Previous part of Out With It.

***

Chapter 8: Running, Breathing, Standing Here

You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.
-John Keats to Fanny Brawne, 1819

What I'm trying to say is that I'm really attracted to you.

In defense of Eric's CSI abilities, the kiss had given him that nagging suspicion that maybe Nick did have a thing for him. You know, possibly. If he wasn't looking too deeply into it.

But even the most casual observer could tell him that he was, without a doubt, the stupidest man to walk the planet. Because what had he done? Had he told Nick he felt the same? Had he returned the kiss? Had he offered him any indication that he wasn't completely repulsed?

No.

He had given him some crappy story about… what had it been about again? The moment was so rushed and blurry that he couldn't even recall what had been said. The only thing he was certain of was this: the excuse he had given was undoubtedly transparent and weak. "I have to meet Ryan to review the case" or "I really need to get some sleep" or "This conversation we're having is making me uncomfortable, so let's forget the last twenty four hours ever happened and move on."

Eric had left Nick in the truck. That's all he could really remember: he left him deflated and confused. Eric had rushed up to his room, only to find it empty like he knew it would be. He dropped his kit on the floor and peered out his window to the parking lot where Nick's vehicle was still occupying a space. He swallowed hard. Nick had gotten out and was pacing nervously, walking a dozen feet in one direction down the sidewalk before turning and walking the opposite way and repeating this action several times.

He wanted to go back, to change what he had said or, more appropriately, didn't say. He wanted to open the window and lean out and call Nick up to him, bring him to his room, apologize in the most intimate way possible.

But I guess you knew that already.

He did. He knew.

He had just been too cowardly to face it.

He watched as Nick got back into the truck, reversed, and drove out onto the street before disappearing from Eric's line of sight. Eric felt himself grow sick and his internal screaming wasn't helping much. What are you doing? Why are you letting him go?

He let out a sigh as he flopped onto a cold mattress, arms outstretched and gazing at an increasingly familiar ceiling. This wasn't supposed to happen; he was supposed to fly to Las Vegas, solve a murder, and fly back home to Miami, where he so rightfully belonged. Meeting someone as amazing as Nick was never part of the equation; he was unprepared and stumbling blindly through the entire process, failing over and over again, repeatedly making a fool of both his and Nick's affections. He, like Ryan, was awkward through the whole ordeal, but Ryan had taken the plunge into dark and murky waters, only to emerge victorious with a sunken treasure in his hands.

Eric thought it was ironic that he was the underwater recovery specialist and yet he wouldn't even approach the shore.

…

"Hey Cal!" Ryan called once he spotted a familiar head of blonde hair amongst the sea of busy lawyers, drowsy detectives, and swing shift stragglers. Calleigh and Sara turned from their animated conversation with Archie Johnson to see who was calling their names; Calleigh lit up when she saw that it was Ryan battling the swarm and making his way towards them.

"Hey stranger," she greeted, gracing him with a smile. "What's up?"

"Hopefully a lead," he replied, turning and giving Sara a polite nod so as to not dismiss her from the conversation. "Hi Sara."

"Hey yourself. Just getting in?"

"Yeah," he replied, fighting the yawn that threatened to make itself known. "Haven't even gotten around to stealing some of Greg's coffee yet."

"You're so lucky to be partnered up with him," she groused, allowing herself a small sigh. "What I wouldn't do for a cup of that stuff. Think you can grab me a little while he's got his back turned?"

"He won't even notice it's missing," Ryan confirmed. She grinned before turning to Archie and slinging her left arm around his neck in a purely platonic manner.

"Have you met Archie Johnson, audio visual tech and self-certified Trekkie?"

Ryan grinned and extended his hand. "A whole week and I still haven't met the man who went through a hundred hours of airport footage."

Archie laughed, taking the chance to shake the offered hand. "Thanks. Yelina and Warrick suffered with me, but I amused myself by teaching them to speak Klingon."

"If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were completely serious."

Archie gave him a bright smile. "Yelina can say 'This pencil is yellow' with such flourish that Worf would be proud."

Ryan had the distinct feeling that Archie had, in fact, taught Yelina a couple of Klingon phrases. He made a mental note to ask her about it later; after all, he wanted to make sure that this trip wasn't completely un-educational. Either way, Ryan was certainly amused at the thought. Star Trek didn't exactly spur Yelina's creative senses or passionate heart.

"Hey Arch! Have you got those dispatch recordings ready yet?" called a voice from down the hall. The four turned to see who was speaking; it was Catherine, peering from the corner. She gave them all a friendly wave from before pointing to Archie and indicating for him to follow her. Archie sighed and Sara patted his shoulder encouragingly. Ryan's genuine sympathies went out to him; it seemed as if Archie was pulling several shifts in succession with little time to sleep.

"Well," he said, evidently unenthused about the task at hand, "Duty calls. It was nice to meet you, Ryan."

"Same to you. Maybe you can teach Yelina to say 'Ryan deserves a promotion' tonight."

"And then after that, you can coach her in saying 'Ryan is delusional,'" Calleigh suggested. Ryan couldn't help but laugh at that; Calleigh shot him a teasing smile while Archie nodded in agreement.

"I'll see what my amazing abilities of persuasion can do. See you guys later," he promised. Calleigh and Sara chorused their farewells as he turned and began towards his lab.

Calleigh shook her head, apparently charmed. "I like him," she confessed. "Tyler totally needs to learn an alien language."

"Archie's great," Sara concurred. "He really can speak Klingon, you know."

"I wouldn't put it past him," Ryan replied. "Can he even do that 'V' sign that Spock does with his hands?"

"It's a natural reflex for him," Sara confirmed, holding up her left hand and attempting to do Spock's trademark 'live long and prosper' gesture. When she failed three times in a row, she sighed and gave up, surrendering herself to more pressing matters. "So Ryan, I'm sure you didn't track us down for our conversational skills alone. What's the buzz?"

"I wanted to ask what you guys have on Ellie Jenkins's family," Ryan answered. "We're track down her brother. Greg and I are leaving with Captain Brass in a few minutes and I really need to brush up on her background."

"Both of her parents are deceased," the brunette informed. "They died in a car accident four years ago, but she does have a brother named Christopher."

"Aunts? Uncles?" Ryan queried. Sara took a moment, trying to remember, before holding up her index finger, signaling for him to wait. "I'll get you the file on her family," she offered. "Be right back."

Before he could put a word in edgewise, she was off like lightening, vanishing down the foyer. Ryan slowly turned to Calleigh.

"She's an interesting one," he observed. The blonde could only nod, giving him a small smile.

"Just a little dark," she replied. "She's had it pretty tough, but I've never met anyone so dedicated to this job. Anyway, I adore her. She's fabulous."

"Fabulous?"

"Absolutely," Calleigh replied, laughing a little. "I'm glad we're partnered up. Last time we had to travel for a case, it was in the middle of Nebraska. I was assigned a forty year old divorcee who kept trying to feel me up."

Ryan's jaw dropped. "And what? You didn't report him?"

Calleigh shrugged. "One direct hit in the man's sensitive area and he was hands off after that."

Ryan inwardly shuddered. "Ouch."

"He seemed to agree. So tell me, Mister Wolfe, what's driving you to look up the vic's brother?"

"A witness said a man who looked a lot like Ellie made a big scene the night she got on the plane. I'm hoping it was family resemblance."

"Siblings have similar features," she agreed. "Did he buy a ticket?"

"Yeah. This might be the break we need."

"That would be great," Calleigh said, noticeably enthusiastic about the possibility. "We've been here almost a week and we're not having much luck. Maybe you can break the case and get that huge promotion you were dreaming about."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "And the weatherman forecasted clouds and a chance of pigs flying, Cal. I don't think so."

"You doubt yourself too much," she commented, shaking her head disapprovingly. "You and Greg are blazing the trail. Hodges even said so."

"Hodg-? Wait, you mean David?"

Calleigh paused a moment. "It's what everyone else calls him. What, does he like being called differently?"

"No, it's not that," Ryan replied, slightly startled by the news. "I just wasn't aware he thought we were any good."

"Sara tells me that it takes a wild boar to beat a compliment out of him, so you should feel like walking on water. Your talents are obviously coming through to people."

As she spoke, her gaze fell over Ryan's shoulder, her eye trained on something behind him. He followed her line of sight until he saw Sara and Greg laughing over a joke between them, a file in Sara's hand as they both moved towards the two Floridians.

"And by the way," Calleigh whispered, making sure to keep her voice low so they couldn't hear her following words. "I see the way Greg looks at you. I'm completely jealous."

Ryan felt the tips of his ears burn, but before he could open his mouth to rebuke anything, Sara and Greg had found them. "What's so funny?" the blonde questioned, ignoring Ryan's obvious embarrassment and addressing the two cases of giggles before her.

"Oh, nothing. I found Greg making a paper crane out of Griss's crossword puzzle again. Obviously, he has some sort of death wish," Sara replied, shaking her head at the other man's antics.

"Crossword puzzles?" Ryan inquired, out of the loop in regards to the inside joke.

"Don't worry your pretty little head over it," Greg retorted, giving him a grin. "It's just my neck on the line."

Ryan would have investigated further on Greg's odds of dying, but time was pressing him towards a more vital appointment.

"We're supposed to meet with Captain Brass in about five minutes," Ryan informed, glancing at his watch, making sure there was no way he could run late. "Want to head on out?"

He glanced back at Greg, who was looking expectedly at Sara. Sara, in response, crossed her arms and raised her left brow. "Well?" she asked. "Aren't you going to answer the man?"

Greg's eyes flew open and he quickly turned to Ryan. "We? Both of us? Really?" Greg asked. If possible, Ryan was certain the other man's ears would have literally perked up.

"Yeah. Christopher Jenkins, the brother? We're taking him in."

"We?"

Ryan gave him a strange look. "I thought I just said that."

"You did, but we. Us. As in two or more people. Who's going to man trace?"

"I asked David. He said he'd handle it until we got back."

"What, Hodges said yes? Why didn't he say yes to me when I asked? Where's the tech bond? The brotherhood?"

"I have this suspicion that he just doesn't like you."

Greg gave him puppy-dog eyes. "Who can resist this face, lover?"

Ryan flushed a deep red as Calleigh gave an un-ladylike snort of laughter; Sara merely gave a polite cough. This was obviously news to her, but she quickly sent Ryan a thumbs-up of support.

Greg went on as if the two women weren't even present. "And anyway, why say yes to you when he knows me better?"

"Because I don't get on his nerves?"

Greg paused a moment. "Oh. Is that the problem we've been having all these years? Am I annoying to him?"

"That's a question you might want to save for him personally."

They began down the hall, Ryan having graciously taken the family file to be reviewed on the drive over to Christopher Jenkins's place of residence. Sara and Calleigh watched them go, noting the absence of space between the two men. They were unconsciously close together, Greg making Ryan laugh despite the dark circumstances.

…

"Don't tell me I'm stuck with you, Sanders," Jim Brass muttered as he watched Ryan and Greg approaching him in the parking lot, dusk falling around the city and the moon emerging from the clouds. Although Las Vegas (like many other cities) never slept, the crime lab was alight with activity and brilliance when most of the Western Hemisphere was curling up to get some shut-eye. In a bizarre way, the CSIs who worked the graveyard shift lived completely different lives than those who walked the more beaten career paths. What they saw and experienced each night were things most others wouldn't dream of doing even once in their lifetime. And somehow, amazing people like Greg Sanders managed to keep their spirits up and humor about them.

Greg shot a quizzical look Ryan's direction when he heard Jim speak. "Okay, it's one thing for Hodges to think I'm annoying, but what's the deal?"

Ryan only laughed and shook his head at Greg's playfully exasperated tone. How did anyone think Greg was bothersome? Sure, he played loud music and lived with a unique personality, but it was part of him. The only thing Ryan would change was Greg's unhealthy habit of letting food sit in the refrigerator, allowing it to ferment over a decade's time.

"So this is the detective we're going to be working with?" Ryan asked rather uncertainly as they drew closer to the stern looking man. It wasn't that Jim Brass seemed cold by any means; he just seemed… serious. Which, Ryan knew, was a good thing. Frank Tripp in Miami had no idea what science gadget Horatio was going to pull out next, but you better believe he was going to arrest the guilty party when said science gadget uncovered the evidence. Jim Brass had a similar persona –maybe it was the same for all detectives- and Ryan knew that they were in capable hands.

"Jim? He's great. Underneath that rough exterior lies a sweet, fuzzy guy that secretly adopts puppies off the street. You'll love him," Greg whispered in reply.

The mental image of Captain Brass surrounded by cute puppies now haunting him, Ryan advanced with what he hoped was a solemn expression. He took a deep breath before sending the man a confident smile and sticking out his hand. "Ryan Wolfe, Miami. Pleasure to meet you."

"Jim Brass, likewise. I see you drew the short straw this time around," he began, walking to the driver's side of the car, his tone one of pure conversational observation.

"Sir?" Ryan asked uncertainly.

Brass made a motion over to Greg with a tilt of his head. "You're partnered with Sanders. He's gotta have you drinking by now."

"Now Jimmy, that just isn't fair," Greg replied, giving him a mock-pout. "I didn't have you drinking until two weeks after we began working together."

Ryan grinned as he buckled up in the passenger seat, Greg having chosen to sprawl out in the back.

"He's not that bad," Ryan answered. "The worst part's the music. Ever heard Alien Ant Farm on surround sound?"

"The question is whether I've heard Alien Ant Farm at all," Jim replied. "And luckily, I haven't."

"'Luckily' being the operative word."

"Are you both going to conspire against me now?" Greg asked, fake distress tinting his voice. "I happen to be very fair when we have our radio station battle."

"That's true," Ryan agreed. "Sometimes he lets me listen to whatever I want."

"And what horrid music style do you torment him with?" Jim asked, an amused smile playing on his lips as they navigated out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

There was another patrol car escorting the Captain and two CSIs; they trailed behind them, following intently. Two armed officers were prepared for whatever may be waiting at their destination, be it a safe false alarm or death defying shoot out. Ryan glanced into his rearview mirror, observing the car and the two faceless officers who were inside. He used to be one of them; there was always a quick fix to be slapped onto any situation. That seemed like such a long time ago. What if he hadn't decided to make that jump and become a CSI? He certainly would have never met Greg.

He grinned, returning to the conversation and trying to let his overactive thoughts fade away. "The Cure. Good musicians for the eighties, but more depressing than a dead tree in the middle of winter."

Greg let out a horrified groan from the back seat. "It's terrible, Jimmy. He knows I can only handle so much of it before I want to tear out the stereo system all together."

"So let me get this straight," Jim began, giving Ryan a look of praise. "You like to torment Sanders?"

"It's the reason I get up every morning," Ryan replied.

"Then you and I are going to get along just fine."

Ryan had to laugh at this before realizing that all the nervous energy he had before their plane ever touched down in Las Vegas had all but disappeared. He was, believe it or not, actually fitting in.

"So what's in the file?" Jim asked, glancing over to the manila envelope in Ryan's hands. "Anything interesting?"

Ryan quickly flipped it open. "Miranda and Thomas were the parents," he replied, scanning photos and information for more to work with. "They only had two kids. Grandparents are deceased, no aunts or uncles that live here in Las Vegas and no immediate family to speak of."

"So what, the kids grow up in an orphanage?"

"No, it looks like they died when Ellie was seventeen and Christopher was nineteen. They lived on their own after that."

"Where'd they stay?"

"A trailer park, I think. Looks like Ellie got her feet on the ground and started working. Maybe she didn't want to live with her brother anymore."

"Yeah, but she got a job at a club as a dancer," Jim replied, a tinge of doubt coloring his voice. "Wasn't she too young?"

"According to this," Ryan replied, "She was exactly twenty one. She'd been working at a book shop until then."

"Barely scraping the legal age limit," Jim muttered. "Why can't she just get a job at a fast food joint?"

"Jimmy, she got a job as a showgirl, not a stripper," Greg quickly replied. "And even if she was, being a stripper isn't a license to get killed."

There was a pause in the conversation before Jim muttered, "I really wish you'd stop calling my 'Jimmy', Sanders."

They discussed possible theories as they drove on, both Greg and Ryan feeling free to express their theories without fear of looking stupid in front of those who knew better. Jim was a laid back kind of guy, taking things as they came. Ryan had the impression that the man had been around the block more the once and had seen and heard it all.

Twenty minutes later, they had passed the scarier part of town and drove into an area of trailer parks, all sprawled out and in no "neighborhood" form to speak of. Ryan watched as blinds were peeked through, those who resided in the trailers curious but unfazed as two patrol cars zigzagged through their park. Bits of chain link fence separated the homes; they didn't completely square them all off, but there was enough of a barrier to tell which piece of property belonged to who. There were various broken down vehicles littering the yards, such as they were. There were free roaming pets and children playing on beaten down toys and plastic slides. Frankly, it was the ideal "trailer trash" scenario, although Ryan refrained from labeling it as such. Trash came in every step of the American hierarchy; just because you lived in a rough neighborhood didn't mean you were trash and just because you could afford Armani suits didn't mean you weren't.

Finally, after a short drive onward, Jim stopped in front of a trailer just on the outskirts of the community. Looking through the windows of one side of the trailer and one could see neighbors and parts of the city; the other side revealed nothing but miles of merciless desert.

"Pretty abandoned looking for a guy who's supposed to be living here," Jim muttered as he, Greg and Ryan emerged from the vehicle. There was a little frown on Jim's face, as if he had been through this countless times before and knew exactly what was going to go down. Even with a rundown truck parked in front of the residence, it still looked uninhabited. Had Ellie's brother made a run for it? Ryan's blood coursed. The brother wouldn't run unless he had something to hide. Why hadn't they picked up on this before?

Jim was slowly withdrawing his weapon. He motioned for the two patrol officers to do the same before glancing to Greg and Ryan, silently ordering them to wait until they were in the clear. Greg and Ryan exchanged anxious glances but consented; they knew there was something wrong as well.

The three armed men warily approached the house before one quickly jogged to the other side, making sure their suspect couldn't slither through the back exit.

Jim knocked forcefully on the door. "Christopher Jenkins, this is the LVPD. Open up."

At the lack of action from inside the house (no voice, no compliance, no life of any sort) ten seconds later, Jim knocked once more, visibly tense. "Christopher Jenkins, LVPD! I would advise you to open this door or it'll be opened by force!"

When no response came, Jim nodded to the officer next to him and they proceeded to kick the door open, leaving it looking tattered and busted. Ryan held his breath, edginess washing over him. He had kicked in enough doors in his time to know that it was rarely a good sign, especially when an uncooperative witness was holed up inside. Beside him, he could feel Greg hold his breath, his knuckles white around the handle of his field kit.

On the upside, there was no arguing or gunfire from inside the house, which meant zero struggle. On the downside, there was no noise at all, which equaled zero confirmation that the scene was clear.

A fleeting moment passed that felt more like an hour. They both stood silently, Greg leaning on the car, his breathing even, like a human clock that told time in a manner foreign to time itself. Another moment, another breath, a continuous pattern. But a movement disrupted the pattern; Ryan sucked in a quick breath as he saw a man fall from the ceiling right in front of the doorway, obviously having hid in an attic of some sort. Ryan watched as he shot out the front door, a pale blur to the human eye.

When the man caught sight of the two CSIs, he glanced uncertainly from Greg to Ryan before shooting off to the right, obviously having made his silent decision. Not even a millisecond of uncertainty passed before Ryan dropped his field kit and began furiously after him.

He could hear Greg's panicked, "RYAN! WAIT!" but quickly left the range of earshot, his eyes trained on the fleeing character before him. His CSI tendencies quickly kicked in despite the circumstances: male, white, average height and build, dark hair, pale skin, wearing black from collar to sneaker.

He didn't try and get the man's attention by yelling; it would have been a waste of precious breath. Instead, he concentrated on not losing sight of him and not tripping in his frantic scurry to keep up.

The man assumed to be Christopher Jenkins paused at the corner of the sidewalk, looking around frantically and trying to deduce the best way to shake off his pursuer before he decided to make a sharp left, Ryan not missing a beat and quickly following behind, his breath beginning to hitch and his chest tightening. He couldn't let him out of his sight.

They would never find him if he did.

The trailer park domain was quickly becoming part of the battered downtown area, where dark, ominous alleys were of the norm and litter was strewn across abused sidewalks. The buildings were mainly abandoned; those that weren't were crack houses and gang hangouts. Only the bravest or stupidest walked these streets, even in the middle of the day. To be running through said sidewalks donning a police vest was like painting a red bulls-eye on his chest before proclaiming 'Come and get me!' in the middle of the street; in other words, he was either very brave or very stupid. It was quite possible that he was both.

Christopher continued his wild spur forward, Ryan hot on his heels. A few potheads taking a smoke sat lazily on crumbling steps of the buildings and watched with half interest, as if the scene was an everyday occurrence. Ryan tried to see ahead, where Christopher might turn next. It was a four-way intersection.

Christopher, unlike last time, didn't pause to see where he would turn next. He took another sharp left and continued on, obviously loosing the adrenaline, not that Ryan was a ball of energy either. However, this didn't deter him. Ryan gathered strength from every muscle he had and kept up his rapid pace, hoping to gain at least some ground before any other measure was taken.

"Christopher Jenkins! LVPD!" he yelled over the rush of air passing his ears. Unable to think of anything more complex or even intimidating at the moment, he finished the bellowed introduction with an unintentionally desperate, "Stop running!" The man heard and, obviously spurred by this reminder, made his body increase its speed. Ryan forced his body to do the same.

They were swiftly approaching an underprivileged but less seedier part of town, successfully gathering bewildered and sometimes frightened stares from those they forced off the sidewalk. An increased number of people was a double edged sword; Christopher could be slowed by the surplus of pedestrians, but Ryan could as well. He didn't allow his eyes to leave the white skull stitched on the back of Christopher's hoody.

The longer they ran, the longer the city blocks became. By then, Ryan was gasping for breath, trying desperately not to slow. Runrunrunrunrunrun. It was his mantra and he was sticking to it; whether it would be the death of him or not was still up for debate.

It was at that moment that a young mother and her toddler stepped out of a small thrift store. The mother turned to close the door behind her and by the time they reached the bottom of the sidewalk, it was too late to escape the furiously treaded paths of a criminal and a criminalist.

Christopher, unable to stop himself in time, bowled the young mother over, the two of them becoming a tangle of limbs on the concrete. If this wasn't a miracle then it was something close to it and Ryan used his last extra burst of strength to catch up before Christopher could scramble to his feet and continue on.

Christopher was already rising from his crash, trying to make a break for it, when Ryan finally reached out, grabbed his hoody, and restrained him from moving any further. He clutched the fabric between his fingers, not letting go. Christopher, in a rage, turned and threw a wild punch in the general vicinity of where Ryan stood, but the CSI had seen it coming and took a small duck from harms way. What he had not seen coming, however, was the immediate deploy of Christopher's second fist that went straight to his gut, knocking the air right out of him.

Ryan felt himself grow sick as he tumbled to the ground; Christopher was turning, beginning to run…

No. No way. No way was Ryan chasing after him again. Ryan felt himself rise once more, his body trembling but he absolutely couldn't let him get away for a second time. All of his energy was gone and he felt like stone, even as he was moving. Christopher was turning the corner and-

Ryan watched in a dazed awe as Greg bolted from behind the corner and basically tackled him back to the ground. He was a little awkward at it, but was visibly taking the precautions, making sure that there was no way their culprit could press charges for unnecessary force. A tussle began between Greg and their intended target. Where had Greg come from? The Floridian wasn't sure, but God, what a beautiful sight to behold; no more running madly after a man who was, admittedly, a bit faster that that of his pursuer.

Ryan's days on the patrol were swiftly kicking in. He quickly moved forward, grabbing the back of Christopher's wrists and hauling the protesting man to his feet. He pushed the man face first against a brick wall of a deserted building.

Greg pulled out his cell phone, shooting Christopher a dark look, his breathing violent and harsh. It took only a second before Brass picked up on the other line.

"Hey Brass, it's Greg. We're on Spring Canyon and Spanish Gate. Yeah, we got him. We're fine. Okay, sure. Two streets down? Awesome."

Greg flipped his phone shut and staggered over to the two, giving Christopher an evil stare. "So when he said," Greg began, panting for much-needed oxygen and leaning on the wall to hold his worn-out body, "'Stop running', what part of that did you misinterpret for 'go faster'?"

Christopher looked as if he wanted to speak, but didn't have the breath to do so. Instead, he twitched violently, trying to squirm out of Ryan's grasp.

Greg ignored him and drifted over to the mother and her child, both of which were still numbly sprawled out on the ground. He stuck out his hand and the woman clutched onto it, unsteadily standing before bending to pick up her sobbing toddler. She gave both CSIs a look as if perhaps they were crazy before turning and running off in the opposite direction.

Greg watched as she did so before turning to his partner. "Wise woman," he observed. "She's getting the hell outta Dodge."

Ryan's oxygen deprived mind could only ask (despite wondering if Greg had picked up the "outta Dodge" phrase from Nick), "How did you know where we were?"

"As a long-time resident of Las Vegas, I've learned my way around. I ran with you for a while because I could see you through the chain link fence. But when you got to the buildings, I lost sight. I saw our man of the hour make a left, so I took some back alleyways and waited at the corner. I could tell from the screams of the old ladies you pushed out of the way that you were still coming this direction."

"Very CSI-ish of you."

"I like to think I learned from the best."

Ryan raised an eyebrow, his hold still tight around his suspect. "Oh? And who might that be?"

"Well, besides Grissom, Nick, Warrick, Catherine, and Sara-''

"Cute, Greg. Very cute."

Greg grinned, ignoring the filthy swears Christopher was shelling his way. "Well, I wasn't going to let you chase after him alone. Unfortunately, I think I ruined my new pair of shoes in someone's puddle of puke in one of those alleys. It just goes to show that I can be fashionable or employable, but not both."

"We'll buy a new pair. Maybe next time you shouldn't bring stuff you love to work with you, though."

"Then you're staying home."

Ryan felt himself turn a distinct shade of pink just as Jim drove up to the scene.

…

"So. Christopher Jenkins, is it?"

Jim Brass's voice carried off the walls calmly as a twenty-six year old man sat across from him.

"Yes."

Christopher's voice was cold and clipped. He shot Jim, Gil, and Horatio a dark look.

"You're Ellie Jenkins's brother, correct?"

"Yes."

"And when's the last time you saw her?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Of course you do. Think back," Jim replied. Horatio and Gil were silent on either side of him, observing closely. Christopher set his jaw firmly.

"I don't remember. A week ago?"

"Very good. You get a gold star," Jim replied sardonically. "Eight days ago, where were you?"

"Working."

"Chris, we're going contact your boss and ask if you were working that day. When they say no, you'll be in some deep shit. If, in the rare instance they say yes, we're going to form a timeline and you'll still be in deep shit. Save us the time, would you?" Jim snapped, throwing down a file impatiently. "Ellie, your sister. Did you see her eight days ago or not?"

Christopher shrugged nonchalantly. "Probably. Don't know."

"Okay, let's try this another way," Gil interjected. "You say you saw her a week ago. Was she planning a trip?"

The man opposite of them shrugged again. "Don't know."

"If you weren't aware that she was planning to leave, did you realize after a few days that she was missing?"

"I guess."

"Why didn't you report it?" Horatio asked, looking placidly over to their suspect.

"Didn't care."

"She was your sister, dumb ass. Why the hell didn't you care?" Jim asked, scowling over the table.

"She was a fag. Didn't know where she was, didn't care what happened to her. When she came out of the closet, I kicked her to the curb."

"I'm sure that was a huge loss on her part," he viciously replied. Christopher rolled his eyes.

"Look man, you don't scare me. I know my rights."

"Wow. You're a smart guy then, aren't you? If you know your rights, then you oughta know the law. Just so we understand each other, killing people is against the law."

"Whatever. Can I go now?"

"Sure," Horatio replied, closing the open file in front of him and leaning back into his chair, draping his right foot over his left knee, completely composed. "An officer can escort you to a jail cell."

"What the hell?" Christopher asked, slamming his palms against the table angrily. "Why?"

"Reckless endangerment? Evading an officer? Kid, that's just for starters," Jim supplied. "And we're going to need a DNA sample. Are you going to make this difficult too?"

"Will it piss you off?" he snapped, sending a loathing look their way.

"On he contrary," Horatio calmly replied. "We thrive on complications."

"Makes the job more interesting," Gil continued, opening a silver kit and taking out a long, white swab. "Now say 'ah'."

Christopher looked as if he wanted to argue, but knew that they were going to get some of his DNA no matter how much he protested. He opened his mouth, revealing straight, white teeth. Before their untimely deaths, his parents had obviously cared enough for him to give him braces and the best of what they could afford.

Gil swabbed the side of Christopher's mouth before pausing a moment, Christopher's hoody having fallen around his neck. The skin showing was marred with black ink. Grissom stopped a moment to observe it. "Is this a tattoo of the swastika?" he asked, his voice the epitome of conversational etiquette.

"Yeah. Got it when I was nineteen," the teenager replied, almost as if he was proud of the mark that now branded him.

"Did you know the swastika was designed about sixth century B.C? The Hindus said in brought luck, represented the sun and reincarnation. The Indians used it, Asians, entire European cultures." He gave Christopher a steady look. "But that's not what you intended it to mean when you got this tattoo, did you?"

The man gave him a grin, clearly indicating his answer; still, he didn't confirm Grissom's theory. "What's it to you?"

"It's nothing to us," Gil replied simply. "Only that you proudly wear the Nazi symbol. I suppose you know the history behind the movement and what they did during the Second World War?"

"Absolutely."

"They killed and tortured millions of innocent people."

"They made it stand for something worthwhile."

Ryan and Greg stood behind the mirror, watching the interview with rapture. Greg was glaring at him, as if hoping his withering stare might somehow penetrate the glass and strike Christopher where he was sitting. Ryan, on the other hand, was calmer but no less upset.

It seemed clear that their suspect wasn't going to give anymore information that evening; rare were the suspects that spilled the beans before getting their estimated prison sentence first. Ryan's entire body ached and Greg didn't look as if he was faring any better.

"It's been a long day," Greg finally whispered, his hand ghosting across Ryan's. "Let's go home. What do you say?"

Ryan gave him a small smile. Greg was unconsciously using the term "home" and it sounded so incredibly right. "I say that sounds great."

They were exiting the small room together when a voice stopped them mid-trek; it was Jim, talking with Horatio and Gil as two officers took Christopher away.

"Let me tell you, Gil, you should've seen them. Wolfe was running like a fire was after him."

Horatio turned from his two companions to observe the subjects of Jim's recollection. There was a small smile on his face as his blue eyes swept over Ryan and Greg from a few feet away.

"I hear you two ran down our prime suspect. I wanted to congratulate you."

Ryan cleared his throat, uncomfortable at the attention his three superiors were giving him. He took a self-conscious look around, making sure that no one was watching or listening in. "Yes sir," he confirmed, hoping to end the conversation as soon as possible. "It was…"

"Exhausting. I've sworn off junk food for at least the next three days, or until Catherine brings in a box of Krispy Kreams, whichever comes first," Greg finished. Ryan couldn't help but relax at the enthusiastic voice of Greg and his ability to feel at home with just about anyone.

"Horatio," Ryan began, unable to stop his small laugh, "Have you met Greg?"

Greg stuck out his hand enthusiastically. "Greg Sanders, CSI level one. Ryan's told me a whole bunch about you."

"Really?" Horatio questioned, shaking the offered hand politely. "Anything scandalous?"

Greg let out a mock sigh of disappointment. "I've tried to get some juicy stuff, but he won't budge. He says if I'm feeling particularly suicidal, I can try and steal your sunglasses, but I figured you seem like a nice enough guy. I'll save my tormenting resources for someone more deserving."

"Speaking of suicidal," Gil interrupted, "Where's my crossword puzzle?" He shot Greg a suspicious look. "Did you make another of those paper cranes again?"

Greg paused a moment before exchanging a look with Ryan. The blonde man spoke quickly. "You know what? I think I hear Hodges calling me. Something about fingernail scrapings."

Ryan looked thoughtful. "I think he's asking if you'd like to say any final words. Hey, if you start running now, I bet your boss won't catch you until… oh, I'd say the parking lot."

"Which is where I'll meet you in about five minutes," Greg replied quickly, giving his boss a nervous look. Although Ryan still didn't understand the entire paper crane issue, he had to admit that he found it amusing.

"Greg," Gil began, a hint of warning to his voice. "How many times have I told you that you can fold up any page you want except the crossword puzzle?"

"Too many to count, sir."

"And?"

"And I suddenly remember seeing a paper crane on the top of the snack machine."

"Of course you did. Now run before I start making paper cranes out of your termination slip."

"He seems nice," observed Horatio as the other man scampered down the hallway, in search of an ornately folded crossword puzzle. Grissom gave Horatio and Ryan a polite nod before slowly following the Californian. "You two seem to get along well together," the red head finished, turning his attention back to Ryan.

Ryan felt a telltale blush beginning to rise from his neck. "We do. He's definitely…"

"Exuberant?"

"That's one word you could use," Ryan replied, fighting his natural tendency to look down at his shoes while he spoke.

"No one here seems shy about your chase today, either. I'm getting details from everyone in the lab."

"And they probably got the particulars from Greg. If it weren't for him, I would have lost the suspect."

"Then it's good you're working together. He's seems to admire you."

"Oh, really?" Ryan asked, clearly surprised by the observation. "He's a level one, just like me. I can't say I have a lot to teach him about the field."

"I wasn't talking about your jobs, Ryan," Horatio replied, blue eyes meeting brown. "You two just be careful."

Ryan stood as still as stone, his heart hitting the floor. How did Horatio know? They were being as discreet as possible! Eric and Calleigh certainly wouldn't have spilled their secret to anyone. Still, he met Horatio's eyes, unwavering. He had the distinct feeling that if Greg ever discovered the other people knew about their relationship, he wouldn't shrink away. He'd give them a big grin and a cheeky remark. He'd confirm it right off the bat. In other words, he would be proud. Ryan took a deep breath. He certainly wasn't going to abuse this relationship by trying to deny its existence; besides, Horatio would never break confidence. Their secret was safe.

"How did you-?"

Horatio gave him a smile before following what sounded to be a desperate struggle for a crossword-paper crane down the hallway. It became apparent that Horatio wasn't going to tell him verbally, but Ryan had the distinct feeling that anyone who wasn't blind could see what was happening between him and Greg.

…

Ryan found Greg leaning against his car, the Las Vegas sun beginning to peak over the horizon, coloring the sky with orange and pink. Ryan could hear the daily bustle of the city sounding off; a business man's sedan, the jingle of keys, horns honking, voices emerging to become part of the morning. They were all waking and there was a collective need for caffeine throughout the Western Hemisphere. However, as most of the city woke, Ryan and the rest of the graveyard shift were feeling the pull of a hard night's work. They were fully prepared to turn in.

Greg was looking out to the street, observing the morning rush. The orange light of the sun made him illuminate somehow, washing him with a glow that forced him to stand out among the gray pavement and every day scenery. Ryan stopped ten feet away, Greg unaware of his presence. Ryan wanted to take the moment and admire the man he was falling dangerously in love with. Greg was so beautiful, so bright: what made him want to choose Ryan over so many worthier candidates?

Greg continued to look out onto the city before feeling the watchful eyes of another. He turned and smiled at his observer.

"Hey handsome," he said as Ryan walked over, having guiltily been caught. "Ready to go?"

Ryan sighed. As tempting as it was to simply jump into Greg's car and drive off into the sunrise, he desperately needed to get some of his own clothes. He had narrowly avoided doom when David noticed he had been wearing Greg's shirt, but he wasn't sure how someone else might respond if they caught wind of their relationship. "Actually, I need to get some stuff from my hotel room. I'll meet you at your place in half an hour?"

Greg let out a dramatic groan while he slowly wrapped his arms around Ryan's waist, as if considering Ryan's half-an-hour deal. "I think I can manage to wait that long, but it's going to be difficult on me. And you'd better not be a minute late either," he warned, taking the sting out of his words by bending and catching a kiss.

"I'll get there as soon as I can," he promised. "We'll even try to cook."

"Cook?"

"Yeah, you know food and fire and pans? It's all part of it."

"I'm sure someone, somewhere, thinks you're hilarious."

Ryan grinned as he gently pried Greg's hands away from him, taking an admittedly unconscious but swift look around to see if anyone was watching.

"Closeted?"

Ryan turned back at Greg's frank question, slightly alarmed. "What?" he asked, immediately understanding the question and reluctant to answer it.

Greg gave him a smile, quickly shoving his hands in his pockets, giving Ryan the space he silently wanted. "No public displays of affection, right?"

An emotion that could only be known as guilt welled up inside the Floridian. He certainly wasn't winning the gold medal for the "Most Sensitive Boyfriend of the Year" category. He gave Greg an apologetic look.

"No. Cal, Eric and Horatio know. It's just weird, I guess. You're my first…"

He stopped himself. What was Greg, exactly? A short-term boyfriend? A friend with benefits? Ryan hated that. Friend with benefits. When they kissed, there was always something more than just sex involved.

Greg seemed to be asking the same question. He looked up at Ryan uncertainly before giving him a crooked smile, traces of curiosity and slight confusion around his lips.

"I'm your first male partner, right?"

"Technically," the other man admitted, somewhat sheepishly.

"All right then. And don't sweat about the public affection thing. It's not a big deal."

Ryan sighed before giving Greg a quick kiss. "You're a lot more than just a first male partner," he whispered, unable to stop his hand from brushing Greg's cheek gently. "I'll see you in a little while, okay?"

Greg nodded. "You'd better or I'll be forced to hunt you down," he threatened (although the childish grin on his face took the seriousness right out of his words) before hopping in his car. He gave Ryan a silly wave through the window and drove off, leaving Ryan in the parking lot. With a somewhat inane smile on his face, Ryan quickly hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address to the hotel.

The drive was uneventful, giving him an unsettling amount of time to consider how crazy his life had become in a mere seven days. The case was beginning to gain a little momentum and his relationship with Greg was ideal so far. However, Ryan's natural tendency to peer deep into the future was starting to make itself known. When the case was closed, where would they go from there? How would they say goodbye? Would Greg give him a wave and then head on home, forgetting this ever happened? In the back of his mind, Ryan wondered what it would be like to live in the famous city of Las Vegas with the younger man on a more permanent basis. But would Greg want such a serious commitment? It seemed as if he would; he hadn't shown any signs that clashed with the notion. Still, there was no way Ryan could leave Miami. He couldn't abandon his uncle and friends. He silently watched as the cab raced by the bright scenery and towards the hotel.

He paid his fare and trudged up the steps. The idea of never seeing Greg again was having a serious effect on his psyche. He needed to get with the program. He could be unattached, couldn't he? He didn't have to put his heart into everything. There was no obligation here, no promises. Just because Greg was the most meaningful partner he could ever remember having, did that mean he was in love? Or was it just lust? Or was it the heat of the moment?

Ryan frowned as he punched his floor number in the elevator. A lot of people flew cross-country on business trips or vacations and had a meaningless fling while they were there; a shared hotel room with someone they met in a bar. Why couldn't he do the same? What made this so different? He was knowingly growing too attached, willingly falling into the inevitable snares of utter heartbreak. He could handle it if Greg could, right? Surely Greg couldn't silently be sharing these thoughts.

He felt his heart hit his stomach as he jammed his key card into his now-useless hotel room door lock.

"Oh my God, there's a complete stranger in my room," a voice said lightly, jarring Ryan from his reflections. He looked up to see Eric splayed across the couch, his nose having been stuck in a book, a terrible looking novel that appeared to have been recently purchased at the gift shop downstairs. "You remind me of someone I knew a long time ago. If memory serves, I think his name was Ryan Wolfe."

"Ha ha," Ryan retorted as he closed the door behind him. "I'm dropping by to get some clothes and soap and… well, everything," he finished, a small blush now gracing his face. It was pretty obvious that his residence would no longer be room 435.

"What, Greg doesn't have some shampoo you can borrow?"

"I figured we're skating thin ice when I wear his clothes, so smelling like him won't exactly help my case."

"Ah, the cautious CSI."

"When have you known me not to be cautious?" Ryan asked as he wandered into the adjoining bedroom to begin searching for his belongings. Eric followed him and flopped onto the edge of a bed while Ryan started emptying the closet of his clothes and folding them neatly, storing them carefully in his suitcase.

"Point taken. I'm just glad you and Greg are so star-crossed that hotel rooms have become unnecessary. And by star-crossed I meant minus the poison and doomed ending."

"If that doesn't fill me with confidence, I don't know what does," Ryan replied, rolling his eyes at Eric's grin. "And anyway, I haven't seen you in a while. I wanted to come by see how low you've sunk without my constant presence."

"And here I thought you saved your bull for work hours only."

Ryan turned to the Cuban, a smart remark on the tip of his tongue, but decided to be the bigger of the two and overlook the beginnings of a wit battle. However, he couldn't stop his grin. The 'how low you've sunk' comment was rather ridiculous; in fact, it reminded him of something Greg would say. "What I'm trying to ask is how you're getting along with the case," he continued, turning back to his previous task of packing.

"We printed every surface of the club that we could possibly reach if that's what you want to know. Office, dressing room, around the stage. I'm sure whatever poor sap's in charge of the lab budget is having a cow."

"Oh, so you and Nick worked out whatever was going on between you two?"

Ryan went on with his job of folding, waiting patiently for the reply. When it finally came, however, it was a strained and somewhat transparent "Yeah, we're fine." At the tone of voice, the younger man turned to see Eric's eyes had become hard and his face troubled. The cheerful banter that had been flowing between them disappeared in favor of a tense silence.

"Eric, is everything okay?" he asked slowly, unable to interpret the look on Eric's face. The Cuban quickly tried to abate Ryan's concerns, but his smile was forced, as if he was trying to hide something from view. He nodded.

"Just stressed out with work. Like I said, tons of prints and all those club employees to deal with."

Ryan paused a moment before setting his belongings down on the closet shelf, his full attention now directed at Eric. His friend's excuse was nothing more than a way to change the subject, but Ryan wasn't buying it.

"Work? What parts of it?"

Eric shrugged nonchalantly. "Just the usual, but you'd better get going or Greg'll be calling soon."

"Eric, don't lie to me. What's going on?"

"Nothing, I swear."

"Eric-''

"Ryan, drop it," Eric snapped, his body rigid and his tone going cold. He rose from his seat and walked back to the television room, as if trying to escape the discussion altogether. "It's nothing for you to worry about, okay?"

"You said it was work. What happened?" Ryan asked, following his friend anxiously. Despite Eric's wishes, there was no way he was going to abandon the issue.

"Greg's going to be expecting you," Eric said, trying to gain as much leverage as he could. Ryan was persistent when he wanted to be, only because he was such a faithful friend, wanting to make sure those around him were happy. He knew when something needed to be addressed; the problem was that Eric didn't want to address anything. He didn't even want to think about it.

"He'll call if he starts to worry," Ryan countered, rapidly gaining the upper hand. Eric knew there was no way he was going to win unless he was suddenly struck with a dose of great lying skills; Ryan was too determined and genuinely concerned.

Eric finally found his space back on the couch, his novel shoved under a spare pillow. Ryan took the space next to him, his mind now concentrating on one thing: the best friend he'd completely forgotten about. In between the case and his own clumsy war of emotions, he had totally overlooked Eric's situation. At the other man's doubtful silence, Ryan leaned forward. "I'm your best friend. Please tell me."

Eric unconsciously tapped his fingers on the armrest next to him. "It's stupid," he finally muttered, not looking Ryan's direction and training his eyes on the open window across the room instead.

"If it is, I'll be sure to tell you."

"Fine. But I swear to God, if you tell Cal, I'll hunt you down and string you from a cactus or something."

"And you'll have every right."

Eric sighed and closed his eyes. He had no choice but to speak. "Okay, here's the thing. I messed up."

"Messed up? What, the case? Did you contaminate evidence? Because I'm sure Horati-"

"It doesn't have anything to do with evidence," Eric interrupted, successfully soothing the bout of worry that was beginning to form over Ryan's head. "I messed up with Nick. I freaked out and now it's weird."

"Whoa, whoa," the younger man said, his eyes growing large. Sure, he had suspected that maybe Nick and Eric flirted a bit, but how far had they gone without Ryan knowing? "Details. Spill."

"Yesterday, after we were chased down, we…" At this moment, he paused, true embarrassment forbidding him to speak any further. "We- I mean, you've gotta understand that we were stressed and we nearly died, so-''

"As position of best friend, I don't judge, but I can't help you if you're vague about it."

"Wekissed."

"You what?" Ryan demanded, all thoughts now spinning a million miles an hour in his head. Even with Eric's rushed words, there was no mistaking "we" and "kissed".

"I mean, he kissed me, but the point is that it happened and-''

"Wait, so in the heat of the moment, he kissed you. Am I getting this right?"

Eric buried his head in his hands, a humiliated "Yeah" coming from him in response.

"And what, you didn't like it?"

"No, that's the problem."

"So you did like it," Ryan said slowly, trying to clarify all the facts.

"Yeah, I did. Can we move on?"

"But you're a party guy, right? He seems more like a one-significant-other-at-a-time kind of guy."

"So you're saying I can't stick with one person?"

"No, I'm saying here's pretty serious." There was a pause before Ryan spoke again, his voice low. "Do you like him?"

"What's it matter? There's no way it would work. We're half way through the case anyway, or so I've been told. And long-distance never pans out."

"Is that going to stop you?"

"You're gung-ho about this, aren't you? Seeing Greg is making you lose all perspective."

"I have perspective," Ryan argued. "Normally, I would never do this, but Greg's different, just like Nick's different."

"So you're saying I should just hop into bed with him?" Eric asked, rolling his eyes. "You're dreaming."

"That's not what I meant at all," Ryan quickly replied, trying to fight away the flustered, embarrassed flush that was heating his skin. "Greg and I… it's a lot more than-''

"Trust me, I know. I'm sorry," Eric interrupted, giving him a small smile. "I like Nick. A lot. But what happened makes things difficult. I'm not as brave as you and Greg."

"You're the one who told me to go for it."

"I could tell you and Greg were really serious."

"Just like you and Nick. You're not the only one who can pick up on these things, you know," Ryan replied. "But that's beside the point. What did he say?"

It looked as if Eric would have rather been swimming in a pool of crushed glass than speaking about this. At Ryan's insisting silence, Eric sighed and, not meeting the other man's eyes, said, "He even admitted that he was attracted to me last night. And you know what I did? I bailed, Ryan. Totally left him there and now conversations between us are so awkward that Calleigh's picking up on it."

"There's only one remedy for that," Ryan answered, giving Eric a grin. "You have Nick's address. You should at least talk with him and work it out."

"Just show up on his porch unexpected and probably uninvited? You're delirious."

"I like to call it optimism."

"Most others call it insanity."

A silence finally fell between them. Two best friends, both hopelessly displaced and tangled up in webs that they couldn't seem to get out of. Frankly, Ryan didn't want to get untangled. Eric, on the other hand, was fighting for an exit.

"You should go," Ryan whispered. "And this is coming from a guy who never takes chances."

"You took a chance with Greg," Eric argued. Ryan smiled.

"Only because you told me it was worth it and it ended up that you were right. And now we're switching roles and I, who hastens to do anything particularly crazy, am telling you that you'll never know if you don't try."

"I'll never know if I don't try? You're just full of clichés, aren't you?"

"Love is blind. Love conquers all. Love means never having to say you're sorry. Lo-''

"Okay, you've made your point. Now get out of here. I'm sick of you already."

"I was just getting started," Ryan complained, a look of mock disappointment on his face. Eric rolled his eyes.

"Sure you were, lover boy. Now grab yourself a cab and hit the road before Greg starts calling."

"You should be so fortunate."

Eric laughed as Ryan grabbed the rest of his belongings and, abandoning his natural tendency to fold and place things in the correct order, stuffed them in his suitcase before making a break for the elevator.

…

An hour later found Greg and Ryan piled in Greg's bed amongst a kingdom of blankets and pillows, both physically and mentally drained from a long night of work and the extracurricular activities they partook in after hours. Greg's arms tightened around Ryan's waist as he sighed, pleasantly worn out.

Ryan closed his eyes, hoping he could burn this feeling of warmth and comfort into his memory. He knew, after too many hours of debating and arguing with his inner monologue, that there was no possible way this could ever be more than it was: a fleeting love story. However, he had refrained from mentioning his concerns with the man spooned next to him. He could at least enjoy the time he was given without demanding more, right?

In the midst of his thoughtful silence, Greg spoke. "I'm glad you're here," he whispered, his breath hot against Ryan's chest. The dark haired man closed his eyes again. Voice. Warm breath. Memorize this and move on. That was his plan of action when the case inevitably came to a close.

"Me too," Ryan replied, threading his fingers through Greg's.

"Having someone here, especially you," Greg began, his voice soft, "Somehow makes it easier."

"What do you mean?"

"Sometimes I have this dream," the he confessed, his words slow and uncertain. "I can't sleep when I wake up afterwards, but knowing you're here almost makes it painless."

"What kind of dream?" Ryan queried, now curious, his hand idly playing with Greg's blonde hair.

"An explosion," Greg answered. "But not my explosion in the lab. It's somewhere else, in a different place."

Ryan's heart nearly stopped beating. He took in a deep, shaky breath. He didn't want to ask if there was music in the background or yellow crime scene tape that was floating in an ash-heavy wind because that would sound utterly insane. His mouth, like so many times before, had a different plan.

"Is there music playing?"

Greg seemed to stop breathing as well and a moment hung suspended between them. Finally, after searching a minute for his response, he spoke, shifting in order to meet Ryan's eyes. "Yeah," he whispered, giving Ryan a puzzled look. "How did you know?"

Ryan didn't reply, merely hugged Greg closer to him. The question of how this relationship would work was put in the back seat to be blissfully forgotten for a few more precious days.

The fact was that something was brewing on the horizon; it was dark, menacing, the plot of a mad man.

And they were in the middle of it.

***

Act 9: This Place Called Home

My mind without you is dead and cold as the dark midnight river when the moon is down.
-Percy Bysshe Shelley to Mary Godwin, 1814

A receptionist sat down at the welcome desk in the Las Vegas crime lab.

Well, "welcome desk" was nothing more than a courteous term; she was more of a guide for the dozens of people who came in hopelessly lost with no idea as to where they were supposed to go. But she'd been working there for quite a while and knew the lab like the back of her own hand, so she could direct them to the farthest reaches of the building without thinking twice. She was the directory and information specialist. She called security when people started a scene. On the days Greg didn't make the coffee, she would have to bear the brunt and make it herself. It wasn't the actual process of making the coffee that she dreaded; instead, it was having to hear everyone complain when it was anything less than Greg's.

The evening had been the same as it had been for almost a year now, which was a pretty sweet deal when she considered the alternative. After part of the lab exploded, she had sworn off the desire for a more exciting life. The same computer, the same people, the same job; safe, everyday work was a blessing, really. It was secure and it was all she could possibly want.

She set down her cup of coffee. Luckily, Greg hadn't forgotten tonight. Her fingertips brushed against the computer keys as she entered the password for her account. She nodded cheerfully at the same guards, the same CSIs, the same detectives and made sure to keep away from hard subjects like the cases they were working; after all, she was the receptionist and usually offered coffee and a kind word.

The phone rang. She answered it, as was her duty. It was her job to be polite but to the point; she waited for the system to accept her password as the sun began to set beyond the glass doors of the lobby. The tile shined and the walls sparkled, but her foot restlessly tapped against the floor, because something didn't feel right.

The phone rang. She answered. The computer finally logged her in and she pulled up the appropriate databases for quick access.

The phone rang.

"Hello, this is the crime lab. How can I direct your call?"

Pause. Those passing by didn't notice her sudden stillness, the way her lips pursed together, her eyes cold. Everything was normal to everyone else outside the building because they dwelled within lives that were pretty standard, but the Las Vegas crime lab wasn't normal and it certainly didn't live by any standard that she could think of.

"Who is this?" she asked, but a resounding silence was the only answer she received. The caller had immediately hung up once they had finished their speech.

She hung up as well and waited for a moment, allowing for the line to reconnect. She grabbed the handset and dialed with trembling fingers. Her own life was typical most of the time and she was glad for that, but for the 364 days that she wasn't scared out of her skin, there was always that 1 day where she swore she would quit this job.

It only rang once before someone answered. "Grissom," said the voice on the other end and she let out of sigh of relief she never even realized she was holding. She didn't know the entomologist that well, but he always had an air of authority and knowing about him. She knew he was the man to report to.

"Mr. Grissom? This is Judy from the front desk." She took a shaky breath before speaking again, hoping her voice was steadier than it sounded. "Sir, I just received a call from a man claiming he's put bombs in the Las Vegas Airport."

In the background, she could hear shouting, cursing, absolute chaos and mayhem.

"Sir?" she asked, making sure the connection was clear, hoping Grissom's cell phone hadn't decided to frizz out. "What's going on out there?"

Instead of getting any sort of answer, she found herself on the end of a dead line for the second time in less than a minute. It was rude to simply disconnect; however, Grissom was never without a reason. Wherever they were, it sounded like they were in the midst of an emergency.

She hoped everyone was okay and somehow knew this would be one hell of a night.

…

Twenty minutes before Judy ever arrived to the front desk, eleven CSIs and one lab technician were preparing to leave for the Las Vegas Airport. "Preparing" was the key word here. The criminalists were usually right on time, if not early; however, due to several variables throughout the evening, they discovered that they were late and, quite frankly, they didn't like the feeling. Most of them had practically forgotten the meaning of the word (although Greg had been quick to cheekily inform them that 'late' was an adjective, synonymous with 'delayed'. He was going to continue with his explanation, but Sara had threatened him with yesterday's coffee, so he backed off.) considering the chewing out they'd receive if the Sheriff were to ever discover this somewhat embarrassing mistake.

However, Ryan was probably the worst when it came to the delicate art of being behind schedule.

He drummed his fingers against the top of the table as he watched his friends rush around, trying to gather both their wits and supplies. He knew he shouldn't be so impatient, but his internal, OCD-induced clock was ticking; it was a relentless, constant reminder that they were late. He couldn't help that he was itching to go, tardiness being an alien notion to him. He hoped he was hiding his impatience well enough; after all, he'd hate to be known as the stickler, although Greg could probably take one look at him and know exactly what was going through his mind. Then again, Greg had that uncanny ability. Ryan's nerves relaxed as he thought of his boyfriend and he took a deep breath before removing his hand from the table. Being late was a part of life. He could handle it.

Maybe.

"You guys ready to head off?" Gil called as he and Horatio stuck their heads through the doorway and watched their respective teams scramble about, collecting their materials and sparring for the last available cup of coffee.

Despite being amongst the general pandemonium that surrounded him, Gil Grissom was calm, even serene. Although this was his usual state of self, it was even more noticeable when compared to the somewhat frantic, stressed mood that the rest of the crew was in. How could Ryan blame them? He too felt the heavy burden and responsibility that came with trying to put another killer behind bars. If they couldn't find a piece of damning evidence from the airport, the case would fall apart and Christopher Jenkins would strut right out of his jail cell, laughing all the way to an attorney's office before slapping the crime lab with a lawsuit that Ecklie would faint at.

"Swing shift left there half an hour ago," Gil pointedly informed them, ignoring Catherine's cursing of the coffee machine. "We're late." Ryan inwardly cringed. He was all too aware of this fact and he fought the urge to continue drumming his fingers.

"Late?" Catherine echoed, seriously ticked off. "I'll tell you what's late." She accusingly pointed to the coffee machine with a well-manicured finger. "If this thing could go any slower, it'd be brewing backwards."

"Are you insulting the coffee maker? Cath, that's a line you just don't cross. I mean, when has Darla ever let you down?" Greg asked, traces of genuine shock in his voice. Catherine shot him a look, one that was a mixture of both curiosity and irritation.

"Did you really name the coffee maker, Greg? Boost my faith in mankind and tell me you didn't."

"What, you don't like 'Darla'? I was told it was classy and yet feminine."

"How do you know whether an electronic appliance is male or female?"

"You just know," Greg explained, grinning when Catherine rolled her eyes in incredulity. "She speaks to me. Darla and I have had many a deep discussion. Y'know, theology, philosophy, the meaning of life, whether the Yankees will-''

"I get it," Catherine interrupted, looking rather thankful when the coffee finally finished trickling into the mug. She quickly dumped in some creamer and sugar, stirring the contents until the liquid turned a lighter shade of brown, almost white.

"You want some coffee with that pound of sugar?" Warrick asked, casting a skeptical glance at the mug before bowing his head, trying to escape the wrathful glare Catherine shot him.

"Hey, I think we can all agree that sugar and caffeine are wonderful things when you're forced to spend another breathtaking night at the airport," she replied, taking another gulp of the cherished beverage and flipping her red hair back with an impatient hand. "And I'd like to see you even try and take this away from me."

"But what's at the airport that we could even need? Our prime suspect's her brother," Warrick observed as he speedily refilled his fingerprint powder. Ryan inwardly groaned as he watched the action; they were so behind schedule that the Sheriff was going to have their heads for trophies when they finally arrived to the scene.

"His DNA didn't match the fingernail scrapings under the victim's nails. She definitely fought back, but it wasn't Christopher she was fighting against," Gil calmly replied. Warrick grunted and shook his head, too teed off at the thought to even respond.

A cloud of disappointment hung over the team. It wasn't as if they weren't prepared to tackle whatever assignment was deemed necessary for the completion of the case; it was the fact that they couldn't seem to catch a break. A week had already been spent tracking down worthless security videos, deceased family members, and useless co-workers, trying to put the pieces together and fill in the blanks.

"Gil, I gotta say there's a billion prints in that place and you guys dusted anyway," Jim replied, unapologetically cynical. "What are you even looking for?"

The intelligent man cast a calm look over to the Captain. "The answer," he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and Ryan supposed, when put in vague terms, it was.

Jim rolled his eyes at the unclear, philosophical response he had come to expect from the entomologist. "Right," he muttered. "Why did I even bother asking?"

"I don't suppose the chaos theory applies here, does it?" Catherine inquired, giving Gil a raised brow. "Y'know, Ellie just had an urge to take a Florida vacation, hopped on a plane and found herself at the whims of chance?"

"No," Gil replied, the epitome of patience. "There's definitely preempted actions taking place and it lies somewhere in that airport."

Catherine looked as if she wanted to respond, but found herself interrupted by Nick's voice as he tore into the room, speaking over his shoulder.

"Yo Hodges, you ready?" The Texan asked, looking rather rushed as he grabbed his kit before turning, doubling back, and grabbing his glasses as well.

Gil looked up at the query. Ryan noticed a worried frown was now tugging at his lips and for once, he was losing the tranquility he was known for. "Is Hodges ready for what?" their boss asked, looking close to concerned.

"The field," Warrick replied, patting down his jeans and, upon realizing he was missing his keys, grabbed his jacket and began shuffling through the pockets.

"The field," Yelina questioned. "A DNA technician on the field?"

"Don't worry," Nick replied. "He's been trained in the ways of the Jedi. Plus, he's got an I.Q. higher than a monkey, y'know? He just documents. Saves time."

Sara smiled sweetly, flashing her gap tooth. "He's a monkey with a Masters in chemistry."

"That's cute," the technician replied, shooting the woman a cool look as he strode into the room, appearing much more relaxed than his Texan friend. "I suppose you earn a few extra bucks working as a comedian on the weekends?"

Ryan heard Sara reply; it was probably a barb, because he saw David put his hand on his hip and glare at the shorter woman. However, most of his concentration had been shifted to another man walking towards him. Greg was smiling, hands in his pockets, looking at Ryan with eyes filled with… Ryan didn't even want to think about it. Scientifically, how could eyes really portray emotion anyway? It was more of a romantic phrase that poets and dreamers liked to use, describing how their soul mate gazed at them with expressive eyes, betraying their inner feelings. It was ridiculous, not to mention impossible.

Still, when Greg sat down next to him, it was difficult to completely dismiss the theory. The way Greg was looking at him made Ryan feel like he was the only person in the room, in the world, and despite his scientific ramblings, he realized that the poets and dreamers might have stumbled upon something that was actually believable.

"I can hear you thinking from across the room," Greg whispered, lightly touching Ryan's twitching hand, his fingers trying to stay still and not edgily tap against the table.

Ryan sent the blonde a small, sheepish smile. "I know. I just-''

"Hate being late?"

"Exactly. But I'm working on it," he finished. "Besides, I should be used to it since I hang out with you all the time."

"Har har," Greg replied, grinning before leaning forward. "I'd have a stinging retort to that, but my desire to kiss you right now trumps just about everything else." His whispered words made Ryan feel as if he were melting. It was rare that Ryan would feel such an emotion as to forget his surroundings. If they were home –Greg's apartment, he reminded himself- then he would have let Greg do whatever he wanted to and, right then, in the middle of the crowded lab, he was tempted to let Greg do it anyway.

Greg smiled. "But I can wait."

"You don't have to," Ryan replied.

Greg smiled once more, but it was different. His eyes ghosted over every inch of Ryan's face and he moved forward. For a moment, Ryan was torn; he wanted Greg to kiss him, but the sensible side of him was telling him to lean back and create some space. He loved Greg, but they were at work and it could affect- well, everything, and… A moment later, Ryan realized Greg never had the intention of kissing him. Instead, he was simply trying to keep their conversation private by being close and keeping their voices hushed.

"I know when you're lying," the blonde confessed.

The dark haired man took a breath. "Good," he whispered back. "Because I don't."

"And I know you'd let me kiss you in front of the President if I wanted to, but you're still a horrible pretender."

"I'll get better at it."

"What, making out in front of the President?"

"Kissing you in a public place."

"You don't have to."

Ryan grinned and copied Greg's action by leaning forwards. "I know when you're lying," he murmured.

Ryan, despite the strenuous circumstances, felt surprisingly calm and together. Perhaps it was because Greg was leaning against him in a subtly-loving-but-not-too-obvious way, his skin warming the Floridian's body. He wanted to kiss Greg, speak to him like anyone would their significant other, but the rushed crime lab wasn't the place to do that. Still, Greg's breathing had him unwound and tranquil; this, of course, couldn't help but make Ryan curious as to his other best friend's circumstance. He felt the silent tension between Eric and Nick as the two men avoided each other's eyes; they could barely even stand in the same side of the room for too long without getting antsy and wandering away, hoping to ease the sparks between them. It didn't take long to figure out that Eric hadn't taken Ryan's advice on the matter, but he'd certainly lost some sleep over the days.

Usually, it was Eric who made the first move when he was attracted to someone. What was different about this? Ryan had always known that Eric was constantly searching for someone he could love on a more permanent basis, but all of his relationships seemed to fall through. The possibility that Nick was the person who could make him truly happy added a huge weight of difficulty to Eric's predictable plan. The distance between them, the possibility of it working… was it easier for Eric to go back to the beautiful women he dated in Miami? The simplicity of calling it off when he knew it wouldn't work? It couldn't be. Ryan knew the loneliness Eric felt; the only thing that comforted the Cuban were his friends and family. In the beginning, Calleigh had tried dragging he and Ryan out, attempting to get Eric to connect with someone. However, they quickly learned that this was the worst thing they could do for him. Clubs offered too much of what he didn't need.

It was a complete reverse; Ryan, who was the epitome of prudence, had fallen for Greg anyway. Eric, who was flirtatious and charming, would have (in any other instance) certainly struck up a more-than-professional relationship if offered. But Eric, despite his evident attraction, had distanced himself. He didn't want to get hurt because he felt too much for Nick. Ryan watched the Cuban from across the room. He was laughing with Brass but had a manner of unhappiness that he simply couldn't mask from Ryan.

Nick really had tried to get Eric to realize the possibilities the two of them had together, but Eric simply wouldn't allow it. Ryan couldn't blame the Texan; how much rejection could a man take before they realized that it simply wasn't going to go anywhere? Wasn't there a point where you were forced to give up? To face reality?

Ryan's tumbled thoughts were cut short when he felt a soft touch on his elbow. He blinked; the team was filing out the door and Greg was trying to shake him from his stupor.

"And hey," Calleigh said, hoping to brighten the somber, hasty disposition of the group as they began to trudge out of the building and towards the parking lot. "Maybe the television crews haven't beaten us there yet."

Ryan silently winced.

Those were famous last words.

…

Despite Calleigh's hope, the camera crews and journalists had not only beaten them to the scene, but had set up camp as well. Large station vans littered the outside of the perimeter while sound men fiddled with their equipment and what looked to be harassed assistants patted down the noses of numerous reporters with powders, making sure they looked glamorous enough for television even as they clutched clipboards and spoke into their cell phones, juggling numerous calls all at once. In short, whatever privacy the CSIs had hoped they might receive was destroyed. They were, once more, the focus of the evening and would continue to be so until they finally closed the case.

Greg groaned and leaned his head back, resting it against the backseat dashboard of the patrol car as Jim slowly drove up to the scene, the mob making it difficult to go any faster than a mere crawl. "Aren't there any other crimes in Las Vegas these people can cover?" he asked, wrinkling his nose at the vultures waiting outside. Ryan grinned and squeezed his boyfriend's hand encouragingly while Jim glanced at the blonde through the rear view mirror, his lips forming a small smile at the exasperation in Greg's voice.

"A word of advice, gumshoe: they'll always be at the scene that needs isolation and they'll never cover the crimes that need attention. It's the way of the media."

"Amen to that, bother," Calleigh replied from the passenger's seat, turning towards the hard-boiled detective and holding up her right hand in an expecting manner. Jim simply cast her a funny look.

"It's a high five," she explained. Ryan laughed at the expression the usually sardonic man was wearing.

"I think he knows what a high five is, Cal," he supplied, amused at her antics. "I just don't think he wants to do it."

"Who doesn't want to do a high five?" she asked, faking hurt. "I was just trying to add some "oomph" to the moment."

"Fine," Jim said, sighing as he parked and shut off the ignition, ignoring the muffled voices of the crowd. "I'd hate to be the one responsible for destroying your "oomph" dream."

Calleigh grinned and held up her hand again. Jim rolled his eyes but silently agreed to her juvenile plan and they high-fived, Ryan and Greg laughing from their place in the back.

"Calliegh Duquesne, only you could convince Jim Brass do a high-five. You're my hero," Greg declared, unable to stop the embarrassingly girl-like giggles from escaping his lips.

The beautiful woman merely gave him a bright smile and silly wink before three more patrol cars pulled up behind them, the mob immediately catching sight of the vehicles and hollering out their questions. Jim sighed.

"Do I need to cover the rules?" he asked, giving the eager journalists a disdainful look from his place at the steering wheel.

"Don't talk to them, don't answer questions, and don't even look in their direction," Ryan recited.

"Good. Ready to make a break for it?"

"I was born ready, Jimmy," Greg replied, clutching his door handle. After a pause, the captain gave a short nod, signaling for them to exit the automobile and get under the crime scene tape as fast as they could manage. It was a race, really, because once those four emerged, the rest of the team did as well, Horatio and Gil shouldering their way through, Yelina between them. David, Nick, and Warrick bolted from the third car while Eric, Sara, and Catherine dashed out of the fourth. The tape was supposed to act as a force field; once you got under there, you were away from the prying eyes of the horde and able to do your job with minimal ruckus. This was just in theory, of course. It usually took a few armed officers and a well-put threat to make sure the plan actually worked.

As predicted, the moment Ryan's feet touched the ground was when the blizzard of voices began. "Sir, when do you expect to close this case?" "Sir, can you offer us any information on the case so far?" "Sir, what does Christopher Jenkins have to do with any of this?" It seemed like an entire chorus of 'sirs' were surrounding him; he grabbed Greg's arm and they made tracks towards the tape, narrowly avoiding the bulky, dangling microphone of a particularly persistent news crew. They hurriedly ducked under the yellow strip, thankful for the room to breathe.

"I'm totally used to this kind of behavior from people," Greg jokingly divulged, shooting Ryan a playful grin. "Random strangers see me and they can't help but freak out. You have a lot of competition, you know. The ladies love my air drum solos."

"From what David tells me, your musician skills are crappy with a side of average," Ryan replied, grinning at his boyfriend's lighthearted look of offense.

"How dare he! He's just jealous of my romantic entanglements while he sits at home, brooding."

"He's a good brooder," Ryan admitted.

"The best. No one compares."

Ryan caught sight of their group, assembling together about thirty yards away from the airport itself, allowing them more than enough space to work.

"You guys get through the stampede?" Sara asked, casting a glance towards the two approaching men.

"It was difficult," Greg cheekily replied. "Everyone kept asking for my autograph. This really hot chick wouldn't stop pestering me for my phone number, but I was purely professional about it."

"I'm sure Ryan finds that very reassuring," Sara replied. Ryan felt his face heat a few degrees, but didn't try to cover up the fact that Greg wasn't allowed to take phone numbers from beautiful women or gorgeous men anymore.

"I was able to resist," Greg informed her, sending a mischievous wink Ryan's way. "I got a better offer from someone else." David rolled his eyes and made a gagging noise; Greg stuck out his tongue in response and Calleigh snorted with laughter at the entire exchange. If they were going to be stuck here all night, they were going to make the best of it and Calleigh's laughter was always an uplifting sound to hear.

Sara said something –probably sarcastic, because Calleigh gave her a quirky little smile- but Ryan wasn't paying attention. He had caught sight of something behind her; there was a movement and some telltale reporter equipment. He took a few steps forwards, trying to make sure he was seeing what he really thought he was seeing. Reassured that his eyes weren't playing games with his mind, he let out a little groan. The yellow police tape obviously needed to be infused with a twelve foot steel gate; that, or officers needed to cover every inch of the perimeter 24/7, 365.

A tall, dark haired journalist was ducking under the crime scene tape, ushering for his crew to follow him. What was this guy thinking? Every reporter who wanted to keep their job knew they were to never cross the tape under any circumstance whatsoever. Ryan took a quick look around, knowing perfectly well that Horatio and Grissom were dealing with other matters that were probably colossally more important than that of a reporting vigilante. However, no one seemed to be making a commotion over it. Quite the opposite; no one seemed to have even noticed. Ryan paused a moment, several scenarios playing through his head; there were always options, but there was only one correct choice when it came down to the line. He sighed and turned to his four co-workers.

"I'll be right back," he promised. They glanced up from their conversation and gave him a curious look. Ryan pointed towards the offending news gang's direction, explaining himself without words.

"They've got guts," observed Greg, raising his eyebrows as he watched the camera crew follow after. "All of Las Vegas knows you don't mess with Grissom's scenes."

"Maybe he's new," Ryan replied.

"Or an idiot," responded David. "And in my experience, it's always been the latter."

"You would know a lot about that, wouldn't you?" Sara quipped.

Ryan laughed a little before he held up his index finger, indicating he'd only be gone a minute and then turned and jogged towards the reporter and his squad. He took a deep breath.

"Excuse me, sir?" he called, quickly approaching them. "I'm sorry, but you can't cross the tape."

The reporter merely shot him a disinterested look. "Whatever. I need this story." The man made a motion for his camera crew to follow him, obviously ignoring Ryan's remark.

Ryan felt an embarrassed flush rise to his face; he'd never been so rudely blown off. "Sir," he began once more, this time with more authority to his voice, "Listen to me. You can't cross this line, so I'm going to have to ask you to move back."

The reporter seemed bored, as if Ryan was some sort of annoying mosquito buzzing in his ear. "Kid, what level are you? I've been dealing with scenes for years. If the big guys don't tell you to back off, it's fair game."

Ryan's jaw clenched and he gave the man a level look. This guy was really starting to piss him off; who did he think he was by acting like that? An active crime scene was just that: active. You didn't mess with it unless you wanted contaminated evidence and a tossed case. "I'm an investigator on this scene, got it? I'm telling you to back off. We'll tell you when it's open to the news."

"Oh yeah? What are you going to do about it?"

Their voices were rapidly escalating, grabbing the attention of the surrounding crowd. Ryan took a self-conscious look around; he didn't want to start anything, but he couldn't let the reporter through. He noticed David shooting him a concerned look and knew the lab tech would never have had this problem in the first place. One of his patented sharp remarks would have sent anyone else running in the opposite direction with their tail between their legs, but Ryan couldn't seem to make the man blink.

"I'll have you charged with destroying evidence," Ryan hissed quietly. "Now please get outside the perimeter before I have an officer escort you."

"What happened to freedom of the press? Besides, you aren't making any progress on this case anyway. You've had this airport on lock-down for a friggin' week. It's our right to know."

Ryan was all for the constitutional rights and he certainly believed in freedom of the press, but the reporter was out of line and Ryan's blood was slowly beginning to boil. The man made a move forward and Ryan stuck out his arm, blocking his path.

"I'm two seconds away from arresting you myself."

"Is that a threat from an officer? Lay a finger on me and I'll charge you with assault."

It was the final straw.

"You listen to me, got it?" Ryan furiously began, no longer caring who was within earshot. "This is an active scene and if you step one more inch and screw this case over, we'll charge you with everything we can get away with, including accessory after the fact. Now you had better get back under the tape or I'll make goddamn sure you won't get another anchoring job in the state of Nevada. Am I clear?"

The reporter was silent and gave Ryan a cold look. It was apparent he didn't want to back down and lose the battle, but the future of his career was hanging precariously in the balance. He muttered a string of curses before finally going back under the tape, his cameramen wisely following suit. Ryan took another deep breath, keeping his cool demeanor until he turned and walked towards his group, all of who were looking appropriately stunned.

David gave a small whistle. "I've taught you well. Congratulations on scaring a man half to death."

Ryan felt himself smile a little until he met Greg's eyes. The other man leaned forward and David quickly looked away, pretending to immerse himself in something incredibly simple.

"I didn't know you could be like that," he whispered, his hot breath tickling Ryan's ear. "It was kind of hot."

"Greg,'' the darker haired man began, giving him an embarrassed look. "I don't think this is the appropriate place to-''

Greg cut him off with a sly grin and wink before turning with his camera and hurrying towards Nick and Catherine. Ryan sighed, wishing he could be exasperated, but the truth of the matter was that he wasn't even slightly annoyed with the younger man.

David could only shoot him an arched eyebrow and shake his head, gathering his supplies.

"What?" Ryan asked, the beginnings of embarrassment flushing his pale face.

"You two are going to make me sick. Too much lovey-dovey crap and I'll lose my breakfast."

"Why David, it's almost as if you're our friend."

The two men walked towards the cluster of investigators, Ryan watching as Greg fiddled with the inside of one of the Tahoes. He was going to ask Sara or Catherine what in the world the young man was doing, but he knew he'd find out soon enough. Greg was always full of surprises, constantly changing and altering his day with jokes, music, and questions in which he would be quick to find the answer. He wanted to know things, to be the smartest person in the room and, without even trying, he usually was. Ryan waited a moment before the sound of music burst out of the speakers. Why had he even questioned what Greg was doing? Of course it revolved around music somehow; he paused a moment, listening to David mutter under his breath while trying to figure out what was playing. He grinned, immediately recognizing their CD. It had a mix of Greg's favorite rock songs, The Beach Boys, and some swing music that always made everyone want to dance. Greg jumped out of the truck and practically waltzed over to them.

"Are you sure you're allowed to do that?" David asked, shooting an irked look towards the younger man.

"Sure," Greg replied. "I do it all the time. Besides, Gris actually asked me to. I don't think even he can stand another quiet night." He casually stuck his hands inside his pockets before frowning a little and looking down, digging his hands deeper. When he didn't find what he was looking for, he began with his jacket and vest.

"Did you lose something?" Ryan asked, giving him a concerned frown. It wasn't like Greg was disorganized –okay, so it was- but he was still professional and tried not to appear incompetent on the job.

"My film," Greg replied, furrowing his eyebrow as he stooped down to flip open his field kit. "Wonder where it walked off to?"

"Call me crazy, but I don't think film canisters can just grow legs and make a break for it," David replied. The blonde stuck his tongue out and David scoffed, muttering something about childishness.

"Want me to help you look for it? I have some extra anyway," Ryan offered. Greg shot him a sweet smile but shook his head.

"No, you guys go on. I'm sure it's in the patrol car."

"Okay, but if you don't find any, I really do have some spare rolls."

"Ryan, I believe you. As a matter of fact, how can I not believe you? You're the man who carries around entire packages of pens."

"Hey, you never know when one's going to run out."

"I think we've had this conversation before. Tell them I'll be right there," Greg replied. He watched as Ryan turned and walked with Calleigh, Warrick, and Nick into the airport, the rest of them soon to follow. Yelina was fighting with another camera man while Horatio and Gil tried their best to answer as many questions as they could before inevitably giving up and completely ignoring the constant voices of the media. Sara and Catherine were securing the perimeter, making sure that absolutely no one else could cross the tape, taking a lesson from Ryan and getting no-nonsense with those who felt they had the right to break the rules. Greg allowed himself a small smile before turning back to David.

"You had better give me my supplies," the blonde threatened, crossing his arms and arching his eyebrow, his back to the airport.

"Sanders, as amusing as it is to watch you get upset with me, I don't have your film."

"Are you telling me I forgot one of the most important provisions in a CSI's field kit?"

"No, I'm telling you I don't have it. Besides, I can't believe you put it in your pocket anyway."

"I was in a hurry," Greg defended. "And anyway, what am I supposed to do now?"

"Steal Nick's. You do it all the time."

"Wait, how do you know that?"

"We work with glass walls, Sanders. When you go through someone's kit, people can see. Besides, I'm sure Ryan has ten extra canisters hidden away."

"Yeah, yeah. I just wanted to show him I was responsible."

"Why would you want to lie to him like that?"

"Shut up, Mr. He Who Is Single.''

"Making fun of my marital status. That's a low blow, Sanders."

"You just make it so eas-''

Greg's teasing words were cut off by a sudden and violent Earth-shattering boom.

It was a foreign sound that was not, by any stretch of the imagination, supposed to be an element of their evening. Greg knew what it was; he recognized the hums and echoes. The way the glass shattered, like uneven and sharp snowflakes, deceptively beautiful and painfully fatal. He didn't need to smell the smoke or feel the heat to know what had just happened behind him.

At first, his body turned to concrete and all he could do was numbly stare into David's eyes, the technician's own blue orbs fixed upon the sight thirty yards away. His expression was indescribable; there was worry, panic, and stunned disbelief all rolled into one. Greg, the beginnings of sickness attacking his stomach, slowly turned at the commotion. His body had morphed from concrete into a ball of spastic nerves, his mind running a million miles an hour and his breathing coming out in swift, fearful bursts.

In front of them, the Las Vegas Airport was burning, huge billows of smoke rising into the sky, land marking the moment Greg's heart officially stopped. He was frozen, struck by a horror that spread within his entire being, making it so he was two seconds away from emptying his stomach contents. Fire. Explosion. Smoke. There was only one thing he could truly grasp despite the sudden severity of his surroundings; where there had been a bored lull of officers there was now a sudden panic. Where there had been basic chatter among the camera men, there was now loud shouting and orders being barked from the reporters.

But more than anything, where there had been four CSIs standing right beside him not two minutes ago, there were now four CSIs trapped inside the building.

Greg took a step forward, his mind still trying to catch up with the veracity of the situation. He dropped his kit and gloves but didn't hear them hit the pavement. All around them was a frantic rush and he seemed to be in slow motion; his own actions were robotic, unable to comprehend the circumstances and only managing to grasp the fact that his best friends and lover could be dead. He had to get in there. He had to help Ryan and Nick and-

"Sanders."

The voice brought him only partially back to reality. David had spoken.

"Hodges," he began, his voice sounding lost, as if he wasn't sure whether or not he was dreaming. When had his voice gotten so high? When had he suddenly begun sobbing uncontrollably?

"Sanders, listen to me," David began, his tone stern. "You can't go in there."

Behind the lab technician, camera crews were catching the action on film while Greg was attempting to grasp the meaning of the phrase "can't go in there." Who was David to stop him? Who was anyone to stop him? Staying safe and away from the blast area wasn't an option; he had to get inside. He made another motion to go forward and David's arm snapped out, his right hand clutching Greg's shoulder.

"Sanders, don't even think about it!"

"I have to! I have to help them! Why the hell aren't you trying to help me?"

Greg was screaming by then, sobbing, wishing he had been in there as well, wishing he could somehow save it all, rewind to the moment before the four CSIs had left David and Greg and gone inside. He wanted to return to when there was no fire, where they were all still alive and well.

"Listen to me, Greg. The paramedics and firemen are coming and they'll get them out." Greg heard the un-reassuring words as he struggled to free himself out of David's vice grip. In his mind, he knew the other man was right; Greg could only make it worse or hurt himself. It was probably even illegal in some shape, way, or form to actually go inside, but in his mind, this didn't matter. He needed to be close to them.

"Let me go! God damnit, Hodges, you'd better let me get in there!" He didn't recognize his own hysterical screech even as he bellowed as loudly as he could.

"Greg, would you just listen to me? You can't. If it collapses and you're inside…" David grappled for the words and Greg was suddenly hit with the fact that David Hodges was human- that he cared. In the back of his mind, Greg idly told himself to make sure and tell Ryan about how upset the technician actually was.

"You won't believe how worried he was. He was almost as bad as me."

"It's against procedure," David finally managed, finding his words. "Grissom would have your head. I'm sure- I'm sure they're fine."

"Fuck procedure! A bomb just exploded and they're fucking trapped!" Greg felt another surge of wild energy attack him and he began hitting David was his fists, fueled by only one truth: Ryan and Calleigh and Nick and Warrick were in that burning building and he wasn't with them, couldn't help in the least.

But David didn't let go. The harder Greg punched, the tighter David seemed to hold him, aware that if he were to release the other man, Greg would willingly head towards his own death without a single thought. No one would catch him then. No one would even notice he was missing until the flames were put out and his charred body was found in the wreckage.

"DAVID!" he screamed, protesting his confinement. "Please let me go! Please- I have to get in there! What if he's- he's caught under a wall or something? What if he's burning? God, please just let me go! I swear I'll be fine!"

David was suddenly thankful for his supposedly uncaring heart. He was just as worried for his co-workers and friends as Greg was, but there was no way he was going to allow the young man's emotional outburst to change his mind. His scientific, apathetic mentality recognized that there were so many possibilities and variables linked to their current situation, but only one certainty seemed to shine through: Ryan would never want Greg to come chasing after him, especially if it was in a dangerous condition. The technician also understood that if Ryan were to ever find out David had permitted Greg to try and save him, there would be hell to pay. David's sudden mantra was They're safe. They can take care of themselves. He watched the flames engulf the walls and it was all he could do to not agree to Greg's plan, to blindly attempt a suicidal rescue.

"Please let me go," Greg whispered, running out of energy and breaking into another bout of relentless sobs. David's body hurt where Greg had hit him with more force than he ever imagined the younger man had, but Greg was unmoving and boneless, crying on his shoulder and begging with words David didn't even understand. He was breaking down. And the other man, inexperienced in the subtle art of comfort, did all he could to soothe the Level 1 CSI.

The sirens pierced the air as the fire raged on and Greg could hear Gil's cell phone ring even over the music of his CD.

Is it like a fairy tale? True love and fighting off dragons?

The dragon had breathed its fire.

***

Chapter 10: Every Other Route

To-day is a new sunrise for me; everything lives, everything is animated, everything seems to speak to me of my passion, everything invites me to cherish it.
Ninon de L'Enclos to Marquis de Sevigny, late 1600's

Ryan could vaguely hear the voice of Nick Stokes calling his name through the ash and flames, clear desperation altering his usual calm, assured self. What… what had just happened? Ryan's eyelids slowly fluttered open and he found himself looking up at the ceiling of the airport, trying to blink and clear his dry eyes of the smoke that was surrounding him, billowing like the black, chiffon dress Calleigh once wore. He heard Nick call out to him again, but the ringing in his ears was distorting the words and he was in too much shock to really understand what was going on anyway.

He was lying on his back, having rolled over from his right side, trying to get his startled mind moving. One glance around told him that a bomb had just gone off in their primary crime scene and said scene was burning down at a speedy rate. This was all familiar somehow; where had this happened before? He licked his lips and blinked again, the temperature slowly rising. His untimely bout of déjà-vu didn't matter; all that mattered was that he and… who else was there? Calleigh? Nick? Warrick! Warrick was the one he had forgotten; then again, his memory wasn't exactly serving him at the moment. His body was rigid and he would have preferred to simply close his eyes and sleep, overtaken by a sudden spell of drowsiness, but the flames were relentlessly consuming the walls and ceiling. It was move or die.

He blinked once more before slowly moving his legs and arms, assessing to see if anything was broken or if he had sustained any burns. His entire body seemed to pulse with a dull ache, but he felt no actual pain, merely the ringing in his ears and the taste of ash on his arid tongue.

"Ryan!"

Nick's voiced carried through the disaster area. Ryan raised his right hand and covered his nose and mouth, the smoke so thick that he could barely speak. His mouth was parched and his vision was blurry, but he shakily clambered onto his hands and knees anyway, ignoring the dizzying head rush it gave him. God, he was just so tired and disoriented. He was shaking and his body was betraying him, making his elbows weak so that he collapsed and was forced to use every bit of strength he possessed to push himself back up again. He knew he had to get with the program and his thoughts immediately returned to the other three. Nick was obviously okay, but Warrick and Calleigh… His heart hit his stomach at the thought of Calleigh getting the smallest scratch, the tiniest bruise. Where were they? And his evidence- where was his evidence? He couldn't leave without it.

He sent a hazy prayer up to the heavens in hopes that Calleigh and Warrick had also escaped harm's way before he blindly began groping the floor around him, unable to really shake off his shocked stupor. He was looking for a plastic bag that held his one piece of proof: a camera phone. He hated himself; a bomb had just blown half of their crime scene to smithereens while his friends were in danger and all he could think about was finding his missing evidence.

They had been in the airport for no more than two minutes when Ryan discovered a camera phone that had been taped to the bottom of a row of chairs. He idly remembered Greg telling him about a case –something about Sherlock- where he had found a gun hanging inside the fireplace, completely invisible from any point in the room. The phone was a similar scenario, but while Greg had found Sherlock's gun with his skills and reasoning alone, Ryan had merely dropped some film canisters. He had been setting the film out for Greg (knowing that the other man had most certainly forgotten his own at the lab) when he had dropped a canister and it rolled underneath the seats. Ryan had bent to retrieve it and found himself staring at a black cell phone held to the bottom of a chair by masking tape. It was no act of investigative brilliance; it was sheer dumb luck no matter which way you looked at it. However, Ryan was never one to turn his nose at the possibility of an ironclad case, regardless of how the facts were found.

He had tried to turn the phone on, immediately suspicious –who taped a cell phone under a chair in an airport?- but the battery had been dead. That was the last thing he remembered before the entire building rocked and he was suddenly thrown down, waking in the midst of a deadly situation. He was still in a daze of sorts, as if he was in a dream and waiting to wake up in bed with Greg next to him. He slowly shook his head in an attempt to get his mind to recharge. What was he looking for again? The phone. He blindly stuck his hand out, crawling on the floor, trying to locate his lost bag. He had put it in an evidence sack, sealed it, initialed it- a sudden, jolting thought shook him from his trance. God, what if it was destroyed? What if Christopher really did get away with it? His bit his dry lip, desperately trying to remember what he had been doing before the bombs had gone off.

"Ryan! Where are you?"

Ryan heard Nick's voice again, his consciousness beginning to reacquaint itself with reality. He tried to take in a breath to respond, but ended up inhaling smoke instead, resulting in a hacking cough. This noise drew an ash-covered Nick in his direction; although his eyes watered at the ruthless smoke that enfolded them, Ryan could still make out the worried expression on Nick's face.

"RYAN!"

Ryan coughed again, frantically feeling around for the bag. Nick's large, looming figure quickly approached through the smoke and he knelt down, attempting to speak and barely able to do so.

"Are you okay?" Nick managed to gasp out, covering his own nose and mouth with his dust-coated palms.

Ryan nodded, neither looking at the man nor ceasing his search. He had to find it; after all, he couldn't let Horatio or Greg down. He couldn't let Ellie down.

"This place is collapsing," Nick said, grabbing Ryan's veering wrist as it went back and forth across the floor, running over shards of glass and Ryan not caring. The smoke and sudden mountains of rubble didn't allow for much visual aid; he could rely on touch alone and if slicing his hand to pieces was one way to find something, then so be it. "We've gotta get out of here. Rick and Cal are upfront."

"The phone-''

Ryan was stopped short by an ominous snapping sound; both men froze in apprehension and fear as one of the ceiling's supporting beams came crashing down, colliding onto the ground about ten yards away from where they were crouching. The new danger –falling debris- presented itself in a menacing way and Nick quickly turned to Ryan, trying to communicate over the blaze.

"The roof's falling in! I don't care what it is you're looking for- we have to go!"

Ryan wanted nothing more than to join Calleigh and Warrick, but he was positive that the cursed phone was somewhere close by. He couldn't run off without it; not after so long and after so much work, not as their thin case against Christopher skated close to the line of 'circumstantial at best'.

"I have to get-''

"Ryan!" Nick protested as he grabbed the back of Ryan's shirt, forcefully yanking him in his direction. The younger man had no other choice but to follow, not strong enough or of sound enough mind to fight back. Another threatening cracking noise was heard; he knew as well as Nick did that another beam was rapidly breaking away from its place in the ceiling and the entire roof would soon follow suit.

Ryan's mind rashly tried to calculate all of the variables; he knew he had a mere second to discover the whereabouts of his evidence before Nick dragged him away. He desperately tried to consider his position before the bomb. The bag has been in his left hand; if the blast had forced him down and onto his right side, then it would have slid a few feet in which direction? He felt like he was in high school again, his mathematics professor droning on and on about capricious chances and the numbers that said chances involved. Only they weren't in a classroom groaning about some pop quiz; they were two seconds from dying with an entire caseload weighing down on their shoulders.

Ryan broke away from Nick's clutch and made one last, reckless reach around; he sent a plea, a wish to whatever deity was tuning in. Don't tell me you drug me halfway across the United States to die in a fire without even retrieving the evidence I came for. Don't tell me I'm not ever going to see Greg again, either. You had better get us out aliv-

There. There! His fingertips brushed a smooth, pliable object; it was the plastic evidence bag, having tried to conceal itself it the wake of Ryan's suddenly horrible vision. He lunged for it, feeling the warm plastic against his palm and fingers. He held onto it like a man possessed, swearing only rabid wolves could tear it away from him, and even then he'd fight any animal on the planet to keep it in his care. With his newly acquired treasure, he turned to Nick, the both of them abandoning their spot on the floor and bolting towards where Warrick and Calleigh were.

"Are they okay?" Ryan managed to ask, aware that Nick was going to give him a good screaming when they finally got out. But could he, in their current predicament, bring himself to care? Their first concern was escaping with their lives. Then he had to see Greg- he just had to see him, and then Nick could yell to his heart's content. About Ryan risking his life for a phone, for staying longer than necessary, for an entire bucket of code violations he probably committed in the one minute he resisted Nick's pleas to get the hell out of dodge.

Nick merely led Ryan onwards and Ryan had the sinking feeling that one of them had not escaped unharmed. He was proven correct when they hurriedly approached the pair, Calleigh leaning over Warrick and tearing a strip of cloth from his shirt before placing it over his nose and mouth. The older man was still conscious but his teeth were gritted in pain as he clutched his left leg.

Ryan didn't need to ask; Calleigh looked up from her position next to a downed Warrick with both worry and determination on her blacked face. "Part of the wall snapped his leg!" she yelled, trying to be heard over the commotion that surrounded them. "We've got to get him out of here, but he can't walk on his own!"

"The rugs?" Nick immediately asked, hoping to find a means of transporting Warrick out as soon as possible. Their plans were dashed when she shook her head.

"They're all burning!" she replied, bending her head and trying to cough out the fire's dust from her lungs.

"A chair?"

"There aren't any!" she replied, covering her own nose and mouth, trying to inhale some clean air. The chairs were attached to walls or to each other in rows; it would be impossible to try and carry one, especially in their current dilemma.

"You guys get out, please," Warrick begged, tears of pain beginning to form in the corner of his dust-flecked eyes.

"Like hell!" Nick instantly replied, looking horrified at Warrick's request.

There was a charged pause, the four of them trying to find the means for a makeshift stretcher in the midst of a burning building. There were no rugs, chairs, or benches to get Warrick out on, but the option of leaving him in the blaze wasn't open for discussion and even if it was, Ryan wouldn't; he'd drag him along the floor first. They didn't have to speak the silent rule because it was already understood: they would never leave each other behind, no matter the disaster.

Ryan felt the temperature beginning to rise even faster than before and he was suddenly aware of the sweat that was beading on every part of his body, but his discomfort was the last thing on his mind. They had one mission: getting Warrick out of this hell. But what? What could they use? Ryan's mind raced before his eyes, presenting portions of his memory as if it were on a videotape that someone was fast forwarding and rewinding at random. If Ellie were here… if Greg were here… what would they say? The thought of either blonde sent his emotions spiraling. He had first seen Greg through a glass wall and he remembered opening the door, the action inadvertently filling the rest of the building with music and-

"A door!"

Ryan found himself shouting out the suggestion the millisecond the concept came to mind. Calleigh shot her head up and Nick let out a strangled "Yeah!" before the two men instantly began looking for a door that was still intact. They didn't have much time –two or three minutes at most- before the entire place would buckle on top of them. Once more, Ryan's conscious took him back to his mathematics instructor. If they knew where the bombs had been planted, then they could find the furthest point of the blast and thus find some doors that were still unbroken. It was all about numbers and probabilities.

Several frenzied seconds passed as they looked for a large piece of wall or door in which to transport Warrick to safety. The problem that was rapidly presenting itself was that they couldn't seem to find anything large or long enough to support his height and weight. Ryan looked further into the smoke, trying to find anything that would do the job. His panic was beginning to mount; they had to get Warrick out, no matter what. But where-?

In the corner of his eye, Ryan could have sworn his entire bank account that he saw Calleigh simply standing in a far off corner of the burning airport lobby. Why a corner? And why stand, unmoving, in the middle of a catastrophe? He saw the blonde hair immediately, but when he turned to call to her, to tell her to start moving before she was caught under falling debris, it wasn't Calleigh standing there. As a matter of fact, no one was occupying the corner at all. However, with his attention now focused on that one part of the room, he realized that the lobby led to a small office and while the office was in a state of irreparable disarray, it still had a closet.

A closet that had a door.

A door that was still in one piece.

"This one!" he yelled, turning to see Nick and Calleigh trying to knock out a large piece of wall. "I've found one!"

The two rushed forward and followed him into the destroyed office, Calleigh nearly in tears at the sight of it. The Texan quickly grabbed his pistol and shot the hinges, freeing it from the doorframe. With a strength Ryan didn't know she had, Calleigh hoisted the door up with Nick and sped over to the injured Warrick, their operation miraculously beginning to progress.

"Sit up," Nick ordered; Warrick complied and grunted with the effort. Nick frowned, but spoke again.

"Bite a bullet, 'cause this is gonna hurt like hell."

Calleigh and Ryan grabbed Warrick's arms while Nick took his good leg; in any of circumstance, they would have let him drag himself onto their makeshift stretcher and make it as comfortable as possible, but time wasn't on their side. They unapologetically yanked him onto the door as he gave out a choked cry of pain, his left leg twisted in a sickening, unnatural direction.

"He's on," Calleigh hastily confirmed, nodding her approval. Ryan took one side of the door while Nick took the other; Calleigh grabbed their kits and headed their train, rubble and wreckage now beginning to crumble and block their path. She glanced around before quickly grabbing an intact two-by-four, smashing it against things that blocked their way, destroying burning debris as she treaded her warpath, as brave and beautiful as Ryan had ever seen her. In the back of his mind, he wanted to try and remember to ask why in the world she had been standing that corner, but that particular question was on the bottom of his list. There were more important things going on, like the fact Warrick was safe, that Calleigh was making sure they were protected, and that Ryan and Nick would live to see the men they loved once again.

They were getting out of there, heading into the Las Vegas night.

Ryan couldn't help but count the seconds.

…

Greg wasn't sure how long he sobbed on David's shoulder; it felt like hours, but it couldn't have been more than three or four minutes at the very most. Beside him, Eric was unmoving and colder than stone, his face dark as he watched the fire consume the walls of the airport, his eyes betraying his true, heart wrenching fear. Grissom was hiding his panic under a cool exterior while Horatio was silently horrified; he had always been so protective of his team, making sure they were safe every step of the way. And now? Now, he didn't have control over the slightest thing. Next to him, Yelina was still.

Greg could barely see this through tear-blinded eyes; instead, his mind constantly repeated the same four names: Ryan. Nick. Warrick. Calleigh. It was all too much, too fast, too frantic. Within his mind flashed images of their faces, their expressions, the color of their eyes. Bits and pieces of their broken memory danced around in his head, making it nearly impossible for him to breathe, to think. David wasn't moving and Greg was glad, because he couldn't bear to look at the inferno that was devouring the structure. He could barely even support his weight or trust himself to stand; it felt like his knees were Jello, not nearly strong enough to keep him upright.

Nick and Warrick. They were his best friends, his supporters. Six years he had known them and they saw each other through everything: stalkers, explosions, gambling, being buried alive, and all of the bad relationships and difficult days in between.

Calleigh was like some sort of goddess; beautiful, bright, and one of a kind. She was the sort of woman who could have a serious conversation and then con Jim Brass into a high-five. Her laughter was contagious and her smile was like sunshine and it felt revoltingly poetic that she should perish in the glow of a fire.

Ryan. Even at the sound of his name, Greg felt his unprofessional sobs grow worse. Ryan, who he had known for a week. Ryan, who he had fallen in love with. Ryan, who was shy and funny and brilliant and talented and… and meant for him. Ryan, who he wasn't sure he could live without. Not without Nick and Warrick to support his loss.

But no one could do anything until the fire department arrived.

With his back to the fire and his arms around David's neck, all he could really see were the camera crews and the crime scene tape they were still forced to stay behind. In some twisted way, the vivid shade of yellow and the stark black words that read 'Crime Scene- Do Not Cross' reminded him of his boyfriend; wasn't it only five minutes ago that Ryan was standing next to that tape, forcing a reporter back and offering Greg film? Greg grimaced at the word 'reminded'; the only reason anyone would need to remember a person was because said person was gone. There was no proof that Ryan was gone or dead yet; he refused to believe it. Instead, Greg tried to numb his mind as he stared at the reporters who were covering the sudden calamity; most of the women's hair had fallen loose and the men looked disheveled. The blonde's tired eyes swept over the growing crowd; he wasn't looking for anything in particular and he had been too sick with anxiety to really notice the multitude of people that seemed to emerge from the sand. However, even in his current state, he couldn't help but become aware of something that didn't seem to blend into their situation at all: a smile.

It was a journalist; the same one Ryan had driven away. He was smiling. He was fucking smiling! Greg felt a wave of rage wash over him and he gripped David's shoulders, wondering what the lab's liability would be if he were to beat a man to death.

However, his fury melted into something lighter when he saw the journalist grab the attention of the woman next to him, pointing towards the airport, shouting in an attempt to make people understand what he was trying to say.

Greg couldn't discern the words, but he knew the expression of relief when he saw it. Inside Greg's heart rose an optimism he had never felt before; the force of it made him weak, the possibility so against the odds that he told himself was not to get his hopes up. However, the thankful applause and bellows of those witnessing the event behind him made his his heart beat a million times a second. He looked up at the man holding him; on David's face was a smile and, right next to him, Eric was blinking back his tears.

Greg turned to face the airport once more.

And out of the smoke emerged three figures.

Calleigh's hair was dark and flat, her once pristine white blouse now irreparably stained with ash. She carried four crime kits and was leading them out of hell, clutching a two-by-four and looking like an exhausted angel guiding soldiers away from battle. Beside her was Nick, sweat and dust making his skin appear darker, almost black. The Texan was clutching the short end of what appeared to be a door. The man lying on the door was Warrick, clearly in pain but grateful to be alive. Greg's eyes drank this all in, his panicked sobs morphing into tears of utter and absolute relief and thankfulness, because the other man helping Nick haul the patient was-

"RYAN!"

Greg's relieved shout was heard over any other noise on the property.

The three continued on; David allowed Greg to break away and the blonde took this opportunity to practically fly to the four CSIs. His first urge was to tackle Ryan and make sure this wasn't some hysteria-induced hallucination, but his worry for Warrick and his professionalism took hold of him as well. As long as Ryan was there, next to him, he could wait a good two minutes before wrestling the Floridian to the ground in sheer joy. He quickly grabbed hold of a long side of the door, taking some of the weight for Nick and Ryan but careful not to tip it over, and helped them to where the other six were anxiously waiting.

The paramedics quickly took over Warrick's situation, promptly getting him on a real stretcher although it was clear that Nick, Calleigh and Ryan weren't thrilled at giving him up, wanting to be with him every step of the way. But Catherine quickly quelled these concerns; she worried over the three of them before going to where Warrick was, clutching his hand and allowing her tears of relief to trickle down her face. They knew there was no chance she was going to let anything happen to him while they were away and they felt, for the first time, that they could leave his side. Horatio and Yelina took hold of Calleigh, Yelina mothering her like an old woman, going so far as to brush her hair and wipe off her face once the paramedics had made sure her hearing and eyes were in ideal condition.

But even in the center of all the disorder and chaos, Ryan and Greg couldn't manage to part from one another. Once Ryan had made sure that Warrick was safe, that Calleigh was resting, and that Nick was well, he turned to find Greg standing timidly before him, staring more at his feet than anything else. Ryan wasn't sure how he expected Greg to react to it all, but Greg was usually so vibrant and unapologetically expressive that if felt odd to see the blonde standing with his fingers curled around the cuffs of his jacket sleeves, as if trying to resist the natural urge to touch Ryan. Ryan shot him a quizzical look; they were standing about five feet away from each other and it was like Greg had shut down and transformed into a cold, stone statue, a shell of his natural self.

"Greg?" he asked, his voice carrying over to his boyfriend, similar to that of a small wind in the middle of a hurricane.

"Are you okay? Are you burned?" the blonde inquired, but his voice cracked and wavered, as if he were forcing himself to keep his words hushed. Ryan slowly nodded in response and felt his heart nearly crack in half when Greg quietly asked, "Can I hug you?"

Ryan nodded again, curious and worried about Greg's sudden shyness, his sensitivity to their surroundings. Greg slowly trudged up to him and awkwardly placed his arms around Ryan's waist.

"Are you okay?" Ryan whispered, Greg shivering at simply hearing his voice. The blonde sniffled, trying to put on a brave face and failing miserably.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Greg asked, his words muffled as he rested in the crook of Ryan's neck.

"I don't know," Ryan replied, rather uncertain. "You look a little frazzled."

"If you're implying that I'm hysterical, then you're right."

"Is it-''

"Because you were in there? Yes, it was. So were Nick and Warrick and Calleigh. And I…" He trailed off, his throat closing up and sobs threatening to break out once more. Ryan felt this shift and gently broke away from Greg's embrace, wanting to meet the blonde's eyes. Greg didn't fight the change in position, although he seemed almost ashamed that his emotions were roller-coasting every which way.

"Greg…"

"I know you have this public affection thing and that's fine, but God, I-I saw the explosion and Jesus Christ, I'd never been so scared and you're alive," Greg said, tears beginning to brim in his eyes and spill onto his cheeks. "When I heard the explosion, I thought you were- God, I thought you were dead but you're here and you're so beautiful and I'm trying to hide my concern for you because I know you want to be professional and I- I just don't want to embarrass you, but I was just going crazy."

Greg's skin was fair and white while Ryan's was damp and encrusted with the debris of the fire. But Ryan was crying as well, grinning and shaking his head at Greg's relieved rambling. The Floridian felt so selfish; Greg was silently breaking into pieces while trying to appear composed, all for the sake of Ryan's comfort.

"Public affection, huh?" Ryan managed to ask through his tears. Greg nodded quickly, unable to rip his eyes away from Ryan's face, unable to remove his grip from Ryan's arms. He had to know it was real, that he wasn't imagining this in his rattled mind.

"I just thought… God, the thought of you in there- I was going crazy and Hodges wouldn't let me-''

Ryan shook his head, wordlessly cutting Greg off. He had so graciously been given a second chance. Was he going to carelessly throw it away? And besides, he couldn't remember what he had been so frightened of anyway. He remembered flying into Las Vegas with Eric asleep on his shoulder, trying to keep his nerves from taking over his body. He had been so anxious to impress everyone, to prove he belonged with his team and that he could do his job that he never considered the weight of the sacrifices he made for his career. Greg was worth more than a paycheck or whatever superficial reputation he may have garnered in Nevada.

He found his fingertips brushing affectionately across Greg's tearstained cheeks, his ash caked fingernails stark against Greg's skin. Greg allowed his vexed prattle to trail off and they were both silent, the commotion around them seeming to fade away, allowing them to become the only two there.

He didn't have to think about, to consider the pros and cons and repercussions of his actions; he just did it. He bent and captured Greg's lip in a kiss and Greg shyly reciprocated it, as if unsure whether it was what Ryan really wanted. At the insistence of Ryan's tongue, however, Greg's confidence began to return and he became a much more active participant in their battle, each ignoring the fact that seventeen different news crews had cameras rolling and they were capturing this particular moment on film. Not only that, but his entire team was about twenty yards away, watching and fretting and crumpling in relief.

They had the evidence. But more importantly, they had their lives.

They were going to get Christopher Jenkins for his crime.

Even as the paramedics drug Ryan away to make sure there was no ringing in his ears; even as Horatio came over and calmly congratulated him on retrieving their key evidence, Greg couldn't forget the moment he saw them emerge from the fiery building and the sheer gratitude and relief he felt when he saw Ryan's brown eyes and heard his voice. When he felt his lips and saw his smile.

When Ryan whispered, "I love you" in his ear.

(You will not destroy us.)

***

Act 11: The Journey Forwards

My door has not been opened once today, but what my heart palpitated. There were moments when I feared to hear your voice, and then I was disconsolate that it was not your voice. So many contradictions, so many contrary movements are true, and can be explained in three words: I love you.
-Julie de L'Espinasse to Comte Hippolyte de Guibert, 1774

Excerpt from Ellie Jenkins's diary:

December 24th, 2003

It's so hard to choose one over the other: my family or myself? Chris is my only family now, but I can't help but wonder what my parents would think if they were sill alive. Everyone at work says I should go for it- leave Chris and Las Vegas behind and start some place new, plant my roots in a city that might love me more than this one.

Wouldn't that be something? A life of my own?

Maybe if Chris would stop hitting me, I wouldn't be so eager to steal away into my rocky future. My friend Mr. Kellsie says everything is connected and that maybe my future is part of something much bigger. Perhaps I'll meet a woman and we can be happy together.

But I can't help but feel that my life won't turn out the way it's supposed to.

…

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls," Greg began, taking a theatrical leap into the break room and thus startling those who inhabited it. "Prepare to be amazed and astounded!"

David Hodges rolled his eyes at the younger man's words before taking another sip of his beloved (and stolen, but Greg didn't need to know that) coffee. He glanced at Ryan; the younger man was currently staring at his boyfriend with traces of confusion on his face. David couldn't help himself when he wondered whether Ryan had truly adjusted to Greg's eccentricities or if he just happened to be very patient regarding Greg's personality.

"He always adds a prelude to whatever news he plans to blows us away with," David calmly explained, taking another sip of coffee. "You'll get used to it eventually."

"Or go insane trying," Sara helpfully added, finishing off the last of her sandwich and Coke. She tossed the remaining trash into the garbage can a few feet away, flashing a triumphant smile when she scored the basket. She turned back to the young CSI standing in the middle of the room; Sara never seemed to show much emotion, but she appeared amused at his silly antics. "So what's the latest? You look kind of eager to tell us something."

"Wait, don't tell me," David deadpanned. "You finally got some fashion sense and an intelligence higher than that of a rock. That would be astounding."

"Oh, ha ha," Greg replied, sauntering over to their table and hiding something behind his back as he did so. "There's nothing really exciting. Unless, of course, you want to include the fact that our humble team made the…" He inserted a dramatic pause before whipping out the daily newspaper before them, laying it on the table with an animated grin. "Front page of the Las Vegas Sun!"

"Oh my goodness! Are you joking?" Calleigh asked, quickly snatching the paper to examine its contents before anyone could get a word in edgewise.

"I never joke about publicity," Greg solemnly replied. David, Sara, and Ryan scrambled up to get a glance over Calleigh's shoulder. Indeed, the nightmarish scene from the evening before was plastered all over the font page while big black headlines screamed 'terrorism', 'heroism', and everything in between. The picture was taken from the ground; a lucky snapshot that someone had caught from behind the tape. The photo showed Calleigh walking to the left, away from the wreckage. Ryan and Greg were in the center, arms wound around each other while Nick was with Warrick and Catherine, Eric with Horatio and Yelina, and David standing to the side, looking worn.

"Look at my hair," Calleigh groaned, laying her head on the table in resignation and handing the paper to whomever happened to grab it first. "Of course the day we finally get some hype is the day we look like we did the Tango with a pack of wolverines."

"My hair looks amazing, as always," Greg cheekily replied. Calleigh looked up and gave the young man a dark glare, although her dark glares were questionable at best. Besides, she didn't really care what anyone thought of her hair or clothes; she wasn't vain or self-absorbed. She merely wanted a tiny bit of normalcy and she could occasionally find it in when dressing like a typical woman, one who wasn't forced to encounter death every day.

"You keep telling yourself that," she dryly retorted. "But until proved otherwise, I still think that's an alien life form on your head."

David took another glance to his left, where a suspiciously silent Ryan was taking in the photo with a pale complexion. "You look like you're about to show us what you had for breakfast," David muttered. Ryan was indeed looking nauseous as he absorbed the paper's front-page shot, not having spoken since Greg had announced his arrival. Ryan blinked and tried to articulate a few words; he even opened his mouth with every intention of saying something, anything.

But no words seemed to come.

How could he verbalize what he was feeling? His nervousness, his worry; there he and Greg were, their arms wrapped around each other… and all of Las Vegas knew about it. It was in the papers, on the news channels, and it just so happened to be some of the hottest gossip the lab ever had. As a matter of fact, he and Greg hadn't been able to do much of anything without being under the scrutinizing gaze of a random stranger.

He quickly glanced up, realizing that everyone's eyes were trained on him. "It's just…" he began, struggling for the appropriate response and wishing he didn't feel like one of Grissom's bugs, like some winged creature stuck under a microscope to be observed. "It's the front page and all. I guess I'm just surprised."

"Everyone in Las Vegas knows you're officially involved with Sanders," David stated, voicing Ryan's silent realization. "It's a little late to be having second thoughts."

"I'm not having second thoughts," Ryan quickly replied, absolutely adamant. There was no way he was ever going back on Greg and he didn't care if the entire country knew about it. Hell, that picture might even be on the President's desk, but he honestly couldn't bring himself to care. Greg was everything to him and Ryan was glad he could show his boyfriend how much he truly believed in their relationship. "It's just that I've never really been 'out' before. It's so… sudden and wide scale."

"You're the poster boys for gay law enforcement everywhere. Should I ask for your autograph now or later?"

"Come on, Hodges," Sara chided. "Can't you make this simple for them? I know being nice goes against everything you are, but give them a break."

"You must have me confused with someone else," David replied, his voice dripping with faux sincerity. "Since when have I ever made anything easy on Sanders?"

"You've got a point there," Greg quipped, grinning wolfishly. "As a matter of fact, I bet the only thing easy in here is you."

David's eyes grew wide at the comment before he took his half-eaten cup of yogurt and threw it at the young CSI, the strawberry-flavored remnants splattering across Greg's chest. Greg let out an offended "Hey!" before ducking behind Ryan, using his boyfriend as a shield from whatever else David had in his arsenal.

"Get from behind him and take your demise like a man, Sanders," David ordered. "I don't want to have to coat him with food as well."

"You wouldn't!" Ryan protested, quickly forgetting the picture in favor of doing a mental roadmap of the city and trying to remember if he'd seen a dry-cleaners on any route he'd traveled so far.

"Depends on how badly Sanders deserves it. I wouldn't want to, because I find you to be a somewhat decent human being."

"But nothing will stop you in your quest for vengeance. I understand that completely, but I just bought this shirt last month."

"You sound just like Sanders. You've either been spending too much time with him or you're a match made in heaven."

Ryan opened his mouth to reply, but was saved the agonizing threat of smelling like strawberry Yoplait by Catherine's entrance. They hadn't seen her approaching, even with the glass walls that surrounded them. Ryan rolled his eyes at himself; what sort of CSIs were they if they didn't even notice their boss coming? Once the fairly lighthearted group caught sight of her, however, they couldn't help but notice the dark smudges beneath her eyes and rumpled clothes replacing her usual sultry, natural beauty. Her worry for Warrick had been blindingly apparent throughout the evening and her shabby, exhausted appearance only reiterated it.

"Hey boss," David said, forfeiting his need for payback when he caught sight of her pathetic form.

"Hello Hodges," she greeted, not even bothering to look in David's direction. The technician rolled his eyes, but being brushed off was just another fact of his life. He caught Ryan's benevolent look and shrugged in silent response; what did David care? He was used to it anyway.

She seemed to be in no mood for pleasantries or small talk as she ambled towards the coffee maker and asked, "What've we got on the case so far?" The question offered anyone the chance to reply; rest assured, they would have loved to give her something new, a piece of evidence to lift the cloud hanging above her head, but there was absolutely nothing to report with. The only person who could really help was Greg, who quickly shot up from his crouched position and ushered her towards a seat, offering his coffee-making services.

"In a nutshell," Sara began, watching as her friend flopped onto one of the plastic chairs, "We have those two guys who chased down Nick and Eric in custody and Brass picked up Christopher last night. Our problem is that none of them are talking."

"An interview with Brass and they still won't crack," Catherine surmised, her expression miserable. Sara frowned at the red head's apparent fatigue but nodded in agreement.

"Maybe a few days behind bars will change their minds," she suggested, hoping to give Catherine the burst of optimism she so obviously needed.

"Maybe," the older woman replied, her voice void of the confidence she usually possessed. "We've got all of our suspects and none of them will confess. Warrick's in the hospital and Yelina's out her partner. The surveillance tapes are useless, Jacqui hasn't found a print match, and now our lab is all over the news."

The smell of fresh brewing coffee began to fill the room; Greg had made good time, aware of how badly Catherine needed the pick-me-up. Her list of downsides seemed endless, but Ryan couldn't blame her. She looked so drained; between the media and the strain of a difficult case, anyone would be at their wit's end. However, he had never seen her so… desolate.

"How's Warrick?" Calleigh asked, her concern genuine while hoping to give Catherine something to be grateful for. "Horatio told me he was doing fine, but I figured you would know first hand."

Catherine smiled at the blonde's words, his name brightening her spirits a notch. "He's fine. He hates being holed up in the hospital and wants to get back on the case pronto, even if it's just pushing paper. And Nick can't seem to leave, so I sent Eric up there to get him home."

"They'll both bounce back in no time," Calleigh replied, her tone one of absolute certainty. "He and Nick are like brothers."

"I know he will," Catherine murmured. "I'm just… I'm afraid that this case won't pan out."

"Of course it will," Sara interjected. "We have our main suspects in custody and the best CSIs on the job. There's no way we won't get the guy who did this."

"We know Christopher rigged up the airport," Calleigh supplied, as if trying to catalog the positive aspects of their case. "And he knows who killed his sister. We'll get the truth."

"Yeah. Today's just a bad day, but tomorrow will be better," Greg added, placing a speedily made mug of coffee before Catherine, complete with two creams and two sugars, just the way she liked it.

"Have any scotch for this stuff?" she asked, trying to crack a joke and failing. Greg merely smiled sympathetically and shook his head in response. She took a sip and sighed anyway, obviously enjoying the Greg Sanders Coffee Experience.

"Thanks Greg. You make the best joe."

"I know I do," Greg replied, faking a snobby air. "It's a gift. You're lucky to have me."

She smiled and shook her head as she rose from the chair, still clutching her mug, and made her way towards the door. "I'm going to go help Yelina do something. Probably non-productive and worthless, but it's all we have right now."

"We can wait for Christopher and his two henchmen to break," Calleigh replied, trying to be helpful. "Sometimes that's all it takes."

"And you should buck up, boss," David added. Catherine turned towards the technician and arched a delicate eyebrow, silently demanding him to finish his nearly suicidal thought. It wasn't particularly wise to speak like that to ones superior, but David (who was so rarely nervous) didn't even flinch under her stare.

"Warrick doesn't like when you mope," he supplied, shrugging when Greg and Sara's eyes widened to the size of saucers. "Just because he's holed up in Desert Palms doesn't mean you should give up."

Catherine's eyebrows rose even higher. Greg cringed, expecting her to whip out her pistol within the moment, but instead she tossed her red hair back with a flip of her hand, stood a little bit taller, and strode out of the break room with a more purposeful step. Sara's expression was one of shock as she gazed at her boss, the sudden personality change surprising her. David's words had obviously done something to Catherine to kick her off her sulky road and back on track. Maybe it was the reminder that Warrick was perfectly all right in the hospital or that they had a murderer to catch, but damn if anyone was going to stop her now.

Sara, still startled by her sudden change, shook her head and rose from her seat as well. "I guess I'll go see about those bomb fragments," she announced, watching as the older woman disappeared down the hall. "Maybe our guy slipped up and left a print."

"Sounds like a plan," Greg replied. "Jacqui's battering the evidence as we speak. If that bomb knows something, she'll have the info in no time."

With a laugh and a farewell, Sara exited the room and marched down the hall opposite of Catherine. Greg and David gravitated towards the doorway themselves, taking part in the new energy that seemed to be buzzing around. Greg had, by then, managed to wipe away most of the yogurt, although he still looked ridiculous.

"You coming?" Greg asked, turning from the threshold. Ryan nodded, sending his boyfriend a smile from across the room. "In a second. I've got to pry some information out of Cal first."

Greg frowned, glancing at Calleigh and apparently wanting to know what Ryan could share with her that he couldn't share with him. However, he played it off and sent a sneaky look in David's direction instead, choosing not to pry. He wasn't possessive and there were some things you simply couldn't disclose with your lovers. If Ryan wanted him to know something, he'd reveal it in due time. "Okay. I'll be with Dave, annoying the hell out of him."

"There's a shocker," David replied, rolling his eyes. "Is there a day you don't annoy the hell out of me?"

"David, that hurts."

"I'm sure it does, you freak."

Ryan and Calleigh watched as the technician and CSI walked out of the room, their ability to aggravate each other coming full circle. Greg was purposely being touch-feely, irritating David in the process. He was poking David's shoulder, looking as if he were saying something. David made a swipe for him, but Greg ducked, laughed, and they more or less shoved each other towards the trace lab.

Calleigh let out an amused "hm" as she watched the duo barely make their way down the hall before turning to the man in front of her.

"Pry some information?" she questioned, mirroring Catherine's previous action by arching a perfect eyebrow. "Should I ask or are you going to tell me?"

"I know it's going to sound crazy, but I… I just need to make sure of something," Ryan replied, taking a deep breath. He didn't want to talk about the night before (much less force Calleigh to remember it) but he simply couldn't help himself. He had to know the truth.

"Okay," she agreed, motioning for Ryan to take a seat next to her. "Tell me what's up. We haven't had our usual time to talk the last few days anyway."

"No," Ryan agreed, pleased that Calleigh seemed to miss their usual discussions. "But this isn't gossip related."

"Is it about Greg? Your relationship?"

"Greg and I are fine."

"A lot of my friends would probably agree," she said, laughing at Ryan's exasperated sigh. She knew he didn't enjoy being on center stage of anything, particularly romance, but she couldn't help but tease. If someone found him attractive, he'd ignore it or try and play it off as politely as possible. The strange thing was that Ryan had taken to Greg so quickly; he didn't try and ignore the advances as he usually did and that was both surprising and unwise, particularly in their current situation.

Their hearts were going to be broken.

She couldn't bear to think about it.

"It's about last night," Ryan began, unsure how to approach the sensitive topic and unaware of Calleigh's inner turmoil. "After the bombs went off, while we were still stuck inside… I thought I saw you in the corner. In the office, where we found the door."

"Corner?" she echoed, clearly perplexed at his words and forgetting her inner monologue for the moment. "I was upfront with Nick."

"But you were there in that corner, right? I mean, at some point in time? Because I…"

He trailed off, feeling uncomfortable at both Calleigh's concerned stare and his own questionable sanity. He had seen someone over there, no doubt about it; he never would have thought to look in the office otherwise. It wasn't like Nick looked anything like Calleigh and happened to be waiting in a corner, staring at Ryan, as if trying to get his attention. Who else could it of been?

"But you have blonde hair," he feebly argued. He wasn't crazy.

"Ryan, I can promise you that I wasn't even near that part of the building. If I were, I would have called you guys over and not waited." She paused for a moment and he steeled himself for the next inevitable question: Are you sure you're okay?

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," he reassured, his stomach knotting as he winced at the uncanny predictability. Was he okay? Had it just been his imagination? Either way, he didn't want to bother Calleigh with it. "I think… it was probably my concussion playing tricks with me."

"Positive? The doctor said it was mild and you can work and all, but if you think you need some more help, I'll be glad to take you to Desert Palms."

Ryan smiled. "I'm positive, Cal. It was probably just a mix of the smoke and shock."

"Good. I'd hate for Alexx to kill me because I let you hurt yourself whilst in my care."

"It'd be amusing to see, though."

Calleigh rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless. "The words of a true friend. Remind me to thank you later."

"Anytime," Ryan replied, sending her a smile and a two-fingered wave over his left shoulder as he rose from his seat and headed for the door. "See you in a few hours."

"You bet. And I better not hear that you've been eating more Skittles!" she called, her voice motherly even as he exited the room. "You'll get cavities!"

Ryan didn't turn back but shook his head nonetheless, Calleigh never failing to amaze him. She and Alexx were a motherly force to be reckoned with; Alexx would reprimand him if he didn't wear a jacket on cold days (not that Miami had many) or if she heard he'd been losing sleep. Too often, she'd ask if he was all right or if he needed to "talk about something." Calleigh was the same, almost notoriously so. Even Eric joined in if he knew it would humiliate the younger man; Ryan was the baby of the team and wasn't allowed to forget it. He had been holding his breath, waiting for a newbie to join the lab, desperate to get their attention on someone else. However, his prayers had yet to be answered and he was still a bit overprotected and worried over. What abou-

His thoughts veered off track when he felt himself run straight into another person. He recoiled at the impact and staggered back a few steps, trying to regain his footing while simultaneously attempting to see who he'd nearly run over. He quickly looked up, hoping it was Greg or David and not a stranger. Unfortunately, luck wasn't on his side; he had never seen the man before and wondered how important he was and how he could have possibly missed his looming presence in the hallway.

"Excuse me," Ryan apologized, quickly bending to retrieve the files the man had dropped. When had he become so clumsy? Perhaps it was the case or thoughts of home; speaking of which, memories of his home weren't particularly fond. As a matter of fact, he felt he could easily fit into Las Vegas just as well as Miami. The only thing he would miss was Alexx, Calleigh, and Eric; he wasn't sure he could do his job without them.

Ryan tried to clear his head, the frank question of "Who are you?" startling him back to reality. Ryan gathered the fallen papers before looking up to meet the gaze of a tall, imposing, slightly balding man. He bled neither empathy nor mystery; he was more or less a normal guy, void of Gil's calculating gaze or genius intelligence. However, he dressed sharply and had an important air about him. Lawyer? Administrator?

"Ryan Wolfe," the Floridian replied, quickly sticking out his hand in a polite gesture. "From Miami."

The man quirked an eyebrow and accepted the hand, their shake friendly. "Conrad Ecklie, assistant director for the lab."

Ryan instantly froze. How many horror stories had he heard about this man? Between David's cursing of the dayshift technicians and Greg's warning to "just keep a lookout," Ryan was at a loss as to how to act. Although Ryan doubted the man in front of him was actually going to bite his head off in the literal sense, he couldn't help but wonder if he had any intention of making the case any more difficult than it already was.

"So you're part of Horatio's team?" Conrad asked, taking his files back from Ryan's dazed grasp.

"O- yes, I am," Ryan awkwardly replied, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Working the Ellie Jenkins case."

"And you're partnered with…?"

"Greg Sanders. And David Hodges, now that I think about it."

"Hodges." It wasn't a question, merely a statement portraying Conrad's obvious distaste towards the other man. Ryan inwardly winced. What exactly had David done to deserve that kind of reaction?

"I think he's nice and an excellent technician," he defended, hoping he didn't sound like a petulant child. But could he allow someone bash his friend, especially one who (although derisive at times) was a loyal partner and comrade?

"So I gather. I suspected that you and Sanders were already… partners," Conrad retorted, holding up the daily issue of the Las Vegas Sun. Their now-infamous picture was staring right back at him, glaringly obvious in its context. "I don't suppose you understand the implications of this photo?"

"Well, sir," Ryan replied, feeling rather irritated and flustered at his current predicament. "It looks to me like we're happy to be alive."

"I'm not implying anything," Conrad countered. "This speaks for himself. I'm only saying-''

"Conrad!"

The two men turned towards the familiar voice and Ryan felt a wave of relief wash over him as he saw Doc Robbins shuffling their way. Conrad didn't seem as pleased to see the M.E. and shot the older man an impatient look. With a sigh, the dayshift supervisor waited for Robbins to join them, unhappy at being interrupted.

"Hi Doctor Robbins," Ryan greeted, genuinely happy to see the older man. Perhaps it was because Robbins seemed truly concerned on how well Ryan was fitting in and how the case was going, but the Floridian felt like he had a real ally watching his back.

"Ryan, what's it going to take for you to call me Al?"

"A loaded pistol and some of Greg's ramen."

"In other words…"

"Death."

"Then you should probably keep calling me Doctor Robbins," Robbins replied, giving Ryan a small, quirky smile before turning to Conrad. "I see you're tormenting an innocent young man," the M.E. observed, his tone one of disapproval. It wasn't as if Robbins had any power over Conrad, but Conrad still bristled at the allegation.

"Tormenting? Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Conrad, Ryan's a good CSI. Gil would hate to know you've been bullying a guest."

Conrad rolled his eyes and handed the newspaper to the younger man. "There's no need for either of you to get defensive. I'm just saying that for the sake of your own well-being, Wolfe, you should keep yourself out of the public eye for a few days."

Ryan knew that, despite Conrad's outward personality, he was honestly looking out for his and Greg's best interest. Las Vegas and its crime lab were generally accepting, mainly in the middle of the city, but there were still those who weren't very tolerant of homosexuality.

"Good to hear," Robbins replied, seemingly content at Conrad's response. "Anyway, I've got the results on your Bailey case."

Conrad, motivated by these words, quickly nodded. Robbins gave Ryan a wave of farewell before following Conrad down the hallway, their destination most certainly work-related in one way or another. Ryan couldn't help but smile to himself, watching as the two men made begin speaking about Conrad's case. Ryan could understand where everyone's opinion of Conrad stemmed from; the man didn't seem easy to know, but his heart was pretty much in the right place.

And between the good Doc Robbins and Alexx back home, it was hard to find a cooler group of people than .

…

Eric had never liked hospitals. He had been in so many to interview victims that he sometimes felt that the stark, white walls were closing in and that he'd never get the smell of sanitizer and antiseptic off of his skin. He would rather have been anywhere than where he was at the moment, which was riding the elevator up to the third floor where Warrick was staying.

Nick had been there for almost the entire night and following morning, and it was time someone either convinced him to leave or dragged him out kicking and screaming. Neither option was particularly appealing to Eric; he wasn't sure why Horatio, Gil, and Catherine even sent him. He would have thought that Sara or Greg would have a better chance of getting the Texan home; Nick knew them a lot better than he knew Eric and the probability of them convincing him to leave seemed much larger.

But both Sara and Greg were adamant about his going. Catherine was busy and so were Ryan and Calleigh; if he didn't know better, he'd venture to guess that they were more or less forcing him to interact with Nick and clear the air. But Eric didn't want to clear the air. Eric wanted to stay as far away as he could, he wanted Nick to not hate him for his cowardly approach on relationships and, more than anything, he wanted a bag of Skittles.

It was a good thing he'd grabbed one before Calleigh and Ryan practically chased him away from the lab, threatening bodily harm and matchmaking if he didn't either 1) confess, or 2) confess. He grimaced; they weren't exactly giving him a wide array of choices.

He tore open the red bag as the elevator doors 'dinged' opened and he stepped out into the main hallway of the third floor. Eric progressed down the hall, searching for room 327 and the man he was ordered to bring back. 323, 325… aha. There room 327 stood in all its glory. Eric peered in, catching sight of Warrick, whose leg was doctored up with several mechanisms. He glanced around, craning to peer through the rest of the room before rolling his eyes at himself. Warrick was sleeping and it wasn't as if he was barred from going inside. With a small sigh and a nervous breath, he pushed the door open.

And there he was. Nick sat in the corner, slouched against an uncomfortable chair, looking tired and worried.

"Nick?"

The Texan looked up at the voice. His hair was disheveled, his glasses were crooked, and his clothes were a mess, but he was certainly beautiful in his sincerity.

"Hey Eric."

Eric smiled and nodded towards the hallway. "Shouldn't we talk out here?"

"Nah. They've got 'Rick higher than a kite. But there's an extra chair here, if you're interested."

Eric nodded and closed the door before taking the seat next to him. "I've been sent with a message from the lab. They want you to rest without making a scene."

"Me? Make scenes? You must be thinking of someone else."

"Catherine warned me you wouldn't want to leave, so I'm telling you that I'll use force if I have to."

"Forgive me if I'm less than terrified."

Eric laughed and Nick grinned, visibly relaxing his tense shoulders. "I expected that," Eric replied. "I think they expect it too, but I refuse to let you live on hospital food and sleep in a chair. Why don't you come and at least get something to eat?"

Nick sighed, not meeting Eric's eyes, his gaze trained on a silent Warrick. "I don't know. He might come around soon."

"Nicky, it's a broken leg. We've all had one," Eric replied, his voice soft. "He'll be fine. He'll wake up and demand a nurse get him in some decent clothes and back in the lab."

Nick laughed, his voice heavy and tired. "Yeah, I can just imagine 'Rick doing that."

"And he wouldn't want you worrying yourself either. If anything, he wants us to solve this case."

"The case," Nick echoed, the words seeming to remind him of his profession as he finally tore his eyes away from his friend and to Eric. "How is it at the lab? Has anyone stumbled on anything case breaking or we still stuck?"

"First of all, we aren't stuck. Second of all, no. But we've got three main suspects and Brass is trying to crack them as we speak."

"Brass, huh? Well, if he can't do it…"

Nick trailed off, his words silent but understood. If they couldn't get the guilty to talk, Ellie would just be another cold case stored away on a shelf somewhere. It was so wrong; she had been such a bright girl, someone who wanted to change things and make them better. She wasn't sick or twisted… she didn't deserve it. She was merely a victim of chance and it was unfair. She had the right to live out her life and although Nick was never one of sugar coat the issue or idealize a victim, the case still got beneath his skin. How could she and Christopher even be related? A human rights activist and a damn Neo Nazi couldn't possibly share the same blood.

There was a silence between he and Eric before Nick spoke again, a small smile twisting his lips upward. "I bet you weren't too thrilled to come here."

"Well, I can't say I'm a big fan of hospitals. The smells nearly kill me," Eric replied, wrinkling his nose and he chewed on a few red Skittles. "After you've been in so many, you prefer to just steer clear if you can."

"But there's no steering clear for you, huh?"

"Nick, I didn't mind coming here. I'm worried just like they are. But you put your heart into everything and… I don't know. It doesn't seem healthy," Eric said, letting out a small sigh. "Although I'm sure people really fall for that heart of yours."

"You didn't," Nick stated. Eric froze at that, allowing the words to sink in. They had tiptoed around the matter, glossed it over until it was something else completely, but the fact remained that Nick had tried everything in order to make Eric understand how he felt. He had been pushing so hard to open Eric up, to make him talk and express his feelings. But he, like so many others, was failing at the task. Eric couldn't help but want him to keep trying, but it was stupid to think anyone would waste their time on the impossible.

"I've been chasing you pretty hard," Nick whispered, averting his eyes and even in the shadowy recesses of the room, Eric could see the small coloring on Nick's face.

"Yeah," Eric replied, smiling despite himself. "I kind of noticed."

"I'm sorry," Nick replied, his voice holding a trace of forfeit. Eric's heart plummeted at the tone. "I should have known when to back off. I've been thinking about it… probably too much, but I just want you to know that I won't…" Nick trailed off, struggling for words. "Say anything else about it. My pushiness has probably been really obnoxious and I just got so ahead of myself."

Eric wanted to smile, wanted to support Nick's new resolution, but his throat was closing up and an embarrassing stinging made its way to his eyes. Why was he always trying to dissuade suitors who were interested in more than just sex? He and Ryan had the same problem, but for different reasons. Ryan wanted a real relationship with substance and not just sex, while Eric wanted the complete opposite, but they were both scared of getting close to someone; Eric had been close to Speed and had him violently ripped away. He wasn't sure if he could handle something like that again.

But he was so tired of lying.

And fighting.

And being alone.

"I used to date anyone," he whispered, unsure as to why he was confessing and not really caring. He needed to say this; moreover, he wanted to. "I'd go to clubs for the sole purpose of taking someone home. After Speed died, I was so screwed up." He took a shuddering breath and paused a moment before continuing on. "If we were in Miami," he continued, his voice just barely above a murmur. "I wouldn't take you home. I'd ask you out for coffee or dinner because I wouldn't want to mess this up. I like you too much to just screw the possibility over."

"But we aren't in Miami," Nick finished, Eric confirming the fact with a nod. "That means…?"

"That means I can admire you all I want, but I can't make a move. Long distance never works and you're worth a lot more than just a romp in the bedroom."

Eric was already aware of how close they were and he felt dizzy when Nick leaned in even closer. "Why don't you let me decide what I'm worth?" the Texan whispered, his words holding hope and pleading simultaneously. Eric shook his head, trying to both say 'no' and clear his thoughts.

"Nick, this isn't a good idea."

"Why not?"

That was a good question. Eric certainly couldn't think of a reason, and Nick was making his brain short-circuit anyway. And if Ryan could do it; Ryan, who was so straight-laced and controlled by rules, then why couldn't Eric? Speed, his best friend in the entire world, wouldn't want him walled off to potential happiness. He wouldn't want him to punish himself by distancing his emotions from all of those around him. And Nick was so close anyway, his breath ghosting against Eric's lips that his defenses were crumbling into a useless pile of rubble. What would Horatio or Gil say, or how will it affect his friends, or how he was supposed to give Nick up when it was over?

They were all important questions.

And at the moment, they simply didn't matter.

Nick's lips were warm and slightly chapped, but they felt so good. It wasn't only day's worth of pent up energy that was flowing out, but their unwavering stance on this final decision. It was satisfying and resolute; satisfying because Nick not only wanted him, but also felt for him, craving not just sex but intellectual contact. He wanted to feed the emotional bond that had somehow held them together despite Eric's continuing denial. It was resolute in the fact that neither man was breaking away to excuse their actions or stuttering their way out the door, but determined to see it through. Not just the kiss, or the day after, but all of it.

"C'mon guys," Warrick complained, his voice rough with sleep but laced with humor. "Can't you go get a room?"

They quickly broke away, Eric looking appropriately embarrassed but Nick grinning widely. When had he woken up? How long had they been lip-locked in his conscious state? "Hey 'Rick. We were just-''

"Trying to see what each other's tonsils taste like? Yeah, I got you," the other man replied, grinning when Nick rolled his eyes at the expression. "At least you aren't moping around anymore."

"Moping around? I never moped," Nick defended.

Warrick shot a pointed look at Eric. "Eric, man, this guy totally moped. Glad you two got over whatever was stopping you. One more day of 'Why doesn't Eric like me?' and I would have shot myself."

"I never asked why Eric didn't like me!" Nick quickly retorted, shooting his wounded friend a 'you'll pay for that later' glare. "I merely wondered what… I mean, I was just curious as to why we couldn't seem to…" He trailed off, struggling for words. Eric, taking pity on him, smiled before placing his hands on the sides of Nick's face, silencing the other man with a kiss.

Warrick covered his head with the bed's blanket and muttered something under his breath.

…

Hours had passed, and evening had melted into midnight, which birthed the morning. Another night had slipped away and the team had made little headway in the case. However, the stress of the job seemed to dissolve whenever Ryan went home. Home, of course, wasn't his hotel room, which only Eric had occupied the past week or so. Home was with Greg, trying to cook or feeding the fish or listening to a CD that Greg always insisted Ryan would like and, surprisingly, he was right most of the time. Ryan did enjoy most of Greg's music, but his taste was often deterred by frightening Black Flag and Marilyn Manson covers. Those were the bands he'd wait to listen to, like on the day he went deaf.

But more than anything, home was when they were curled up together. Making love was always an amazing experience, but sometimes just being still, just talking and breathing and being together was what he wanted the most. A prime example of this strangely intimate act was occurring that very moment; they were both lying in Greg's bed, clothes still on, the only light streaming in from the open blinds. Ryan's head was resting on the other man's chest while Greg's fingers played with the Floridian's hair. His left hand was resting on Greg's chest and he could feel the rhythmic beating of Greg's heart against his palm. This was what he meant when he told Calleigh where he was going after work; she had asked that evening as they packed up their things, flipping her hair and inquiring if he'd be at the hotel. He had shook his head and replied that he'd be going home and then Greg had stuck his head in, informing Ryan that he was ready to go.

She had merely smiled and nodded.

Ryan closed his eyes, focusing only on the way Greg's heart beat under his hand. Above him, Greg couldn't seem to stop meddling with Ryan's dark hair, memorizing the way it felt against his fingertips. He had a feeling the case would be wrapping up soon and while it would be another victory for the crime lab, another criminal put behind bars, it would also be the end of their relationship as they knew it. Ryan's responsibilities were in Miami; Greg knew this, but the thought of Ryan leaving made him sick. His apartment would be strangely empty; none of Ryan's clothes would be hanging in his closet anymore and there would only be one toothbrush in his bathroom. Somehow, that wasn't right at all. He needed Ryan's health food in his refrigerator and his body to fill up the other half of his bed. He'd never thought he'd like sharing a bed with someone; he always wanted to sprawl and twist the blankets to his liking, but Ryan's presence was as natural as breathing. He couldn't live without breathing. Did that mean he couldn't live without Ryan?

"Greg?" Ryan asked, shifting to face his lover, unaccustomed to Greg's silence. Greg supposed he had been uncharacteristically quiet; he could rarely go five minutes without saying something unless he was absolutely beat. Ryan knew their day hadn't been particularly hard and there was little reason for Greg's sudden hush.

Greg met Ryan's eyes before he smiled, hoping to alleviate Ryan's concerns while simultaneously burn into his memory the way Ryan looked in Greg's room, the way he fit on his bed. Had they been living some sort of dream? Greg's life had been so full, so complete while Ryan had been there and it was going to be over so soon.

"I was just thinking," Greg answered, smiling at Ryan's obvious unease. "I do that sometimes, too. It's not just a Grissom thing."

It had been a joke, but Ryan knew Greg well enough to see through some of his more transparent lies. He adjusted himself from his previous position, flipping onto his stomach and propping himself up on his elbows. "Can I ask what you're thinking about? If it's about how great Calleigh looked today, I'm leaving."

That was also intended to be a joke, but Greg merely smiled again before speaking. Ryan frowned; Greg's usually bright expression had taken a leave of absence, replaced by the shell of what it had once been. It didn't even reach the blonde's eyes.

"Do you think if we lived in the same place," Greg began, gently touching Ryan's cheek with his fingertips, "We could be together?"

Ryan clasped his hand over Greg's, moving so that he was sitting up and able to see Greg fully. He couldn't deny that he'd been thinking the same thing, but what brought this on? He felt his breath hitch and his heart thump painfully.

"What do you mean?" It was a stupid question and Ryan knew it. He always asked that when he wanted to avoid a topic, although that was a rare quality for him. He usually tackled issues head on and got them out of the way, but things that truly hurt him –like this, for instance- were things he'd try to evade at all costs.

"I mean you can't leave me."

Ryan sighed, closing his eyes for a moment and squeezing Greg's hand tighter. They had both known this going in, but that seemed like such a long time ago.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, opening his eyes to meet Greg's. "I don't want this to end either."

"Then let's do something about it. You can stay here with me. I won't even charge you for tenant costs."

"Isn't that nice of you?" Ryan laughed, but the humor was short lived. His smile fell and his voice treacherously portrayed his swirling emotions. "You know I can't. My entire life is in Miami."

"Aren't I part of your life?" Greg asked, blinking quickly, almost as if he were trying to fight back some tears.

"Of course you are," Ryan urgently replied. "Absolutely. I just… I have an apartment and a job and friends. I can't… I mean, could you? Could you give up everything here and follow me across the country?"

Greg sat up. "We only have a few more days together," he whispered. "I just… I don't know what to do or how to act. I wish I could just let you go without a second thought. But I've never felt like this and I don't want to lose you."

Ryan's heart hit the bottom of his stomach. This was the moment he had been warning himself about, because with the laughter and nights beneath the sheets came the inevitable heartbreak and loneliness and pain. He swallowed back a sob, managing only to whisper a broken, "C'mere," before pressing his lips against Greg's, closing his eyes in a vain attempt to erase Greg's sorrowful expression.

Their kisses were slow, sensual, each trying to make it last for as long as time would allow. Ryan pushed Greg back to his former position; that is, laying flat on his back. Ryan climbed on top of him, straddling his hips and deepening the kiss even further. He just wanted to forget about Christopher and the airport and the media; his only desire was to be with Greg. No more questions and detectives and mysteries, either. It was draining him and those around him of their spirit, their confidence. And definitely, definitely no more bombs. Las Vegas could keep them and their now-demolished airport.

Suddenly, Ryan froze.

He opened his eyes to meet those of the man beneath him, Greg obviously confused as to why Ryan would want to cease their inevitable path to satiation. Ryan hadn't mean to, of course, but he couldn't stop his obnoxiously persistent thoughts. In most circumstances, he was completely lost in Greg's lips and hands and skin, but there was something in the back of his mind that wouldn't stop bothering him, an idea that hadn't occurred to him until just then.

"Ryan? What is it?"

Ryan couldn't speak at first, his thoughts still running circles around in his head. Airport. Bombs. Something inside of him clicked. The time line had been sitting in front of them for days and days, the answer right under their nose. How had they missed it? He supposed it didn't matter just so long as they got to the bottom of the case, no matter how long it took.

"Greg, how did Christopher think he was going to get the bombs past security?"

Greg quirked an eyebrow. "You're thinking about the case while we're ten seconds from being nak-'' He suddenly stopped, his previous words dead on his lips. His brown eyes grew a size larger and Ryan could practically hear the wheels of his mind turning. It was a question that had been bothering Ryan for quite a while, although he hadn't realized it until a few moments ago. It had been the issue that irked him since the beginning but he hadn't been able to zero in on the specifics or to identify the problem because he couldn't put words to it.

How did Christopher plan to get bombs past airport security?

"It's one thing for Christopher to plan out a bombing like that," he continued, allowing his mind to take him down the path and towards the answer. "But those bombs blew half of that place apart. It's hard to get anything explosive in an airport post nine eleven. I mean, when you think about it, the only people who can get past security…"

"Are the security guards themselves," Greg finished, sitting up, eyes wide and hair sticking up in every which way. "I mean, especially one who knows the place inside out. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I'm thinking that one of the airport guards was helping Christopher."

"Then we're definitely on the same page. I'll call Grissom," Greg said, snatching his cell phone. "You'll call Horatio?"

Ryan nodded, quickly seizing his own phone. His mind was racing at a million miles an hour, bits and pieces of the case surfacing through his subconscious and the inaccuracies making themselves known. Details of the murder seemed to play before his eyes, as if he were watching a movie. The Emerald Isle Motel roof in Miami, the unmatched fingernail scrapings from under Ellie's nails, the way Ellie Jenkins's blonde hair splayed out around her head in a pool of her dried blood.

Blonde hair.

He halted, completely immobile as his cell completed the call to Horatio. It rang once, twice, not that Ryan was counting. As a matter of fact, his conscious had traveled into a completely different universe. In the corner of his eye, Ryan could have sworn his entire bank account that he saw Calleigh simply standing in a far off corner of the burning airport lobby. Why a corner? And why stand, unmoving, in the middle of a catastrophe? He saw the blonde hair immediately, but when he turned to call to her, to tell her to start moving before she was caught under falling debris, it wasn't Calleigh standing there. As a matter of fact, no one was occupying the corner at all. Even as he heard Horatio answer his cell with an admittedly tired voice, Ryan couldn't seem to form words. Standing in the middle of Greg's bedroom, he couldn't help but realize that Warrick would have died without that door… all four of them might have perished and the only reason Ryan had even found the door was because he thought he saw someone standing in the corner. It was an odd, creepy feeling that made his voice waver.

"H? It's… it's Ryan. I just had this thought and I was wondering if you could help me out."

…

Excerpt from Ellie Jenkins's diary:

March 9th, 2005

I have to get away from Chris. He's planning something and I know people are going to get hurt.

***

Act 12: Our Looming Destination

…you can't come into the room without my feeling all over me a ripple of flame, and if, wherever you touch me, a heart beats under you touch, and if, when you hold me, and I don't speak, it's because all the words in me seem to have become throbbing pulses.
-Edith Wharton to W. Morton Fullerton, 1908

Eric wasn't sure which phone was ringing –his or Nick's- but his sleep-deprived state didn't care to assist him in finding out. His mind didn't even recognize the possibility that it might not be his phone; as far as his barely conscious condition was concerned, he was still in his hotel room on a normal night –well, day- getting some shut eye and wondering how in the world he was supposed to get through the next night without staring and/or embarrassing himself in front of Nick. He'd been doing an alarming amount of both the past few days and didn't particularly enjoy making a mockery of himself.

Instead, he grabbed the closest cell, flipped it open, and muttered, "Delko" while cursing whoever was on the other end.

"Eric?"

"I said Delko, didn't I?" he asked, wishing he could smash the phone with a big hammer and then go back to sleep. He knew it wasn't the wisest tone to reply in, especially considering the fact that it could have been his boss. His vision was too blurry to read the caller ID and his mind wasn't capable of recognizing voices at the moment; the President might be on the other end and Eric wouldn't know the difference until it was too late.

"Eric, it's Ryan."

However, he did recognize names.

"Oh, Ryan. Hey. What's up?" Eric asked, falling back into the pillows, Nick shifting next to him. The Texan let a small sigh before wrapping his right arm around Eric's waist, dropping a kiss onto his bare shoulder before nuzzling the Cuban's neck. Eric grinned, trying to remind himself that he was on the phone.

"I was actually calling Nick."

"Nick?"

"Yeah, you know… tall, dark hair, good looking."

"I think you're describing me, my friend."

Ryan laughed and Eric fought off his own smile. He didn't really think of himself in such a snobbish manner, but he couldn't resist the joke. After all, he was tall and he did have dark hair. The "good looking" part was all a matter of opinion.

"Modest much?"

"It's a gift. Now go call Nicky and tell him whatever you want."

"Eric, I did call Nick."

"Then why are we having this conversation?"

"Because this is Nick's phone. Should I ask why you answered it?"

Eric ripped the phone from his ear, horrified. Now that he looked at it, he realized that it wasn't his phone, it was Nick's, and there was no way he could explain his way out of it.

"Ryan, I…" The beginnings of an excuse were on the tip of his tongue, but his mouth snapped shut and he rolled his eyes at the laughter on the other end. "Would you stop laughing?" he asked, his tone portraying his annoyance.

"Caught red handed," Ryan taunted, his words barely squeezed through bouts of hysterics. "Wait until Greg hears about this."

"You can't tell Greg!"

"Well, he's right here next to me. If I can open my mouth, move my tongue, and articulate words, I should be able to tell him without a problem."

"Ryan," Eric said, the name sounding suspiciously like a whine. "Don't do this."

"It's too late. He already wants to know what we're talking about."

"You have no idea how much I hate you right now."

"I'm sure Nick agrees. He's there, right?"

"Maybe."

"Next to you?"

"Perhaps."

"In the same bed?"

"That's between me and Nick and possibly God."

"Fine. Then tell Nick to shower and get back to the lab. We might have a lead on the case."

"A lead? We'll be right over."

"Just don't shower together. You'll never leave the house."

"You're perverse, Wolfe."

"Wonder who I learned it from, Delko."

"Probably that boyfriend of yours. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to attempt the impossible."

"And what's that?"

"Getting out of bed."

On the other side of the conversation, Ryan sighed. "I know that feeling all too well. Anyway, I'll do my part by telling everyone that you'll be here pronto. Do your part by actually getting here."

"I guarantee I'll be there within the next week."

"Eric."

"Okay, okay, I'm up."

"Good boy. Half an hour, remember?"

"Don't remind me. See you in a while."

"Ditto."

Eric punched the End Call button before dropping it onto its previous location. How could he have been so stupid as to answer Nick's phone? He knew Ryan was probably telling Greg at that very moment while Greg cackled with glee. Honestly, he was a moron. A tired moron, but a moron nonetheless.

"Who was it?" Nick asked, his voice muffled by the pillow and Eric's neck. "Please don't tell me was work."

"I won't, but don't blame me when you get fired."

Nick let out a groan and cracked a sleepy eye open. "Was it Ryan?"

"Yeah. Said we might have a lead in the case."

"A lead? What a time to get a lead. Middle of the day and they get a lead," Nick murmured. Nevertheless, he shifted from his position, dropping another kiss on Eric's collarbone.

"Want to shower first?"

"If you make some coffee."

"I think that can be arranged."

…

Despite their humorous phone conversation, Ryan's spirits weren't exactly high. As a matter of fact, they were trodden as he and Greg entered through the front doors of the crime lab. He thought he had a lead, he might have an idea of what happened, but how could he really know for sure? He sent a silent prayer, hoping that he hadn't stirred up a big mess and gotten anyone's hopes up. He began to mentally mull over the case, unaware of Greg's concerned gaze or the fact he hadn't spoken since their arrival.

"Ryan?"

Ryan was too lost in his own thoughts to hear the question; he began pulling at the hem of his shirt as he walked onward, not even realizing that he was giving himself away with the nervous gesture.

"Ryan, what is it?"

Ryan snapped back to reality, turning towards the familiar voice. Greg was giving him an anxious look, a troubled frown pulling at his lips. The blonde had stopped walking, Ryan echoing this action as they stood in the middle of the hallway, motionless.

"I'm just trying to figure out the case. I'd hate to think I stirred up-''

"Ryan Wolfe, you listen to me," Greg ordered, placing his hands on his hips. "You're a great investigator and your theory is the best one we've had so far."

"I know. I guess it's just that… I just don't want to disappoint anyone."

"Trust me, you won't. We'll get this guy and then go back home and sleep for a week. How does that sound?"

"Too good to be true."

"Yeah, I was thinking you looked a bit tired," Greg replied, waggling his eyebrows for effect.

Ryan blushed at the suggestive implication. "Well, you keep me up all night. Day. Whatever."

Greg grinned, but it wasn't a leer; it was more like affection before he leaned in and gave Ryan a quick kiss. In the past, Ryan would have shied away. Working patrol had given him a sense of what and what not to do in public, but he wasn't going to hide Greg and it wasn't like the entire city didn't know about them anyway.

"Guys, c'mon," came a groan from behind them. They quickly pulled apart to see an amused Warrick Brown standing behind them, balancing on a pair of crutches while his leg hung immobile in a cast.

"Warrick, my man," Greg greeted. "Do I get to sign your cast or what?"

"You stay away from me," Warrick warned. "I've seen your perverted doodles. The last thing I want is an outline of some guy's…" He trailed off, glanced at a grinning Ryan, and quickly changed course. "I don't have a marker, sorry. So what's the deal with the case?"

"Well, you're the guy to hit up for his bank transactions," Greg replied as he, Ryan, and Warrick began down the hallway, their pace slow so as to not leave Warrick behind. "Did Ellie's brother buy a plane ticket?"

"With his debit card," Warrick confirmed. "It took a subpoena, but we finally wrestled his finances down. He made a cash withdrawal as well, Yelina's still trying to figure out what it went towards. She thinks Christopher gave it to whoever shot Ellie. They had to buy a street gun when they got to Miami, y'know? Can't bring your own firearm onto a plane."

"Good to hear. Anything else particularly incriminating?"

"The guy bought some bomb supplies online and around town," Warrick replied. "We're trying to subpoena those too. It's gonna take a while."

As the trio made their way down the hallway, Greg caught sight of Jim Brass stalking through the corridors. The man was certainly intimidating, Ryan would grant him that. He was a hell of a cop, too. He wondered what sort of war stories he and Frank would be able to share over some hard scotch or bourbon.

"Hey Jimmy," Greg called, catching Jim's attention without a problem. "Do you have a marker?" Jim shot him a look that gave away two sentiments: 1) He hated Greg's nickname for him and 2) Why would he be carrying around a marker anyway?

"I'll take that as a no," Greg said, answering his own question. Jim cocked an eyebrow and nodded.

"Smart guy," the older man retorted before turning to Ryan. "You know your security guard theory? We went through the log from the night Ellie died. A man named Charlie Edwards didn't clock out until twenty-four hours later. Friends didn't see him after about midnight. Assumed he got sick or something and just forgot to put it in with his boss."

"Are you bringing him in?" Ryan asked, fighting off a wave of dizziness. Was it possible that his theory might be right?

"He's taking a ride in a black and white as we speak. He should be here in about fifteen minutes," Jim replied as the four began walking, Warrick hobbling behind.

"Did he try anything stupid like, for instance, resisting arrest?" Greg asked. Ryan inwardly grinned; Greg still wasn't over the insane tryst Christopher had put them through. Unlike Christopher, Ryan was fairly certain Edwards went without complaint.

"My guys said he was practically docile," the Captain replied. Greg let out a huff. Ryan bit his lip to hide the smile; yep, he definitely wasn't over it yet.

"That's just lovely. You know, I have half the mind to-''

"If it isn't the dream team," came a voice from behind, interrupting what Ryan was sure to be a heated but pointless rant from Greg's side. The four turned to see David Hodges leaning against a doorframe, arms crossed and the perpetual half-smile/half-smirk turning his lips upwards.

"Hi Dave. Here to annoy us?" Greg asked, the banter coming to him without any effort.

"Of course. It's why I get up in the morning. Or night, as the case may be," David retorted, pushing himself away and towards them. "I heard Grissom and Caine are ready to grill your suspect."

"Do you lab geeks do anything other than gossip?" Warrick groused, sending the technician a dirty look. "I swear I-''

"Excuse me if I'm not terrified of whatever elaborate threat you've come up with, Peg Leg Pete," David interrupted, sending him a bored look. "What are you going to do, beat me with one of your crutches?"

Even Jim (whose humor tended to breach the dark side) gave a small snort. However, it seemed that the quip reminded Greg of his original quest: a marker. Ryan didn't have the heart to tell him that most people didn't carry around markers for the fun of it. What if they leaked? What if the cap came off? No sane individual would risk good clothes and dignity for the sake of toting around something most people would never need anyway. Who does something like that?

"Hey Dave, do you have a marker?"

David paused a moment before nodding, pulling it out of his lab coat pocket and handing it to Greg.

Ryan blinked.

There were sane individuals, and then there were the lab rats. He told himself not to be surprised, but the surprise came anyway.

"I was just using it on the glass board," the technician explained, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. The glass board was popular among the techs and a great place to collect ones scattered evidence information without wasting paper. "I'd ask why you need it," he continued, looking thoroughly perplexed as Warrick groaned in dread. "But I really don't want to know."

"I'm gonna sign Warrick's cast," Greg replied, grinning as he stooped and began to scribble down his name. Warrick, on the other hand, looked nauseous at the thought.

"Hodges, you have a vendetta against me or something?" Warrick asked, grimacing as Greg finished his name and began doodling.

"Not really, but any additional humiliation on your part is an added bonus."

Ryan gave a soft laugh at the comeback. "David, that's mean."

"No, that's just my personality. Mean would be for me to intentionally carry around a marker for the specific purpose of humiliating Warrick. See the difference?"

"Only you would make that distinction."

"What can I say? I was a born thinker."

"I believe you were a born plotter."

"You make that sound like a bad thing."

Greg, artistically exhausted, rose from his position and admired his handy work before sending David a grin.

"Thanks, Dave. The Leo da Vinci's of the world owe you one."

"Not a problem," David dryly retorted. "Glad I can contribute to the team."

"What did he draw?" Warrick asked. "God, do I even want to know?"

Ryan bent and examined the cast for himself. Greg had some shoddy handwriting at times, but his name was clearly legible; beside his signature was an odd sketch, hastily drawn. "It doesn't look perverse," Ryan announced, continuing to study the strange figure.

"My money's on a dirty limerick," David replied, glancing at Greg with a knowing smile. "He's left enough of those around to last several lifetimes."

"I'm betting it's a part of the male anatomy," Warrick muttered, letting his head fall back in despair. "It wouldn't surprise me. Do you know how long I have to wear this, Greg?"

"Actually, it looks like a… paper crane, I think," Ryan replied, tilting his head slightly. "With black squares?" There was a silence as the team tried to process the information, attempting to understand the significance. After a moment, Ryan suddenly let out a laugh and set his boyfriend a grin. "It's a paper crane made from a crossword puzzle. He's leaving his mark."

"Don't worry, Dave," Greg said, sending a lecherous smile in the technician's direction. "I'm leaving the dirty limerick for when you break your leg."

David didn't look amused. "I came down here to tell you good luck on the interrogation, but I can see that won't be necessary."

The young blonde let out an offended "uh!" before striking a slightly theatrical pose by sticking his hands on his hips and throwing his head back. "Do you know what you need, David?" he asked; Ryan could already sense where this was going.

"You need some basic intelligence."

"Hardy har har. You need a boyfriend."

"I need a vacation," David corrected. "Away from you."

"Oh, come on. Don't you think a significant other will make you relax?" Greg asked before turning towards Ryan. "Do you know anyone in Miami?"

Ryan grinned and shrugged nonchalantly. "Tyler's free," he replied. "He's a nice guy."

"And here I thought you were on my team," David groused, sending a accusatory glare in Ryan's direction. "Sorry if my career takes up most of my time."

"Romance lets people unwind," Greg countered. Ryan didn't understand why he was trying to win against David, because David definitely wasn't one to back down from a word war.

"A Hawaiian beach would let me unwind. Now give me back my marker."

"Impatient much?"

"The marker, Sanders. The Jenkins trace won't run itself."

Upon hearing those words, Greg quickly returned the marker and everyone morphed back into a professional mode, the lighthearted conversation all but dissipating. David sighed, glanced towards his lab, and then looked back at the three CSIs and their detective.

"Anyway, good luck," he continued. "I hear the guy's a real bastard."

"He is," Ryan agreed, frowning at the memories playing through his head. The hateful words, the chase, and the absolute disregard for anyone else's life. "Cocky."

"Let's not forget he tried to outrun us," Greg remarked. "And ruined my good shoes, but I don't dwell on the past."

With a roll of his eyes, Jim began onwards, Greg and Warrick following. Ryan made a motion to follow as well, but a light touch on his elbow made him turn back again. He knew who it had to be –David, of course- but it was still surprising. David wasn't a touchy-feely type of guy; he mostly kept to himself, so Ryan was curious to know what he had to say that he couldn't real in front of everyone else.

"Yes?" Ryan prompted, hoping David would learn to open up one day. The other man paused for a moment, considering his words and then the sensibility of saying them. After a moment, he finally spoke.

"Don't be so nervous," the older man advised. "You're a good CSI. Everyone knows it, so don't let this guy get the best of you."

"What makes you think-?" Ryan began, absolutely stunned. Whatever he expected to come out of David's mouth, it wasn't that. Maybe a question or a light rib, but kind guidance? It was wildly unexpected.

"It's insulting to think you can BS me," David plainly stated, not waiting for Ryan to finish the question. "You're terrified that your theory's worthless. You shouldn't be."

Ryan gave him a small smile. "Thanks. That means a lot, especially coming from you."

"I know. I save those kinds of speeches for the truly desperate, so consider yourself fortunate."

"I'm the King Midas of CSIs. Your wise counsel is greater than gold."

"What a clever metaphor," David replied, rolling his eyes. "Now get in there and make sure Grissom kicks ass. Jacqui and Bobby have money on this."

"What? How? One of them thinks we won't get this guy?" Ryan asked, trying to hide his disappointment. He had made friends with David's lab rat buddies; he was sure they had been confident in the CSIs working the case. Why would they think their investigative counterparts couldn't do this? Ryan hated himself for feeling so uncertain. His mindset had improved since he met Greg –hell, he came out to the entire city- but he wasn't on Greg's level yet. He still had a lot of insecurities that would take more than a case in Vegas to fix.

David gave him a half smile, as though he could read his mind. Then again, Ryan's doubts were probably clear when one took the moment to observe him.

"More like how long it'll take to make him confess. Bobby says an hour, Jacq's got her money on forty-five minutes. Personally, I think if you put Greg in there and get him to do some pseudo rock star act, that guy'll be begging for a yellow legal pad and a pen in five minutes or less."

"I'll drop the hint to Gil and H."

"See that you do," David replied, and without another word, turned and headed back towards his trace lab. Ryan watched him leave, keeping his semi-kind words in mind as he turned and hurried towards the interrogation room. He knew Greg, Warrick, and Jim were already there and the interview had probably already started, but he doubted he'd missed much. After all, despite Jacqui's confidence in them, Christopher was going to be a tough nut to crack. It was going to take time and hard evidence if they ever hoped to get him talking.

But when he entered the viewing room, Ryan was surprised to see that along with the three he'd just been talking to, Gil, Horatio, Nick, and Eric were there as well. Ryan could see Christopher and his lawyer waiting through the one-way mirror, the overhead light giving the room an odd glow.

"Hey, what's going on? That lawyer looks like he's going to blow a gasket," Ryan observed as he closed the door behind him. Had they been waiting for him? He hoped not; besides, there wasn't any reason to. He, Warrick, and Greg were just going to watch from the window.

"I asked the same thing," Greg replied. "They're being mysterious, won't tell me anything."

"Now that Ryan's here, we won't keep you on your toes any longer," Gil retorted, glancing up from a pile of papers and peering through his glasses, his blue eyes making Ryan feel as though he were naked in the middle of a crowd.

"Okay," Ryan slowly began, glancing towards a similarly bewildered Greg. What were they up to? Why had they been waiting for he and Greg? "We're listening."

"We figure that you two have been leading this case onward," Horatio said, his expression and demeanor one of absolute calm. "You know the details inside and out. You've met our suspect a number of times. We feel that you should interview him yourselves and see what you get."

"Wait a minute, us?" Greg asked, frowning. "The last thing we want to do is screw this over. Wouldn't you feel better-?"

"We have confidence," Nick replied, sending his best friend a big Texan grin. "We'll be out here rooting for you. Brass'll be in there, of course, but it's your party from there on out."

"No, listen, we're a pair of Level ones," Greg said, his tone urgent. Usually he would jump at such a great opportunity, but this case was too delicate to risk. "We've interviewed before, I know that, but not on our own. This case is made of glass."

"Greg, you understand glass better than any of us," Gil replied. Greg swallowed, realizing his boss had a point; Greg understood glass, what it looked like in the glow of a fire and what it felt like imbedded in your skin. He glanced at Ryan and their eyes met; Ryan, too, understood the jagged edges and transparency. He had seen Greg's scars, kissed them and counted each one on his back.

Their eyes held and there was silence for a moment.

What about this case? It could all fall apart. We've been working too hard to let it crumble. And what if he doesn't take us seriously?

But we've been working like crazy the past week and a half. Everything we've done has added up to this. And we're the CSIs; even if Christopher isn't scared, he will be. He should be.

We haven't come so far to back away now.

"We're in," Greg instantly announced, as though they hadn't been battling it a moment ago. Ryan turned and nodded in agreement. Horatio had to wonder what that… thing… was; that moment he'd just seen transpire between the two young investigators. It was almost as if they were able to draw strength and find confidence in each other when they couldn't find it in themselves alone.

Jim nodded as Ryan and Greg entered the interview room, Ryan's stomach feeling like stone. Was he sure they had made the right guess? Was he sure they hadn't missed any evidence? He focused on the suspect before them, willing his insecurities into the back of his mind. It was time to forget the nervousness and numerous possibilities; he knew Christopher was responsible. He knew it. And he and Greg were going to prove it, no matter what.

"You two ever catch your breath?" Christopher asked as Greg shut the door behind them. His lawyer, Jeff Pierceson, frowned at the remark but didn't prohibit his client from speaking. Ryan grimaced, the memory of their downtown chase fuelling his anger. Christopher Jenkins, unlike his sister, was a cocky know-it-all.

"Big words, Chris. Oh, and I forgot to ask how lockup is treating you," Greg retorted, sliding into the chair across from him. Christopher didn't reply to this, although it was clear he felt Greg's words were insulting. He shot them both a dark look but didn't speak.

"Did your attorney tell you why you're here?" Greg asked, casually flipping a folder open, as though he were talking about the weather.

"Yeah. You have some shit theory you're trying to pin me under."

"Exactly," Greg replied. "I'm sure Mr. Pierceson told you how we love wasting our time with shit theories."

"Can we get on with this?" Mr. Pierceson asked, annoyance tingeing his voice. "I don't have all night."

"But we do," Jim replied. "So sit down and relax. Coffee?" His offering held such a sardonic tone that the lawyer merely shot him an ugly glare before focusing his attention on Greg once more.

"Aren't your bosses supposed to be in here?"

"Actually, Greg Sanders and Ryan Wolfe are leading the investigation," Jim calmly responded. "Your client should answer any question they ask. You know how this works, right?"

"Of course. I suggest they start asking or we're leaving."

"Mr. Jenkins," Greg began, leaning back into his chair, hiding his nerves extremely well. "I know you said that you don't remember what you were doing the night your sister died, but I have a feeling you not only remember what you were doing, but where you were and who you were with. Am I right?"

"As usual, you're wrong," Christopher replied. "And if you keep guessing, we're going to be here 'til morning."

"We've got nothing but time," Ryan replied, choosing not to sit. "It's not going to bother us."

"It might bother me."

"As you can tell, we're really broken up about that," Greg replied. "Besides, this isn't going to go anywhere if you insist on lying to us. For instance, you know the thing about airports? They have surveillance footage."

Christopher shifted in his chair but shrugged his shoulders, as though he didn't care.

"This footage caught your sister running into the Las Vegas Airport, buying a ticket to the next available flight, all without luggage or a purse. Can you guess why that is?"

"She was a freak. Probably didn't even have a reason," Christopher replied.

"We think she did," Ryan interjected. "We think she was being chased, and we think you were her pursuer."

"Think so, huh?"

"Here's what happened," Ryan began, leaning closer to the suspect. "You and your two trigger-happy buddies were planning to destroy the airport and your sister caught wind of it. She was coming home from work on a regular morning, right? She opened the door and heard you three talking about the specifics, but her clothes don't exactly blend in well and you caught sight of her within a few seconds."

"She was terrified," Greg continued. "You started chasing her out of the house, but she was faster and managed to get into her car and drive away before you could beat her into a pulp. She knew she couldn't go back to The Alaska because you'd look for her and you lived out in the middle of nowhere. The closest precinct was miles away."

"She knew you'd find her anywhere, especially with your friends behind your back," Ryan offered. "She had to the flee the entire city, so she saw the airport and knew it was her only way out. She drove up and you lost her car in the traffic, but you knew she would stand out in a crowd. The airport's a huge a place, so she had already bought her ticket in a panic and boarded the flight."

"This is an entertaining story," Mr. Pierceson interrupted. "But does it have a point?"

"Shut up and listen," Greg snapped. He turned back towards Ellie's brother, who had yet to speak. "Know what tipped us off? Your impatience. The teller remembered you because you thought you had some right to cut the line. She made you get in the back and wait like everyone else. You didn't need the entire security division on your ass, so you calmed down and bought a ticket for her same flight when it was your turn."

"This is what didn't make sense," Ryan continued. "You never left the city, but you were obviously responsible for her death. However, no one saw your friend Mr. Edwards for almost twelve hours. He never clocked out. He simply changed into his street clothes, took your ticket, and boarded the flight in your place. Ellie didn't know who he was, so she finally felt safe."

"Ellie didn't have a purse on her," Greg said. "But she had cashed her check the hour before and kept her money tucked away in her blouse. She was able to buy a ticket and rent one scummy motel room before being completely out of cash. Edwards followed her to the motel and chased her up to the roof where he shot her twice."

Christopher was silent on his end of the table. His hands were clasped; he glanced towards them before looking back up. He steeled his jaw and Ryan held his breath.

Finally, "She deserved it."

"She deserved it?" Greg echoed. "She wanted a life away from you. I can't say I blame her, considering you thought she was your personal punching bag."

"She was a fag. She danced and had girlfriends."

Greg smiled, but it was more derisive than anything. "You'll have quite a while to think about it, won't you? Twenty-five years to life is a long, long time."

"My client isn't going to jail," Mr. Pierceson interrupted. "All you have is a story. Juries don't convict on possibilities."

"So you want evidence," Greg mused, reaching into his jacket pocket and withdrawing a familiar evidence bag. "We can do that. This, my friend, is your client's phone. My partner found it taped to the bottom of a chair in the airport. Before you blew it to pieces, that is."

"There's no proof my cli-''

"Spare us the bull," Greg interrupted. "Christopher thought he was one hell of a smart guy. There isn't a single print on here, so he obviously used gloves. He tried to clean off the receiver so we couldn't get his DNA."

"If you don't have his-''

"I said tried," Greg interjected. "He tried to remove any trace of himself, but he missed. It gets stuck in the receiver holes here, Chris. Surely you know that."

"If it's his, why didn't he throw it away instead of risking the chance of you finding it?"

"It's a camera phone, Slick. Edwards doesn't own a cell phone, so your client left it in a place where he told Edwards he could find it. Charlie wanted to make sure he was going to kill the right woman."

"Just because it's his phone doesn't mean he's the one who used it in this murder."

"The phone's just part of it," Greg easily replied. "You remember those two guys you hired to assassinate our CSIs? They don't like lockup as much as you do."

"You're missing the point," Mr. Pierceson replied. "My client didn't even leave the city. He didn't kill Ellie Jenkins."

"But he initiated the entire thing. Do you think Edwards would have given a damn about Ellie if Christopher hadn't begun planning his terrorist activities?"

"I'm not a terrorist!" Christopher snapped, his face contorting in anger at the accusation. "Those were the kind of people I was trying to get rid of! If we got rid of the airport, it would take months, even years to rebuild. Do you know what the movement could accomplish by then?"

"No, and I don't care to," Ryan replied. "You and "the movement" are going to jail. We'll round them up, one by one. Every ticking bomb they've placed and every innocent bystander they've murdered is going to catch up with them. It's impossible not to leave a trail."

"Good luck with that," Christopher replied, wearing a smug smile. "The trail's going to be hard to find."

"Maybe you haven't caught on yet," Greg replied. "So we'll explain it to you. This is the Las Vegas crime lab, second best in the country. If there's a trail, we'll find it. If there's a clue, we'll discover it. If there's a single trace left behind, we'll search until we get it. You made a mistake by messing with the graveyard shift, Chris, because we don't sleep."

"You think you can stop us?"

"I know we can."

Christopher shot up from his seat, making for a threatening figure as he advanced towards a seated Greg. Ryan, however, didn't give him the chance; he was there before Jim could even move, his brown eyes locked on their suspect's own. Christopher blinked, trying to hide his alarm; he wasn't wary of Ryan's presence before, but Ryan hadn't looked like he was ready to kill, either.

"I would you suggest you sit back down," Ryan advised, his voice taking on a low, dangerous whisper. "We aren't finished."

When Christopher made no move to obey, Ryan slammed his hand against the table, pleased to see that Christopher actually jumped before practically collapsing back into his chair.

"I'm sick of your holier than thou mind games," he snapped, his patience worn to its breaking point. "We have spent a week and a half wasting our time so we can chase your stories. You had two of your friends try to shoot our CSIs, you resisted arrest, and you almost killed us with your bombs," Ryan hissed, his dark eyes flashing with actual hatred as he smacked a picture of Ellie's autopsy picture onto the table. "Take a look at this. This is your sister. This is what Charlie Edwards did to her. We found her on a motel roof surrounded by her dried blood. And as glad as I'm sure you are, we are finished playing games with you."

Ryan was aware that Horatio and Gil were on the other side of the mirror, watching their two youngest CSIs interrogate, but Ryan couldn't bring himself to care. If they had a problem with his methods, they would intervene. Until then, Greg and Ryan knew the rules of the game and had Christopher squirming for once.

Christopher's usual snotty attitude seemed to buckle slightly. He glanced at the pale face of his dead sister and his eyes flickered upwards.

"She deserved it," he whispered again, but his voice was void of its usual resolution.

"What gave you the right to make that choice?" Greg asked, shooting a dark look towards their suspect.

"This isn't a moralistic debate, gentlemen," Mr. Pierceson interjected. "It's a question of law. My client refutes any allegations you've made so far. You're blowing smoke."

"Pretty quick to get this over with," Greg observed. "Any particular reason why?"

"I don't like when people waste my time," Mr. Pierceson snapped back. "Is there anything else?"

"Actually, there is," Ryan replied, turning towards Christopher. "We want to know about the bombs."

"Bombs? You're joking."

"Does it look like we're laughing?" Greg asked, ignoring the lawyer in favor of Christopher. "Have you ever tried to explain something, but couldn't find the right word?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"That's what happened to us. Our team examined the case from every angle after the airport was turned to smithereens. We knew the answer was right under our nose, but we couldn't seem to put our finger on it until my brilliant partner asked how you got bombs past an airport buzzing with security. That got us thinking. The only thing that can get past security is security."

"We know Edwards helped you, Christopher," Ryan said, leaning against the table. "We're bringing him in."

"Maybe you should explain to your client that this is it. The end of his life." For such a bright spirit, his voice portrayed his darker side, the part of him that was elated to see someone like Christopher miserable.

"It's not a fair trade for Ellie's, but it's close," Ryan finished as Christopher fell silent. On the other side of the glass, Horatio watched his young CSI. Ryan was stronger somehow, more sure of himself. He hadn't transformed into a know it all, but he was more confident. Who was it that brought it out in him? Greg?

Mr. Pierceson cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, we're done here."

"What, no confession?" Greg asked, mock surprise in his voice. "And here I thought we laid it all out for you."

The attorney bristled in his expensive suit, looking pale beneath the light. "We plan on going to court-''

"Give it up," Christopher snapped. "Just give up the bullshit, Jeff. There's no point."

"No point? Chris, you have a right to a trial."

"Yeah, and what'll that get me?" He turned his hateful eyes towards Ryan and Greg. The two CSIs returned it without a flinch.

"You win," he muttered. "But others will follow. We'll shape the world into what it was meant to be."

"You're right, you won't be the only ignorant man with a bomb," Greg replied. "More are going to do exactly what you did, all for the sake of killing people they don't believe are worthy. But Chris, we'll be here. When that happens again, there will always be more of us waiting to find you and put you where you belong."

"That's a little hypocritical, don't you think?" Christopher asked, a vicious tone to his query. "Aren't you the one who's judging me? Weighing whether I'm worthy or not?"

"There's the difference," Ryan replied, watching the emotions flicker past Christopher's face. He hid his fear and regret beneath hatred and defiance, somehow believing he could ignore authority for a cause that only resulted in one thing: death. That's what the Nazi's did and the young man before him proudly bore their symbol. How many people did this man want to kill? Hundreds? Thousands? Millions? How many until his hunger would be fed? Ryan steeled his jaw; he didn't want to know. But men like these had no conscious, they grew up to stain nations and end the lives of entire populations. "You gave us the right to judge you when you told Charlie Edwards to put two holes in your sister's chest."

Christopher didn't reply. Instead, he gazed at the picture before him, soaking in the way his dead sister looked up at him through blank eyes.

…

Instead of going through the door where Gil, Horatio, and the rest were waiting, Greg and Ryan opted to follow out the opposite door, stopping just outside the interrogation room and watching Christopher, his officer, and his attorney move away and towards a holding cell.

"We solved the case," Greg murmured, his voice reflecting his amazement, unable to tear his eyes away from the bright orange jumpsuit that failed to hide Christopher's swastika tattoo. Ryan blinked and nodded, grinning. They had done it. Hours and days of live guns, exploding bombs, collapsing buildings, bags of Skittles, cups of delicious coffee, and moments of utter boredom while they waited for David's trace machines to do their magic. The mystery was solved and Ellie was going to get her justice.

"We did," he agreed. "It's over. He won't see the sun for years."

"It's over," Greg echoed, and his smile, the excited one brought by victory and triumph slid away. Ryan furrowed his brow, concerned by Greg's sudden detour into misery.

"Greg, we got him. There's-''

"It's over," Greg repeated, Ryan freezing when the words finally sunk in.

The case was closed.

And their relationship was finished.

***

Act 13: The Long Road Home

This morning I tried to gain calm and strength for the separation.
-Tsarina Alexandra to Tsar Nicholas of Russia, 1915

The problem with having an all-expense-paid trip to another city was the one approving the check –that is, Miami-Dade County- didn't want anyone to hang around after the case was closed. In their eyes, a few extra days off were tax dollars poorly spent. Ryan was sure that if he were a politician (and thank God he wasn't) then he would whole-heartedly agree, insisting that the investigators jump the first flight back to their home state and quit sucking up the city funds.

But he wasn't a politician.

So he wasn't surprised (disappointed, yes, but not surprised) when Horatio called his cell the next evening. It wasn't a welcome call, considering that Ryan was in Greg's kitchen, cooking them up something halfway edible to eat while Greg attempted to find some clean forks. Ryan had somehow known that the call would come and the latest hours he had been spending with Greg were often punctuated with glances towards his cell, as though it were some sort of hazardous, threatening object.

He stared at the small phone for a moment, listening to its shrill ring and watching it vibrate across the table surface. Perhaps if he willed it to stop, it actually would? Maybe if he silently demanded that people leave them alone, they would listen?

But the ringing didn't stop and he couldn't stand to listen to the noise any longer. He snatched it up, flipped it open, and answered, "Ryan speaking."

"Mr. Wolfe."

Ryan immediately grimaced. The only one who ever called him by that name was his third grade teacher and Horatio Caine. Considering he had happily said sayonara to Mr. Flannigan in elementary school, the only other possibility was his boss. Ryan swallowed the feeling of sickness that clambered around in his gut and willed himself to speak, stealthily sneaking towards the living room, having no desire for Greg to overhear their conversation.

"H. What's up?"

"I've put the word to Miami that we've wrapped up the Jenkins case," came the calm reply.

Ryan's grip tightened around the phone and he leaned heavily against the couch armrest. "Ah," he said, feeling his heart nearly stop beating. It wasn't much of a response, but he was lucky to manage even that one-syllable utterance. He wanted to ask why Horatio had dialed Miami so soon. Even better, he wanted to say That's nice, but I don't think I'll be joining you. I'm kinda happy where I am. However, Ryan didn't imagine either of those two replies would go over very well with his employer. "I see."

"We're on the first plane to Miami," Horatio continued. "I stopped by your room at the hotel, but you weren't there."

"I'm at Greg's."

There was a hint of amusement in Horatio's voice as he said, "I thought so. Eric seems to be missing as well."

"I have a couple of guesses to where he might be hiding out."

"You aren't the only one," the red head responded. "Listen, we're meeting up Henderson Airport."

"Yeah," Ryan confirmed, hoping Horatio couldn't hear the disbelief in his tone. "I'll meet you there. What time?"

"Two hours."

Ryan tried not to choke on his own tongue, because Horatio couldn't possibly have said what Ryan thought he'd just said. Two hours? That was ridiculous. More than ridiculous, it was absurd! He didn't care how much money this investigation might cost the county, Ryan couldn't honestly believe that they were being hoarded back to their home state already. They had closed the case a mere twelve hours ago. It wasn't fair.

"Two hours?" he echoed, wondering whether the dazed, incredulous voice he heard was really his.

There was a pause at the end of the line before Horatio's words broke through the silence. "I'm sorry, Ryan."

…

"So have you forgotten what this room looks like?"

Eric's question barely broke through Ryan's dead water thoughts as he stood in the middle of the hotel room, looking around him as though he didn't understand where he was. All that he could seem to concentrate on was the memory of Greg's face; the expression Greg wore when Ryan said they were leaving Las Vegas in two hours. The meal they'd been preparing sat uneaten as they stared at each other for a long, quiet moment. Two hours. They had fallen into a routine, had a relationship, and it was going to slip between their fingers in one hundred and twenty minutes. It wasn't fair, wasn't right, but what could they do? Stop time?

"Ha ha. I'm fairly sure you've been memorizing the inside of Nick's house the past few days, Fabio," Ryan retorted as he managed to find the bedroom. The hotel room was oddly familiar, a predictable reflection of every other disgusting lodge he'd ever stayed in. It all felt so strange now; to think he'd arrived here and unpacked with no expectations. As a matter of fact, he had been counting down the days until he could leave. And now? Now he wished the hours would simply stop and he and Greg could continue on with their lives without Miami politics polluting the air.

"Ouch," Eric replied, but it lacked the usual playfulness it had when they'd first arrived. Their banter was painfully forced. Ryan wanted to tell him to give it up, that they both saw through each other's camouflage, but he didn't want to see the dread Eric was hiding underneath his artificial persona. Ryan was fairly sure Eric didn't want to see his, either.

They began packing in silence. It wasn't uncomfortable; as a matter of fact, it was almost like they didn't even realize the other man was there. They were in a zone, lost to their thoughts while going through the motions akin to a robot. Ryan found his shirts and slacks, folding them neatly, cleaning his toothbrush with alcohol and storing his hygiene products in Ziplock bags. Eric, on the other hand, was freer with his packing habits. He mainly stuffed his used clothes into the case, leaving any unworn things folded. Secondary items were thrown on top and then it was forced shut. They cleaned out the fridge and bathroom, making sure the drawers were empty and nothing was left behind.

The two collapsed onto the couch, as though they had gone through some sort of vigorous act. It was, in their defense, exhausting. Their feelings weighed them down, acting as invisible chains that wrapped around their necks and made them exert more energy than usual.

"Eric?"

Ryan's voice, despite its soft tone, seemed to amplify itself in the middle of the lackluster room.

"Yeah?"

"How did you say goodbye to Nick?"

There was a silence in response. Ryan idly wondered if he should have even asked the question in the first place. He turned, looking at Eric through intent, weary eyes. They both knew this conversation was coming; there was no point in avoiding it. Besides, why not get it over with in the privacy of their quasi-living room?

"I told him H called. I told him we leave in…" Eric glanced at his watch before sighing. "An hour."

"And?"

"And he's a scientist. We both know there are a lot of variables in a relationship. For one, people tend to 'fall in love' when they don't have a long amount of time together. There's also the honeymoon period, where Nick and I overlook each other's faults that'll drive us crazy later. And then there's the logistics of the entire thing, because long distance never works. So he dropped me off here, we said goodbye, and they're gonna meet us at the airport for a final farewell."

It wasn't what Ryan wanted to hear. His biggest concern was that Eric usually played the optimist role while Ryan was far more practical. It sounded as though Eric had reached into Ryan's head, grabbed a speech, and used it for himself.

"You sound like me with all that common sense," Ryan said, giving Eric a tired smile. "It's scary."

"If your emotions don't give you a break, you gotta guard yourself with reality," Eric replied. "You taught me that. If it weren't for you, I don't think I could get through this in one piece."

There was another lull in the conversation as they gazed out the large window and into the Las Vegas skyline. Ryan turned to face his friend once more.

"And you really believe all that stuff you just said?" he asked. He was surprised to hear Eric give a stark laugh, laced with loneliness and regret.

"No, I don't," he answered, a small smile twisting his lips upward. "I don't believe a word of it, but it's the only thing that's gonna keep me sane."

"Two hours? Ryan, no, how could they- you have to tell Horatio two hours isn't enough," Greg said, well-hidden apprehension tingeing his voice. "Think of all the lose ends. What about- what about the paper work? Besides, it takes a long time to pack everything up in a hotel. You need a couple more days."

All Ryan could do was clutch his phone as they stared at one another, the full reality beginning to sink in. "I don't think he's going to buy that," Ryan finally managed to whisper. He blinked, trying to rid himself of the stinging in his eyes.

"Ryan-''

"You'll meet me there, right?" Ryan asked, slightly embarrassed by the hint of desperation in his tone. "To see us off?"

Greg watched the other man through brown eyes. It was all moving so quickly, so crazily.

"Of course. I'll get Nick to give me the flight."

…

On the way to Henderson Airport, Ryan and Eric did paper, rock, scissors to see who got the window seat. Like always, Eric was victorious, but Ryan didn't really mind. There were other things weighing more heavily on his shoulders that he'd rather not dwell on. The only thing that kept him from breaking down was the thought of seeing Greg before the flight back to Miami. It wasn't his fault that the hope of making it work kept building up inside of him. He had never wanted anything so badly as he wanted the relationship with Greg to continue.

The airport was extra busy, considering the fact there was one less operating in the Las Vegas area. Ryan was sure they could flash a badge or state I.D. and skip a few waiting lines, but they weren't in a particular rush. They still had thirty minutes until the plane even started boarding passengers, so they waited as security swept them over with metal detectors and checked their baggage. Ryan never thought he'd reach this point, but he actually wanted the lines to take their usual slow pace. Maybe then they'd accidentally miss the flight. Maybe there would be bad weather. Maybe the plane would have a few technical difficulties. He didn't care how it happened; he just wanted an excuse to stay in Vegas.

Considering circumstances weren't usually in his favor, Ryan knew those situations weren't plausible. The lines were moving in a timely manner, it was a clear day outside, and he was fairly sure the plane was in good working condition. Before he knew it, ten minutes had passed and they were sitting in the plastic seats, waiting for someone to start calling their flight number. The chairs were uncomfortable, but Ryan's mind had long since zoned out. Calleigh, sensing the heavy cloud over he and Eric, began chatting as she always did, a bright smile on her face as she went on about… well, Ryan wasn't quite sure what it was about, exactly, but he was certain she was putting an interesting twist on it. If only he could pay attention instead of waiting for a certain group of faces to appear. If only he could detect Catherine's blue eyes or Warrick's unmistakable voice; then maybe Greg would be with them, ready to see Ryan off.

Voices seemed to fade as Ryan glanced out the large windows, watching planes creep forwards on immense landing strips. Men and women in uniforms were running about, preparing the flights while attendants began boarding first, ready for yet another journey across the country. He took a deep breath, trying to ready himself. This was the day he'd been waiting for. Anxiously at first, and then dreading it as he began to know Greg better. Either way, this trip was unavoidable. It didn't make the separation any easier, and he could only hope Greg wasn't going through the same thing. It would be presumptuous of him to assume Greg was feeling his own heart break as every second ticked by, but-

No.

No, Greg loved him.

The watched the hectic travelers around him as thoughts raced through his head, tiny tornadoes of jumbled words. He never believed that someone could love him like he wanted them too, but he and Greg had gone through far too much to doubt Greg's feelings. Greg had kissed him first, believed in him, and Ryan had heard how strongly Greg reacted when Ryan was stuck after the bomb exploded. He released the air in his chest, not even realizing he'd been holding it, and told himself to calm down. Greg was coming. There was no reason he wouldn't.

He was brought back to reality when he felt Eric yawn next to him. He turned and gave Eric an amused smile.

"Tired?"

"Yeah," Eric replied, grinning sheepishly. "I was just getting used to graveyard and now I'm back on days. That's wrong, man."

"Then go ahead and crash. It's not like my shoulder isn't as comfortable as it was on the way here."

"Thanks, but I'm going to try and keep my dignity this time."

"So what are you saying? My shoulder isn't good enough for you?"

"No offense, but you're a little boney."

"Boney?"

"Yep. Painful to sleep on."

"You weren't complaining the first time."

"I was desperate the first time. I hadn't had my coffee."

"Or your Skittles."

"What can I say? They're delicious."

"Tell that to your poor teeth."

"Hey, I take good care of my teeth. I want them to last me until I'm too old to bother with dentures." Eric made his point clear by giving Ryan a big grin, purposely showing two rows of straight, white teeth. "See? No cavities. Besides, I believe you also took part in the Skittle consumption."

"You're my bad influence."

"A lot of people seem to say that," Eric murmured. "Not only that, but- uh oh. Calleigh looks happy."

Ryan followed Eric's gaze until it landed on the blonde, who was standing up and waving to someone behind the duo. She was wearing an excited smile, and before Ryan and Eric could even see who was receiving such undivided attention, she hopped over their row of seats and raced a few yards over.

They heard her say "Hey guys!" and turned just in time to watch as she gave Sara a big bear hug. "You're so sweet for coming! We know it's early for you."

"More like late, but we're night owls," Sara replied, returning the hug with equal force. "Besides, did you really think we weren't coming to see you off?"

"We were hoping," Yelina replied, Warrick giving her a nod as he took residence next to her. Although the rumor that men and women couldn't work together without being romantically interested in one another still reigned, it was obvious that Warrick and Yelina were strictly professional. On the other hand, you don't spend the greater part of two weeks in another person's constant presence without becoming either best friends or bitter enemies. Ryan was pleased to know that they had taken the friendly route instead, but as happy as he was to see such familiar faces, he found himself quickly searching for a familiar shock of blonde hair. He turned towards Sara, trying to hide his excitement as best he could.

"Is Greg with you?"

Sara's smile instantly faded. "I thought he came with you."

Ryan felt the disappointment grow even as he heard himself say, "I guess he's coming by himself." He wanted to smooth over the sudden worry on her face even as his heart hit the tile floor. After all, everyone expected that Greg would be the first to arrive, not the last, and it was only natural for a CSI to expect the worst. Car wreck? An accident of some sort? For a moment, it didn't look like Sara was going to believe them. To emphasize his point, Ryan added, "He's perpetually late for everything."

The joke seemed to calm her enough so that she returned to conversation of her fellow co-workers, the exchange light hearted between the two CSI teams. Ryan found himself participating if only to pacify any worries while constantly glancing around, waiting for Greg to show. It was no secret that Greg could be fashionably late if he chose to be so, but would he really waste time on a day like this? Ryan fought away the nervousness.

"Is this seat free? If it isn't, I'm taking it anyway," said a voice from behind. Ryan had to smile as he turned to see David Hodges climb over the back of the bench and slide in next to Ryan. Ryan had to admire that; while most were too timid to admit they wanted something, David just walked over and asked for it. Ryan knew he needed to start working on that quality.

"Nice to see you're using your manners, Hodges," Catherine retorted, rolling her clear blue eyes. "What are you doing here anyway?"

"I was in the neighborhood," David answered. "Just thought I'd take a casual walk around the airport. I do it all the time."

Warrick scoffed at the plain sarcasm. "You came here to see them off like the rest of us, man. I know you've been trying to keep it a secret, but you've got a beating heart in there somewhere."

"Don't let word get around."

"Y'know, I just might. God knows I'm still trying to get you back for that marker."

"Trying and failing, but I applaud the attempt," David replied.

Ryan felt calmed by the familiar banter. It felt odd leaving these people; they were like family. He was half expecting it to be a dream where he could just wake up and continue on with his life in Las Vegas without bear the burden of saying goodbye. But Eric, Horatio, Calleigh, and Yelina didn't seem to have that same feeling. Ryan inwardly sighed. Maybe he was too freakishly sentimental.

Or maybe he's been living in the wrong city all these years.

Conversation began once again. Ryan participated as best he could, but his mind wandered without his permission and he frequently found himself trying to catch up with the current topic. He resisted the urge to keep checking his watch or looking around, because Greg would get there when the time was right. In the meantime, Ryan tried to enjoy the company of his friends, even as he felt precious minutes quickly tick away into eternity.

David Hodges, on the other hand, didn't accept things so easily. He knew Greg could be fashionably late, but for him not to be there when Ryan was concerned made David uncomfortable. He couldn't imagine Greg not joining them for the hell of it. There had to be a logical excuse, something that could only happen to Greg, like getting stuck in the middle of a freak blizzard in Vegas. Or maybe it was more like that Western Union commercial, where the guy swerved to avoid the puppy, but somehow hit a traveling circus and the sword swallower, showing off at the time, ended up spitting out the sword that managed to soar through the air and puncture the driver's tire.

Yeah. Something like that. David wouldn't be surprised.

But David doubted it was snowing anywhere in Nevada, and he especially doubted that any freak circus was traveling through Vegas, considering the city had enough freaks to offer as it was. For some reason, David suspected that Greg hadn't even left his house yet, and if that was the case, then something had to be done.

David calmly rose, hopped back over the seat, and headed towards the restroom. He halfway expected someone to ask where he was headed off to; luckily, they all seemed to get the hint. Of course, if they saw him going towards the restroom and then asked where he was going, it was quite possible David would have lost all faith in their investigative abilities. One would think that working with CSIs would be less complicated.

He tore open the bathroom door and, ignoring the men at the urinals (because he hated public restrooms), dug out his cell phone before dialing Greg's number. He crossed one arm across his stomach in impatience as he stood in the corner, back facing the room, waiting as the line rang several times. What was the deal? Greg always picked up unless he was asleep. Then it took him a century.

David was startled into action when he heard a weak "Hello?" on the other end. He wanted to start lecturing Greg right then and there, but the tone of Greg's voice made him think twice. It sounded so… small. And despairing. And David was no good with either of those things.

"Greg," he hissed, ignoring the strange looks from men who were actually there to relieve bladders. "Where the hell are you?"

"I- David? Hey," Greg replied, uncertainty lacing his words. David hated the cheerlessness that sounded so foreign on Greg's tongue. He was vibrant and bright; now it sounded as though he were dead, a shell of who was. "You're calling me? What's up?"

"Flight four-sixty in about thirteen minutes. Please tell me you're stuck in traffic," David retorted, ignoring his better judgment. It never got him anywhere anyway.

There was a terrifying silence on the other end before Greg said, "I see."

"Good for you."

"David-''

"You're coming, right? You're on your way here."

Another pause punctured the quick conversation before a shaky sigh was heard on Greg's end. David unconsciously clutched his phone even harder, sending a bearded man a glare when said man proceeded to stare without any attempt to hide it. Some people just didn't have any manners. "Greg, what is it? Just spit it out."

"Seeing him would only make this worse," Greg replied. The technician could tell he was on the verge of crying. "I can't-''

"Can't? Can't what? Spell? Buy decent music? Drive?" David irritably questioned. "You have thirteen- make that twelve minutes to get your ass down here. Got it?"

"David, I don't know how to say goodbye."

"Then learn," David testily replied. "He's waiting for you."

"You think I don't know that? My God, what do you think I've been dreading all this time? What do you think I've been trying to plan since the very beginning? I've been preparing myself for this and it's all gone to waste!'' David could practically see Greg pacing back and forth in his living room, running a hand through spiky hair. "I've tried everything I can dream up, but it's- when I see him, David, I won't be able to- it's easier this way."

"Easier for who?" David fought back. "Look, I know this is hard. Bear with me. You? You love him. And Ryan? He's waiting for you to show up. I swear I'm two seconds away from dragging you here myself."

Leaving no room for argument, David snapped the phone shut before staring at the silver object in his hand and briefly wondering how he could explain to Ryan that Greg wasn't coming. Of course, he wouldn't just go out and declare that hey, your boyfriend chickened out. On the other hand, how long could Ryan hang on before spontaneously combusting? David sighed and shoved the phone back into his pocket. He never should have called. He never should have gotten involved in the entire mess; all he had wanted to know was whether Greg needed a lift or something and Ryan was too faithful to phone. And why shouldn't he be faithful? The last Ryan heard, Greg's car was in perfect working condition. David was certain that if Ryan were to ask, he could fall back on the old "stuck in traffic" story and try to cover for Greg. Still, that felt wrong. Ryan didn't deserve a lie in his last few minutes before heading back home.

With a frown, he exited the men's room and hurried back towards the CSI group, finding his spot next to Ryan before trying to wear his usual bored expression. He took an inconspicuous glance at his watch before feeling Ryan shift to look towards the doorway yet again.

Ten minutes. They had ten more minutes and some perky woman was already calling seats over the intercom anyway. David ground his teeth. The voice was jarring.

The conversation froze, words colliding into each other, entire sentences hanging in mid air. The woman on the intercom was still speaking as Sara and Calleigh, Yelina and Warrick, Nick and Eric exchanged regretful expressions. It seemed as though everyone recognized this moment. They all knew that this was it: the final goodbye. They couldn't ignore their departure anymore, couldn't pretend that there were a few more days left before they had to face this.

"Well," Calleigh began, slowly standing up. She glanced towards Horatio before sighing, a small, dainty exhalation of air. "They're calling our flight."

"This is my least favorite part," Sara confessed as she stood up to give Calleigh a hug. Ryan watched this with a somber expression; it was painful to see such good friends saying goodbye. It was only made worse by Warrick and Yelina shaking hands farewell while Catherine exchanged parting words with Horatio. Ryan didn't even look towards Eric and Nick; that would only tip him over the edge. He wanted to show that he was strong and unaffected, but it was a hard thing to accomplish when it was a lie. He had been waiting for this very day. He dreaded Las Vegas in the beginning, dreaded the uncertainty, and now…

It's all I can do to leave.

"I'm sorry," David muttered next to him, seemly able to read his mind as they stood from their chairs.

"It's not your fault," Ryan replied, giving him an understanding smile. It faltered for a moment before he shot David a slightly suppliant look. "I know this isn't what you'd usually do, but… would you tell him-?"

"He already knows, Ryan," David replied. "Trust me."

Ryan took a trembling breath before nodding. "Right. You're right."

"Of course I'm right. That's just a given," the technician replied, ending the light remark with a small, apologetic smile. He wanted to say that he understood where Greg was coming from, understood why he hadn't shown. At the same time, he couldn't really excuse it. He knew Greg was either at home drowning in his own misery or breaking numerous road laws just to make it to the impending flight on time. Nonetheless, Ryan responded with a short laugh. David gave him a suspicious look.

"Are we having an emotional send-off here?" he asked. "Because it looks like you're about to hug me or something and- wait, what- Ryan, don't you dare-''

David made an irritated sound as Ryan's arms clasped around his neck and gave him a brief but strong hug.

"As unbelievable as this sounds, you're a great friend," Ryan said, breaking away and looking at David with intent. David kept his reply silent; he could see that Ryan was bravely keeping himself together when all he probably wanted to do was fall apart. "And I'm glad to have met you. Tell Archie I said bye and to… I don't know, live long and prosper or something."

David couldn't help the small smile that grew on his lips. "I'll make sure to relay the message."

"Good," Ryan replied, and turned for one moment longer, hoping he might spot a familiar blonde rushing through the crowds. Instead, he saw Eric and Nick say their adieus. How did Eric hide it so well? Pretend to be so unaffected? Ryan wished he could possess that same quality. Instead, Eric was laughing and cracking a joke, acting as though it wasn't tearing him apart, while Ryan was barely able to keep himself in check. Ryan's heart stilled as Eric and Nick heard the stewardess on the intercom, informing passengers that they were preparing for takeoff soon. He saw Eric sigh and tell Nick goodbye. And when Eric began walking away, Nick suddenly reached out, grabbed his wrist, and turned him around for one last kiss, a desperate farewell.

Without a word, Ryan turned away and quickly entered the covered gangplank, walking several yards until he was on the plane and then proceeded to find his seat. It was as though he were on autopilot. He slid in and stared out the window, squeezing his fists so that his hands would stop shaking. It wasn't his place to watch the send-off and he couldn't bring himself to watch anymore anyway. It hurt. Ryan wanted to yell, to hit something, because it wasn't supposed to be this way. He had warned himself over and over, every waking minute. Eric had cautioned him as well. Told him to be careful, and what good did that do either of them? Nothing. It didn't give them a damn thing.

Because Eric was sliding in next to him, suspiciously quiet, and Ryan didn't want to see the look on his face.

They were going to get back to Miami. They were going to forget they were ever here, and it was going to be a healthy change. It was stupid to get upset over Greg not being there; besides, there were a dozen reasons why he didn't show up. Traffic was horrible. His car could have broke down. Whatever the cause, something stopped Greg from coming. Ryan knew Greg wasn't being selfish or lazy, because Greg wasn't like that. He was a good, caring person, and Ryan knew something must have had happened. He sucked in a deep, shaky breath. He prayed that Greg was all right.

Before Ryan knew it, the pilot was asking everyone to buckle his or her seat belt for takeoff. Ryan didn't want to dwell on what that meant: leaving Las Vegas, leaving Greg and David and the lab, leaving everything to go back home. He closed his eyes as the engines boosted, tried to clear his mind when he felt the plane jerk forward. He didn't particularly enjoy flying, but he felt too empty to care whether he was comfortable. He was hit with déjà-vu, because Calleigh was talking, Yelina was listening, and Horatio was reading something work-related.

Eric had fallen asleep, leaning against Ryan's shoulder and breathing softly. Ryan closed his eyes again before swallowing. This was practically a mirror image of how they'd been when they had first arrived. Of course, Ryan had been anxious then.

Now he was just miserable.

"Goodbye? There's nothing good about saying goodbye," Greg said, giving Ryan one last kiss before the cab rolled up and drove Ryan towards the hotel.

…

Ryan couldn't say that he had missed Miami without lying, because he hadn't missed his hometown. The sun was still as bright and the labs were still the same, but Eric seemed to be lapping it up. It was as if the Miami locale had given him back his drive and Eric could do little but be thrilled at the familiar territory. Ryan had to smile; his best friend had been unhappy in the middle of the desert. He was meant to live by the ocean. As a matter of fact, the only thing that had made the trip worthwhile was…

Ryan grimaced as he flopped down onto a lab chair, listlessly waiting for the print database to do its magic. It was difficult to throw oneself into work when part of your job required waiting, because waiting gave Ryan too much time to think. One miserable weekend had passed since he left Nevada, and he wasn't feeling any better.

Quite frankly, Nick was the only aspect of Las Vegas that Eric missed. But when Ryan thought of Eric, he was reminded of Nick and when he thought of Nick, he was reminded of Las Vegas.

And whenever the city's name entered his mind, one face would flash through his memory.

Greg.

Ryan had always believed that the scientist inside of him could trump whatever crazy emotion that overtook him. If he were detached for long enough, then he would inevitably forget Greg and his coffee and music and pancakes. He'd forget the tropical fish and sneakers and trail mix. Maybe he was romanticizing the entire relationship; maybe they never would have worked out if given the chance. Maybe he only thought he loved Greg.

Maybe that was a load of crap.

With a frustrated sigh, Ryan sat up and tried to concentrate on his work. He had known that entering into a relationship with Greg would result in this; he didn't regret a single moment. The pain was terrible, but he could handle it.

Right?

"Honey, you look good in a lot of things," said a familiar voice from behind, "But misery isn't one of them."

Ryan jumped only slightly before turning to see Alexx Woods standing in the lab doorway, a smile on her red lips. "Now, I've got the details from Calleigh, Eric, and Horatio," she began, walking towards him in her professional black blouse and slacks. "But you've been pretty quiet when it comes to Vegas. I want the dirt."

Ryan felt his stomach revolt at the words. He loved Alexx; she was a true angel, but how was he supposed to forget Vegas if people kept bringing it up? Either way, he couldn't let her know what had happened. She would worry and pry until he lost his mind (although he honestly wouldn't have her any other way.)

"It's just another city, Alexx. I'm afraid I don't have anything interesting to share."

"Another city? Baby, it's Vegas. Sure it's a tourist trap, but all those fountains and lights? You've gotta have something to tell."

"It's really nothing special," he insisted, turning back to the computer he'd been working on while hoping she'd change the subject.

Alexx snorted and Ryan sighed. Change the subject? When pigs flew. Alexx wanted to know, and she wouldn't give up until her need for details was satisfied. "Sure. Maybe the city isn't anything special, but rumor is you met someone. How could you keep that from me?"

Ryan's eyes widened slightly as he turned back to face her. "How did you-?"

She waved her hand to stop him mid-sentence, as though impatient with the question. "When girls get together, things are said."

"Calleigh," Ryan groaned, tilting his head back. "She really told you?"

"She's worried," Alexx promptly replied. "And so am I. Besides, were you hiding it from me?"

"Not on purpose," he mumbled when, in reality, he had hoped she would never find out. What had he been thinking? It was Calleigh.

"Sure, Slick. You can't expect me to believe that." She quickly grabbed a rolling chair before sitting next to Ryan, leaning in conspiringly. "Was he cute? Funny? Good in bed? You can tell me anything."

Ryan's lurched back. Yes, he and Alexx were tight and yes, he loved the woman to death. But really. "Alexx! What-?"

"Honey, Calleigh isn't good at keeping secrets," she interrupted, before moving back to her previous point. "Blonde, lanky, Greg. Am I hitting the mark?"

"Maybe," he muttered, realizing the looming conversation was inevitable. His only hope was a freak natural disaster, and even then, Alexx probably wouldn't cease her questioning, ignoring all tornadoes, volcanic eruptions, and tidal waves until she felt fully informed.

She let out a knowing 'hm' before nodding. "And? What was he like?"

"Alexx, I really don't-''

"Baby, I'm not giving you an option. Tell all."

Ryan sighed and glanced at the machine sorting the prints. It didn't appear as though the computer was going to save him; it sat on the table, innocently running through the database. Was there nothing that could halt this discussion?

"Fine," he replied, leaning forward and lowering his voice. "But if you let the word slip, I won't be responsible for my actions."

"Cross my heart," she replied, obviously eager to hear the details as she drug her right forefinger over her chest in an X motion. She grinned before crossing her left leg over her right and leaning closer.

Ryan glanced at the machine for the last time, praying it would beep or even explode. Anything.

"He's a CSI One in Vegas," he finally admitted, turning back to his friend. "The case was so sprawling that everyone teamed up. I got stuck with print and DNA duty."

Alexx wrinkled her nose. "Is that all? Didn't you go into the field?"

"Eventually. The point is that he had my same problem."

"CSI in the lab?"

Ryan nodded. "Exactly. I first met him while he was drumming with some test tubes."

Alexx raised an eyebrow. "Are you kidding me?"

"If only I were," Ryan replied, unable to stop the laugh that escaped his lips. "We partnered up, you know? Worked together and became friends."

"And?" she asked, anticipation lacing the query. "Did he throw you down on the evidence table and have his way with you?"

Ryan paused before sending her a look that was both baffled and embarrassed. "You kiss your children with that mouth?"

She grinned again, making her look like the human reincarnate of the Cheshire cat. "I've got to get my entertainment somewhere."

Ryan sighed and didn't even bother to glance at the still-running machine. "Actually, he kissed me in the lab. He was making coffee and-''

"Were you holding a cup at the time?"

Ryan paused but nodded at the unexpected question. "Yeah. Why?"

"You dropped it."

"I'm sorry?"

Alexx shook her head, allowing it to droop in despair. "You dropped the coffee. Baby, you're going to have to stop doing that."

Ryan had the sense enough to be annoyed. "I've only done that a few times, Alexx."

"So are you going to see him again?"

Ryan allowed his indigence to fall before forcing himself to smile. "I don't think so," he replied, trying to keep the feeling of sickness from hitting too hard. "Can we not talk about it?"

There was a sigh next to him, and Ryan knew she was morphing into her motherly mode. He didn't want that. He didn't want to remember. He didn't care how many weekends or weeks or months or years passed, because he doubted he'd ever fully forget Greg.

A warm hand touched his shoulder. "Don't you call each other? E-mail?"

"There's no point," he said, his voice strangely harsh. "It would only prolong the inevitable."

He met her concerned gaze. He didn't want to be short with her, but the memory made him sick to his stomach. He would give anything to be back in Vegas, but could he ever leave his friends? He made friends with Gil's team too, of course, but that didn't change the fact that he'd still be separated from Eric, Calleigh, Alexx, and even Horatio.

"I'm sorry," he finally said, his words soft and flat. "I didn't mean… I know you're just concerned. You and Cal both are, but I promise I'm fine. I'm just trying to forget it, is all. The sooner it's gone, the sooner I start feeling better."

Alexx sighed. "I know, baby. You love him. That's okay."

"It wasn't ever supposed to be this way," he said, closing his eyes. "I wasn't supposed to meet anyone."

"I don't think you have any say-so over that," she gently replied.

He felt a strange stinging in his eyes. "I told myself not do anything," he said, his voice raising. "I told him that I'd only be coming back here. There's no point in getting stuck in some painful cycle, right? I just kept repeating that, but I didn't listen to myself, Alexx. I blew off all common sense."

"Honey-''

The tears leaked past his eyelids, and the ones that didn't catch onto his lashes fell against his cheeks. He wiped them away impatiently. The loneliness he'd been feeling, the desolation, the loss; it began adding up, pushing and pushing until he couldn't push back anymore.

"I feel like an idiot. I am an idiot. Crying like I had any rationality," he muttered, but didn't fight it when Alexx scooped him into a big hug.

"Well, it's only natural," she murmured, her voice warm and comforting. "When you miss someone-''

"I love him, Alexx. I love him, I miss him. I just want to forget him because I can't breathe otherwise," he confessed, words slightly muffled as he hugged her tight.

He glanced through the glass walls of the Miami-Dade crime lab. Eric was hunched over an evidence table, scrutinizing some security photos. Was he really happy? He was happy to be back home, but when he thought no one was looking, he often wore a frown that hadn't been there before. Ryan was sure he could never really know, but if Eric wanted to tell him, the younger CSI would certainly understand. He was experiencing the same feeling of emptiness; it was strong and consuming.

As if feeling Ryan's analyzing gaze, the Cuban glanced up from his job and their eyes met through the glass, as if to ask What are we going to do?

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