Title: CSI: This Apocalypse Ain't Kind
By: oh-mumble
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: for violence and character deaths
Summary: Outside, the world is burning, and Greg thinks he might be just a little in love.

***

"˜Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.'

T.S. Eliot, from "˜East Coker'


The city is burning.

The flames reach high into the air, hungry, devouring the city that twists and melts in the heat. Smoke hangs heavy and thick above it, spreading out across the desert and covering the stars like a veil. Warm wind curling across the desert, bringing the smell of soot and blood and burning, strong even from so far away, and the smell of it makes Greg want to retch, to fall to his knees and tear the thickness from the back of his throat until it doesn't feel like he is choking anymore. A hand on his arm, clenching briefly, and he turns to look at Nick, wild-eyed and dirt-smudged, hefting his backpack onto his shoulders.

"˜We have to keep moving.'

Numb jerk of his head, and Greg moves off down through the rocks, through the desert, feeling the stares of unseen eyes at his back, and beside him Nick grips the handle of his gun a little tighter. He doesn't ask where they're moving to.

**


The sense of unease has been growing at the back of Greg's mind the past few weeks, curling and tightening at the base of his spine, fizzing and itching until he feels like he has to scream or go mad. The air in Vegas is charged, sharp and almost cracked, and its inhabitants tense and edgy. Sudden spike in violent outbreaks, and Grissom gives Greg a temporary commission as a field agent just to have enough bodies working the shifts. The sharp tang of blood is permanently on his tongue, and his skin smells like chemicals and latex. Dark shadows under everyone's eyes, and when Nick gives him a tired smile at the start of the shift, Greg has to suppress a shudder at the image of a skin-stretched skull.

When the first bomb goes off, Greg sits calmly on the hood of Nick's Tahoe, watching the firefighters battle the flames in the casino lobby from across the street. Swings his legs gently, listens to the soft bumps his sneakers make against the car, and wonders if he's making scuff marks. Feels suddenly like he wants to leave scars on the metal, drive the maddening calm-itch out of his spine and into the shiny paintwork. Nick paces in front of him, agitated, occasionally taking photographs as the men drag out blackened debris and dump it in a pile away from the building. A crowd mills behind them, back past the police officers standing in a loose line to cordon off the area. Greg can't help but look, staring at the flames and the broken glass, remembering the centre of another explosion; bright flashes and skin prickling where the nerves should be dead, and from Nick's agitated movements back and forth, Greg knows Nick is remembering too.

The explosions come thick and fast after that first one. Bright heat across the city, across the state, and it spreads outwards, rippling from the metropolises until the city centres are hushed and emptied, and the tourists stay at home. Locals scurry about, staying away from the big buildings and attractions that are just so many neon-bright targets, and the chimes from the casinos echo up the half-dead Strip. There's bodies in the morgue, constricted and blackened, and sometimes they find someone who was at the centre of the explosion, outsides whole and unmarked, and inside a mess. Robbins stands above the latest victim, pointing out marks here, and here, and there's the soot and heat stains. Pulls aside ribs and assesses damage, and Nick takes notes on a clipboard, even though he's heard this all too many times before. Seen too many bodies like this, and beside him, Greg is staring down at the corpse with an unreadable look on his face.

Al shifts and pulls the incisions closed, grits his teeth and looks down at the body, a valet from the casino reduced to torched rubble the night before. Muses gently, almost to himself, what it must feel like, being caught in the middle of that. Looks back up at Greg, sharp and apologetic, but Greg isn't paying him any attention, gaze fixed on a single burn across the body's shoulders, sweeping like paint across the blades and over the neck. A perfect arc, and Greg lifts his fingers to feel his matching scar, hidden just under the collar of his shirt, smooth and ridged like melted wax, and there's a strange half-smile on his face.

"It feels beautiful," and he closes his eyes and remembers the sensation of flying, of being surrounded by air, moving and curving and riding out the waves of heat. Like riding the surf of the ocean, but he hasn't been back there for years, and the memory of salt water against his tongue is forever tainted with the taste of chemical smoke and glass between his teeth. "It feels perfect."

**


They sleep in the middle of the day, hiding in the shadows of rocks and hills as the sun climbs high above them and burns the desert. Sleep again in the dead of night when it gets too dark to see and the moon sinks behind the debris and smoke that still hangs in the air. There's constant movement around them, the slipping of skin on rock, and calls and screams and sometimes gunshots. When they stop walking each time, Greg is so exhausted he can barely do more than sink to the ground and curl up, limbs shaking, and he still doesn't know where they're headed. Thinks Nick is just trying to save him, but he's just prolonging the nightmare, and Greg hates him a little for that. Feels guilty about it when Nick shakes out blankets from his pack at night and tucks them over Greg, keeping out the cold desert air that creeps under his clothing and skin, brittle and angry and sharp. Greg always falls asleep to the sight of Nick leaning back against a rock, gun held loosely in his hand, and eyes scanning the desert for any kind of movement. They're both sunburnt, never thinking about sunscreen as they hastily packed and ran, and the skin at Nick's throat is peeling. Looks almost like a corpse, and Greg closes his eyes and wishes for an ending.

**


He has the television on, body too used to night shifts to be able to sleep in the dark. The news feed is live from a helicopter, the view of Vegas blurred and juddering. More explosions, and Greg thinks he catches sight of Sam Braun standing outside the furiously burning wreckage of the Tangiers, looking both angry and lost. The woman gently holding his arm might be Catherine, but the camera cuts away before Greg can tell. Thinks Grissom might call him back into work, but the phone doesn't ring and Greg remains crouched on his bed, staring at the television. There's a large mob gathering, rolling down the strip like a human wave and breaking out into the city. Cops and soldiers and uniforms standing by, nobody doing anything, everyone afraid and heated, and no one is stopping them tonight. He follows the roiling mass of flesh on the screen for what seems like minutes, and what seems like hours, and he knows their path, recognises the neighbourhood, and Greg hears the crowd before he sees it, screams and taunts and the sound of breaking glass. He peers out of his bedroom window, keeping cautiously to the side where he can't be seen, and the glare of flames against the houses opposite looks like the sun burning on brick. Guns and ropes and anger, and Greg has to clap a hand to his mouth, stifle the almost-hysterical laughter that threatens to bubble out when he sees that some people are carrying old-fashioned flaming torches. Burning baseball bats and shirts and hockey sticks, and it all seems horrifying and absurd.

The breaking glass sounds louder, and Greg notices a group broken away from the crowd. Hurling themselves against the neat rows of houses, flames and guns in their hands, and some of the street is burning. Shattered windows and screams, and more people are swarming into the houses, coming out splashed in blood and ecstasy, and Greg backs away from the window on shaking legs, stumbling towards the cordless phone by his bed and grabbing it. Pulls open the door to his closet and ducks inside, closes it behind him, and through the slats, he can still see the reflection of flames. Presses himself as far back as he can, wedges himself between cardboard boxes and fallen shirts. Clutches the phone close to his chest, fingers pressing so hard the plastic feels like it might crack, and his breath is too loud in the small space. Greg forces his fingers to relax, tilts the phone to the light just enough to see the numbers. Holds his breath and listens for noise from inside his home, but there's nothing, not yet, and he dials a number from memory, one he barely uses, but the mob is moving towards the outskirts of the city, and Greg thinks he knows who is in the way.

The phone picks up on the fifth ring, and Greg can hear shouting, hear the screaming of a baby, and his breath catches, panicked, until a voice comes on the other end.

"Yeah?"

"Bobby?" Greg breathes a sigh of relief at a familiar voice, even if he can barely hear it over the crying. "Bobby, is that you?"

"Greg?" There's confusion in Bobby's voice, brittle and tense like it might crack, and it might be the baby, and it might be the city. "What do you want? I mean, now's not a really great time..."

"Bobby, you need to get out," Greg's words come out all in a rush, and all he can think of is the direction of the crowd, and Bobby living so close to the edge of the desert. A backyard for the baby, Bobby had smiled, and told everyone how he was going to raise his daughter right, with a proper respect for the outdoors, as far away from the bright neon of the Strip as he could. "Get in your car, and drive as far out into the desert as you can. There are people going crazy here, and they're burning things, and it's all messed up." Flashes suddenly on the sight of blood, his neighbours' blood on someone's skin, and it's bright and smeared and nothing like the dull colours of a crime scene. Swallows harshly, and he can't tell if there are people in his house, or if they're just too close. "Please. Get Anna and Frank, and go."

Greg hears a sharp indrawn breath, then muffled sounds as Bobby pulls away from the receiver. There's a shout, angry and desperate and scared, and Greg knows it's definitely Frank there.

"I am not leaving my home!"

Anna cries louder and louder, and Greg claps his hand over the phone, terrified she might be heard, and underneath there's the soothing drawl of Bobby's accent, calming his baby and his husband, and Greg can't make out any more words until Bobby comes back to him.

"We're going. Frank's just getting a few of the baby's things." Pauses, and Greg takes the silence to squeeze his eyes shut and let out the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "Greg, are you going to be okay? Do you want me to come get you?"

"No!" Greg is startled by his own vehemence, rides over his shock with more words. "No, don't you dare. Just get out, and don't look back. I'll be fine. Don't you think about me, okay?"

Bobby is quiet, and Anna has even stopped crying. The sound of breaking glass downstairs startles Greg and he holds still, not wanting to move, praying that the house won't creak about him and give him away.

"Be careful," Greg whispers into the phone, and his heart is pounding so loud, he knows he'll be found. Kills the connection just as Bobby breathes soft words of thanks, and there are footsteps on the stairs.

**


Greg wakes one night with the cool air against his bare skin and fingertips ghosting across his back. He'd taken off his sweat-stiff shirt before collapsing, leaving it spread out across a boulder, letting Nick wordlessly drench it with some of their precious water, but Greg thinks he saw a town up ahead when they reached the crest of a hill earlier in the day, and they might be able to sneak in there and find some supplies. Wasting the water on such a frivolous thing doesn't help them any, and Greg is sure that they both must stink to high heaven, but they don't notice anymore, and the pretence at something vaguely resembling proper behaviour is both comforting and sickening.

The fingers drift gently over his skin, skimming the burns and scars with something like pity, and something like worship. Greg's never shown anyone the way the skin across his back is twisted and melted, spirals and whorls like a fingerpainted canvas, flinging outwards to curl at the base of his neck and spine. Patched and discoloured from grafts and therapy, and sometimes Greg thinks of bad horror movies and skin suits, wonders if his real body is trapped underneath the layers of scar tissue and screaming to get out. Fingers tracing the path of the explosion that maimed him, and it's like a single unfurled wing swept across his back, a broken seraphim in ridged oils and canvas. Like water curving over his shoulderblades and pooling in the curves of his spine and collarbones, and he hasn't let anyone touch him this way since the accident. Hadn't thought he'd ever be able to feel the soft, shivery sensations through the thick, deadened tissue, and Greg drifts back to sleep under the gentle touch.

He wakes again with the sun high overhead, and Nick pressed against his back, arm across his stomach holding him tight. Lays warm and relaxed in the embrace, listening to Nick's deep breathing so close to his ear. Nick smells of gun oil and dust and heat, and it's comforting in a way Greg hasn't appreciated before, hasn't had the time to as they fled through the desert, keeping ahead of whatever they thought was coming up behind them, something nameless that has nothing and everything to do with the scattered people scavenging wild in the desert around them. Closes his eyes and thinks he could just fall asleep again, never wake up, but Nick's body is stiffening behind him, arm jerking away like Greg's skin is still burning and the solid, safe presence is gone. Greg rolls over, sits and squints up at Nick, who is hovering over their packs, rummaging though them with hands he pretends aren't shaking, and the flush on his face has nothing to do with the heat. Nick starts to stutter an apology, meaningless words for a meaningless action, comfort in sleep, and Greg feels suddenly angry at how Nick always has to be the gentleman. Always has to be the white knight, and this isn't a fairy tale.

Bites out, "I would have let you anyway," and Nick looks up, startled and caught, and he hadn't expected that. Flicker across his face, and it's almost a smile, the first real one in so long, but then a cardboard box is falling from the pack he's holding, spilling bullets out onto the desert floor, and Nick watches them fall, watches them catch the sun, and his face hardens again.

"We have to keep moving."

"Whatever," Greg stands and stretches, reaches for his shirt and pulls it over his head. The sun-warmed material feels nothing like the solid warmth of Nick's body, but he shoulders his own pack in silence and follows Nick out across the desert. He doesn't ask where they're going.

**


The closet door is flung open from the outside and Greg lets out a sharp gasp, trying to press himself back into the too-solid wall. The shadow in front of him hunches down, and the light from the television "“ he should have turned it off, shouldn't have drawn attention to the flickering blue signal of life "“ glints off a handgun. Greg squeezes his eyes shut, tries not to think of blood on strangers' skin, and "“

"Greg?"

He cracks his eyes open, and there's that urge to laugh again, because it's Nick bending over him, looking pale and concerned, and Greg feels like reality has shifted and tilted away from him. He's barely hanging on, and Nick is reaching out with gentle hands, pulling Greg upright and settling him on the bed.

"Greg, are you okay?" Looking him over with darkly anxious eyes, hands running up Greg's arms and checking for signs of injury, and Greg reaches up and stops Nick before his fingers can touch against the exposed scars at the base of his neck.

"I'm fine." Confused as hell, can't figure out why Nick is in his bedroom, and it's not the way he'd ever imagined getting the other man up here. But Nick has turned away, pulling open dresser drawers, and he's flinging underwear and shirts into a backpack he's snagged from the closet. Greg frowns, and he doesn't know what's going on.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting you out of here," Nick explains, and now he's searching through jeans and sweaters, discarding the useless, expensive shiny clothing Greg likes, and packing the older, tougher things. "This place is going to hell, and I'm not leaving you in the middle of it."

"Wait-" and there's something wrong here, something threading under the sound of breaking glass and the bays of the crowd moving through the neighbourhood. "What are you doing here?"

"I was watching the news feed at the lab, and saw your neighbourhood," Nick waves a hand, the one still clutching the gun, towards the window, and Greg realises with a start that the house opposite his is on fire. Bright against the night, crumpling in on itself as the flames slowly eat away at the structure, and there might be screaming coming from inside, but it stops soon enough, and Greg isn't sure if he imagined it. Nick is rummaging through the pile of shoes kicked into a corner of the closet, tossing a hiking boot in Greg's general direction and looking for its pair, but then there are heavy footsteps outside the bedroom, and there's someone looking in at them. Nick snaps upright, stares at the man, and he's moving forward in front of Greg. The man is leering at them, eyeing the gun in Nick's hand and Greg, white-faced and wide-eyed, sprawled on the bed. Clothes ripped and slightly charred, covered in blood not his own, and he grins at Nick, grubby fingers clenching a splintered baseball bat that sways slightly in his hand. Nonchalant and dangerous, and his eyes are locked on the curve of Greg's throat.

"Too late the join the party?"

The gunshot is too loud in the small room and Greg's hands jerk to his head, clap over his ears too late, and there's an arc of blood on his wall. A body on the floor, and Nick is shoving the other boot at Greg, pack in his hand, and he's not looking at what he's done.

"We need to leave. Is there anything else you want to take?"

Greg can't take his eyes off the body, seeing the flames reflected in bright, glassy eyes, and Nick has to shake his shoulder, harsh, fingers biting a little too deep. Greg swings his gaze up to Nick, slow and horrified, but Nick looks like he's about to throw up, and the shock dies before he can voice it. Scrambles off the bed, and there's things he wants, things he needs, and he hurries around the house grabbing them. Toothpaste and sunglasses, photographs shaken out of their frames, a minidisc player without any batteries. Leather wristbands and vitamins, and his life is contained in one small pack. Nick is in the kitchen, grabbing tinned food and bottles of water and pushing them into his own pack which he'd dumped just inside the broken front window. Hadn't come in the door because it was locked, and Greg notices fresh scratches on Nick's forearms.

"Hey," Nick pauses at his call, looking up from trying to squeeze a last can of peaches into the top of the pack. Greg grins nervously, hands shaking as he takes the can and puts it in his own pack. "You came for me?"

Nick's smile is just as nervous, just as tentative as he helps Greg zip up the packs. "Always."

Outside, the world is burning, and Greg thinks he might be just a little in love.

**


The town Greg had seen ends up being little more than a few dilapidated buildings and a gas station, hunched together and stuck out in the middle of nowhere, and there's barely even a road leading out to them. No sounds or movement as they cautiously approach the buildings, ready to run at the slightest flicker of danger, and Nick's fingers are white against the grip of the gun. The place seems deserted, dusty and disintegrating, but the door to the gas station opens easily and inside the shelves are freshly stocked. They move quietly and quickly through the dim light of the store, picking out cans of food, crackers, bottles of water. Greg finds a couple of plastic bags behind the counter and starts to fill them with bars of chocolate and fruit that was fresh a week ago, but still edible even now. Bruised apples, and cheese from the refrigerator still humming away at the back of the store, and when he leans across the counter to grab some packets of wet wipes, he sees a set of keys hanging on a nail under the shelves. Grabs them and leaves his pack and bags on the counter, snags an apple, and wanders outside. At the back of the store, pulling packets of energy bars off the shelves, Nick is oblivious to his absence. Greg walks slowly around the buildings, and he should be afraid, should be cautious, but there's thick silence everywhere, and the crunch as he bites into the apple echoes loudly.

The truck is parked behind the store, a red pickup as dusty as the buildings, and Greg holds the apple in his teeth as he slides into the cab, uses the keys to turn the ignition, and the truck rumbles to life. It looks old and battered, but the engine sounds healthy, and Greg smiles as the gas dial points to almost full. The sound of the truck starting up brings Nick running, and he looks angry, white-faced. He's still holding the gun, and Greg is getting sick of the sight of it.

"Don't do that!" Nick snaps, and Greg has to reach up to grab the apple, because he feels a little ridiculous, like a baked pig in a bad cartoon, and he gestures at the dashboard of the truck.

"I got us a truck."

"I mean it, Greg," Nick's eyes are narrowed, and he glances about the buildings as if people are going to start materialising out of the walls. "Don't wander off like that. I can't protect you if I don't know where you are."

Greg kills the engine, rolls his eyes, and Nick slams his hand against the door, startling them both. Greg glares at him, and he's hot and tired, and doesn't know what the fuck they're doing. He climbs out of the cab, slams the door, and the sound is satisfying in a nasty way.

"Protect me from what, Nick? There's nothing here! We're in the middle of the fucking desert!"

"In case you hadn't got the message, things aren't exactly normal here, Greg!" Nick doesn't shout, doesn't let his voice waver and crack, but he's loud and fierce, and Greg never remembers that Nick used to be a cop. "You think that guy in your house wanted to play scrabble? That the people out there," and he gestures wildly with his arms out into the desert, Greg following their path, and there are vague shapes moving out in the heat haze. "That they want to come play nice and set up little idealistic communes somewhere? Start all over again? There's nothing left, Greg! Nothing left but you and me, and damned if I'm giving that up."

Greg leans back against the truck, scrubs at eyes tired and thick with dust. Voice soft and heavy with exhaustion, and he just wants out of the heat. "I don't even know where we're going."

"North," and Greg's head snaps up, because that's more than Nick has told him before, other than they just have to keep moving, and Greg gives him a tentative smile.

"Well, do we have to walk all the way?"

Nick eyes the truck, eyes slightly longing, and he shrugs. "We'd just have to ditch it in a couple days. Tank full of gas won't last long."

Greg sighs, reaches up and taps Nick on the forehead. "Gas station, Nick." Rolls himself away from the side of the truck, heads over to a pile of empty gas cans stacked against the side of the store and picks up a few. Looks back at Nick, jerks his head in the direction of the pumps. "You going to give me a hand?"

Nick laughs, the sound warm and pleasant and genuine, and he grabs some more cans, follows Greg to the pumps. The tanks are still full, and Nick helps Greg lay out the cans in a line. Heads back into the store to get their packs, and when he comes back out, he's holding a bottle of sun lotion above his head like a trophy.

"Found some of these inside," he smiles, dumping the packs by the door. Squeezes some of the lotion onto his hand, and before Greg can move out the way, Nick is smearing the white paste across the back of his neck, over his scars, and Greg doesn't flinch away. Smirks instead, mutters,

"My hero," and carries on filling the cans. Nick brings the truck around the building, loads the bed with the packs and bags of fruit and candy. Hefts the full cans in after them and covers everything with a tarpaulin he finds rolled in the back.

Half an hour later they're just about to climb into the truck when the first bullet zings over their heads and they both duck, scrambling behind the truck. Bullets start to ping in the dirt around them, sending up little clouds of dust and smashing through the front store window. Nick pushes Greg into the cab, scrambling in after him and keying the ignition. The truck rumbles awake, and Nick is flooring the accelerator, spinning the wheels in wild circles, and they're speeding away from the buildings. Greg looks behind them, sees a vague shape in the window of one of the buildings, and he turns to stare at Nick, incredulous.

"What the hell..."

"That's why you don't wander off, Greg," Nick deadpans, and then they're speeding across the desert, ground flashing away under them, and their laughter is only slightly hysterical.

**


The crowd winds out of the neighbourhood, past Greg's house, and the vast mass of flesh and anger and fear lets Nick and Greg slip among them, through them, falling to the back and creeping out of sight. Nick's left his car a few blocks away and they climb in, weave their way through the city, and Greg realises they're heading for the lab. Doesn't ask why, and when he uses Nick's cell phone to call Bobby "“ he left his own behind, and thinks now that he shouldn't, but it's too late now for this and that and numbers "“ there's no answer. Lets Bobby's phone ring out again and again, and Greg hopes he's somewhere safe. Hopes Bobby isn't looking back.

There's a small crowd outside the lab when they get there, techs and officers milling outside in the parking lot, and Nick pulls into a space on the far side of the road. There's an alarm ringing from somewhere inside the building, shrill and sharp, and Warrick is at the front of the crowd, herding everyone away from the doors. There's a sick feeling in Greg's stomach, and he doesn't want to get out the car, wants Nick to just keep on driving, but he follows him out anyway. Sara is standing at the edge of the crowd, hugging herself against the cold, ignoring Hodges standing next to her. The man is kicking absently at a stone embedded in the tarmac, muttering darkly under his breath, and he seems to think Sara is paying attention to his complaints. He spots them before Sara does, waves them over and launches into a tirade before they can even ask what's going on.

"You know, they wouldn't even let us grab our jackets?" he grumbles, tugging at his thin lab coat in illustration. "Just kicked us out as soon as the alarms went off. I was running tests in there, and I know who's going to get blamed if evidence gets compromised because of this. They had fire drills in LA all the time, that's how they start on you, and before you know it, they're talking about transfers." He glares at his companions, as if they're somehow in on the conspiracy, and Nick frowns, scratches at the back of his neck, and it's an odd habit when he's thinking.

"I'm sorry... what?"

"The alarms all went off about fifteen minutes ago," Sara explains, and she's not looking at them but at the building, hand creeping towards her mouth as she nibbles at ragged nails. "Contamination alarms, fire alarms, everything. Grissom's in there trying to shut them off, but they shouldn't..." Trails off, and Greg reaches over and quickly squeezes her hand. She smiles at him, something like a grimace, and starts walking towards the building. "I'm going to go see what's taking him so long-"

The explosion catches them all by surprise, a great wall of heat and impossibly bright flame sweeping outwards and upwards. Sucking away all the oxygen and Greg can't breathe, can't find any air, and he's lying on his back staring up at the sky. Ears ringing from the concussion, the taste of blood in his mouth, and there's grit scraped into his skin. Rolls to his knees, gasping, palms stinging, and all he can do is gape at the burning lab, the sick feeling in his stomach turning cold and icy. The cars nearest the building have been thrown outwards, twisted and smashed into other cars and "“ oh, god "“ the people who had been milling around. The ringing in his ears is sharp and dull at the same time, and Greg can't hear anything else. Nick crawls into his line of view, shouting something at Greg, blood running from a cut under his hairline. Greg shrugs and points to his ears, and Nick nods and gestures back towards his car, still standing whole where they parked it. But there's people hurt around them, and the muffled sounds in Greg's ears are gradually becoming sharper, becoming moans and cries and the sharp crack of fire. He can see Sara not too far away, and he stumbles over to her, tugs at her arm. She looks at him, glassy-eyed, and her face is filled with horror. Mouths something at him, but he still can't make out words, and he starts to pull her away from the building, away from the people, until she stops suddenly. Breaks away from him and hunches down next to two people huddled in the shadow of an upturned car. Robbins and David, and the older man is hurt badly, blood all over his face, and David is wiping at it with the sleeve of his shirt. Glasses broken, and the blood keeps coming over and over.

Sound snaps back violently, and Greg can hear Sara gently talking to David, keeping him calm, and Robbins is staring up at the sky, serene, and Greg can see his false legs are smashed and crumpled into so much plastic and padding.

"Greg, can you give me a hand here?" Sara grabs at him, gently moves David out the way, and she's pointing at her own car, parked just down from Nick's. "Help me get him over there?" Greg nods numbly, and he crouches down, slips his hands under Robbins' arms. Sara takes his thighs, awkward, and David steps in, supporting the man's waist. They make their way over to the car, looking like a slow and deformed creature. Trying not to cause Robbins any more pain, and he's still the calmest of them all. Sara manages to get the back door opened, and they slide Robbins in, David climbing after him and trying to make the man more comfortable on the sloping seat. They've left a trail of smeared blood across the road, and Greg follows it back to the parking lot. Sees Nick standing there, trying to calm Hodges, and the tech is shaking his head, saying over and over,

"It's not my fault, they can't blame me for this. It's not my fault..."

Nick sees Greg watching, gently steers Hodges towards the car, and his voice is low, murmuring placations to the shocked tech that Greg can't hear.

"I need to get Al to a hospital," Sara closes the car door, and Greg turns to her. "We won't be able to get an ambulance out here, and we need to get some help for-" Breaks off and looks at the sprawled bodies in the parking lot, at people stumbling around and helping friends. At the people no longer moving, and they can't see Warrick anymore.

"We'll follow you there," Nick looks at Sara, unable to shift his gaze back to the carnage behind him. "Hodges is in shock, he needs to get to a doctor."

"I'm riding with Sara," Hodges says sharply. He breaks away from Nick, eyes him suspiciously, and Sara shrugs, doesn't say anything, and takes Hodges' arm, pushing him gently towards the car.

There's a few walking wounded that they can cram into the back of Nick's car. Jacqui and Leah and Rick, holding together broken bones and split skin, the coppery tang of blood hanging heavily in the air between them. The two cars move off, and there are still no ambulances, no fire trucks, and help seems a long way away. They crawl through the city, winding through streets filled with debris and abandoned cars, burning and broken buildings like shattered teeth high above them. Greg presses his face against the window, watches the city dying around him, and wonders if this same thing is happening elsewhere. If the confusion and the fear is all over the country, and he thinks of Grissom earlier in the day, calling labs over the country and checking in with them. Thinks of all the cities where nobody answered, and now Vegas is one of them.

A mess of abandoned cars blocks the road ahead, and Sara's car slows down to join the creeping traffic heading through and out of the city. A truck cuts in behind her, followed by a line of cars travelling in its wake, and Greg has to crane his head out the window to keep sight of her. Feels the unease and nausea riding high at the back of his throat again, and the cars are being bottlenecked into the Strip, no way out but forward, and Greg reaches suddenly for his seatbelt and snaps it out.

"We have to get out."

"What?" Jacqui coughs at him from the back seat, raising her head from where it's been resting on Leah's shoulder. Beside them, Rick's face is grey, and Greg can't tell if he's still breathing.

"Something's wrong," Greg is opening his door, sliding out, and Nick doesn't reach out in time to stop him. He heads back towards the trunk, and the car isn't moving, crammed in between vehicles all trying to occupy the same forward space. Pulls out the packs stashed there, and then Nick is beside him, grabbing them back and trying to get them back in the car.

"Greg, did you hurt yourself back there?" Nick's voice is gentle, the same tone he used on Hodges, and Greg pulls away from him, hands still twisted in the pack straps, and it's like a tug of war between them.

"This isn't right!" The fizzing is back at the base of his spine, and he wants to dig his fingers in, tear it out, and nothing about this feels safe. "Nick, please, we have to-"

There's fire there suddenly, catching at the corner of Greg's eye and he spins to see them. Flames licking up the sides of the abandoned cars ahead of them, and there's panic as people start flinging open car doors, stumbling away from the vehicles, and they're trapping people inside as they make their own escapes. Greg can only stare in horror as the flames start to lick at an idling car in the jam and he drops the packs, bangs on the side of Nick's car hard enough to startle Jacqui and Leah. Rick still hasn't moved, and Greg is running forward, heading for Sara's car up ahead. Nick is scrambling after him, threading through the cars, but he's still carrying the packs and they catch on handles and mirrors and he can't keep up. Finds Greg again only when his path is blocked by the truck, spun sideways across the road between the piles of debris. The flames are closer here, far too close, and Nick can see Sara's car a few feet away. The doors are blocked by cars, by people fleeing and leaving their own exits open, and then the fire is licking at the side of Sara's car. In the back seat, David is staring numbly at the flames, broken glasses reflecting the fire back, and then he looks down at Robbins. Gently strokes the man's cheek, hunches over him, and his lips are moving, whispering, and he can't be heard. Up in front, Hodges reaches over and gently takes Sara's hand, squeezes it tight, and her eyes lock with Greg's. Numb and wide, and then the fire is in the way, Nick's hand is grabbing his arm, and he's being pulled back out of the tangle of cars. Heat and screams and gas tanks behind them, and then they are running and never looking back.

**


The desert drifts into mountains, and the truck rumbles on. They take it in turns to drive, and Greg keeps flipping through the radio stations, but there's nothing there except static, and Nick keeps snapping it off again. Heat and dust becomes cool shadows, dark greens, and they stay away from the cities, pausing at gas stations only when they need to. When they stop at night, Nick teaches Greg how to use the gun, how to hold it right and load the bullets, and when they sleep, they press together in the bed of the truck, Nick tracing Greg's scars with his fingers until he can map them out in his memory. Greg clasps Nick's hand as it lies over his stomach, fiddling with the silver band on Nick's finger, and sometimes he's quiet, and sometimes he talks in hushed whispers. Soft litanies and eulogies, memories of the people they've known and should have known. Recounts ball games and rock concerts and recipes, and sometimes he talks about the explosions. The one he was caught in, and the ones that drove them out there. Who might have caused them, and who might have not, and how none of it really matters anymore. What it feels like to fly with glass at your back, and Nick understands that one. The stars shine down brightly on them, the summer air warm like a cocoon, and there's no more smell of burning. Greg smiles softly when Nick shifts forward one night, brushes his lips against the back of Greg's neck, against his throat, and Greg squeezes Nick's hand a little tighter.

The world burned and cooled and flowered again, and there's desert behind them and cornfields ahead. Greg sometimes wonders if they died back there, if he and Nick are ghosts haunting the back roads and they just don't know it, but then Nick laughs warm breath across his back, holds him tighter, and tells Greg he can feel him. Feel them, and the world might have ended, but they're a little in love, and for now that's all they need.

***