things go wrong we're there for him.  I'm there for him. 

Always will be.

 

fin

 



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