***
Warrick pulled into the nearest convenience store as he headed home. He still hadn't quite gotten used to buying things in smaller portions, or to having to buy things at all again. Tina hadn't exactly been a determined cook, but she was generally happy to shop.
Despite being an adult male, Warrick did not, in fact, harbor a grudge against the task at hand. His grandmother had made him a pretty decent cook. While Greg had been the mama's boy of the team, Warrick had no hesitation in calling himself a 'grandma's boy,' and not just because it sounded cooler. His grandma was a cool lady, even at 93. Hobbling around with a mean mouth of dentures, Grams still made the best soul food. But Warrick liked to chide her that he was approaching second-best. Her friend Lucille, sharp and chipper at a young 88, had given him a good whack on the head for the comment.
He licked his lips, thinking of what he was going to cook. Tina had always loved it when he cooked. But this time he was cooking for someone who was definitely not Tina. Amy had agreed to postpone the date -- reluctantly at that -- for the next night, and Warrick was getting ready to make a meal that would really make it up to her.
The plan was to do all of the prep work when he got home that night, and then to finish cooking in time for the date the next night. He quickly assembled the majority of the necessary ingredients, though he was still stuck over the meat. He couldn't put his finger on why, but salmon just didn't fit the meal quite right. Nonetheless, Amy dubbed herself a vegetarian, albeit a fish-eating one. Hence, not so familiar with cooking tofu, he opted for the likable pink fish.
Warrick had impressed many women over time with his ability to plan and cook meals. But what was there to say? Beneath his tough guy exterior, Warrick was still a romantic, and a romantic with mad skills. What he did, he excelled at, and if planning a perfect romantic meal was what he sought to excel at, then so be it. He would kick just as much butt at that as he did at poker.
Remembering his relatively empty fridge and the rancid milk inside, he went for a half gallon of milk. He had become used to buying a gallon, but, without Tina, it always ended up going bad before he finished it. Thoughts of his ex quickly reminded him that she had also taken the garlic mincer with her, which he would need for the green beans, and life in general. But where would a grocery store keep a garlic mincer...?
Seeing a sales associate carrying loaves of bread to put on the shelves, he made his way to the baked goods aisle.
"Excuse me, miss?"
The slim brunette turned around. "Yes?" she said between popping and chewing bright pink gum.
Warrick was taken aback. She looked so darn familiar, but he couldn't place it. She was definitely young -- probably in her mid-teens. And where would Warrick know a teenager from? Then it dawned on him. She must be from a case. He studied her more carefully. Her hair was definitely dyed. Either she wasn't wearing make-up, or she put it on well enough to escape notice. And her eyes definitely looked eerily familiar. If she was from a case, then it was either an earlier case, giving her time to get out of juvie and get a job by the present, she was a witness, or she was someone that had gotten off easily. Either way, it made him slightly uncomfortable to be getting assistance from someone like that. But it's just at a grocery store. It's not like she'd poison the food -- or the garlic mincer. He interrupted his own ridiculous line of reasoning.
"Do you know where the garlic mincers are, if you carry them?"
The teen smirked. "Right this way," she said, turning on her heels. She handed him the mincer, and started toward the check-out lane.
"What's that smirk for?" he asked, uneasily, as she began to charge his purchases.
"Huh?"
"I saw that face." He fumbled in his bag for his wallet. He almost used a discount card from the last CSI convention to ring up his purchases, before noticing his error. Man am I tired. Finally, he reached for his credit card.
"Umm... It's just... well my mom always told me that any man who does the prep work for a meal is a real man. But you never said it's for a meal you're cooking, as opposed to just buyin' stuff for your wife to cook."
Warrick chuckled. "I'm single." Wow, that came out wrong. Especially addressed toward a teenager. He shifted his head down, avoiding eye contact as he scanned his credit card. "I mean... I'm cooking for my girlfriend."
"Oh," the teen said with a look of what appeared to be... disappointment?
Is this teenager hitting on me?! Warrick thought with a combination of bemusement and disgust. He didn't know whether or not to be flattered, and settled with simply finishing bagging his groceries and making his way toward the door.
"Well, thanks for your help," he said, as he practically burst through the door, his motions betraying more anxiety than he would have liked.
"No problem, Warrick," the teen replied.
By the time Warrick made the connection that she knew his first name, she was out of sight.
Warrick shook his head as he loaded the bags into his car. That was one weird interaction. And one weird teenager. But there was something about her... He couldn't put his finger on it, but convinced himself it had something to do with paternal instincts. He did, however, remember very distinctive blue eyes.
Warrick stopped thinking as he drove, turning on his favorite oldies radio station, and smiled to himself when a Motown marathon came on.
That was the final straw in proving himself a romantic. Man, did he love the Supremes. He'd always just said, as a kid, that it was because he had a crush on Diana Ross. Seriously, who didn't?
In reality, he'd liked Flo better. Florence Ballard had been a strong, independent woman.
And her curves, he thought to himself, drooling. He'd always been a sucker for a girl with curves.
Amy and Tina, now that he thought of it, had been more Nick's type than his. Whenever they went out, Nick had always ended up with the tall, skinny, relatively curve-less girls. Warrick was a curves man, but he judged Amy and Tina by so much more than their body types. He was a romantic, after all. Not a man ho.
He lost himself in the smooth melodies for the remainder of the drive.
Turning into Nick's driveway, he was disappointed to be turning the radio off. But it's still a marathon, he thought, smiling. He grabbed the bag as he headed in. He still knew where Nick kept his spare key, even though it felt like he hadn't visited in quite a while. It had felt like Nick had spent a lot less time at his house in the last few years. Now that he thought about it, he realized it had probably started a little bit after the coffin incident.
He knocked. This time, miraculously, Nick was at home. Really, he had pretty much always been home, either at home or at the lab, since the last incident. The incident.
Warrick sighed. The incident that had changed everything. Nick just wasn't the same anymore.
Though he knew where the key was hidden, Warrick knocked again. Since the Nigel Crane incident, Nick had been careful to hide his extra key in a spot that was notably difficult to find. Warrick found it to be an equal mixture of pathetic, funny and sad -- indicative of the times -- that Nick had actually buried the key in a plant pot. If you were that desperate to get in, you had to dig up the Gerbera daisies.
So he knocked. And knocked again.
Just as he was about to make a move for the Gerberas, he heard a familiar engine revving down. Nick's truck had never been the same after it had been stolen while working that wedding case. It had been funny, or so Warrick had heard from Sara and Greg.
Nick ambled up the sidewalk, staring off into the air, in an intangible direction. He seemed so oblivious, but also so hopeless. Maybe even so drunk...
Warrick turned around to fully face his friend. Something was wrong. Something sounded wrong. Then it occurred to him. The engine.
"Hey Nicky! You forgot to turn off the engine!"
Nick didn't even look up at him before replying. "Oh."
This is odd, Warrick thought. He didn't even seem to notice the oddness of my being here. It's like he expects voices in his head to point these kind of things out to him. Warrick shook his head. Nick was really losing it.
He watched Nick fumble with his keys and finally get the door open. He seemed to be staring at the car, lost in thought. Again. The engine kept rumbling.
Warrick watched and waited.
Nick finally stuck the key in the ignition and turned in. Then he got in the car. And sat down. And closed the door.
Nicky... What are you doing? Warrick rolled his eyes. He honestly didn't know how the man survived on a day-to-day basis. He just seemed so darn distracted.
The car started moving, and Warrick looked on in incredulity. Is Nick stopping, or starting, or going somewhere, or what? He just got off shift, and he clearly needs to be home and sleeping, not wandering around in his car. That's it, Warrick thought, as he saw the car begin to inch backward, reversing out of its parking spot, and gently turning forward.
Warrick went running down the sidewalk. He waved his arms wildly, hoping Nick would notice. He banged on the glass, running to keep up with the car.
Finally, as Warrick was just about running out of breath, Nick looked over. Stopping, he smiled and waved at Warrick.
Warrick was glad Nick lived on a small parkway, with a notable lack of traffic, and that, at that hour, not many on the street were leaving their homes.
Nick backed up, almost crashing into Warrick, who dodged to avoid the big block of metal, seemingly controlled by a for-the-moment-maniac.
The truck inched diagonally and haphazardly back into the spot. It narrowly avoided touching the old red Volkswagen in front of it. Warrick didn't know how Nick would correct this parking job. Nick had always been a major perfectionist, especially when it came to parking. It made sense, for someone who cared as much as Nick did about his truck. It wasn't even new, or a particularly spiffy brand, but Nick treated that old truck like it was a bride on her wedding day. Nick finally took off his seatbelt and opened the door, even as the car was still parked skewed, with the front barely hitting the curb and the back nowhere near it. And, this time, he remembered to turn off the engine.
"Hey Warrick."
"You gonna park that thing right?"
Nick glared, quickly looking frustrated. "You already messed with my parking once today."
"You left the engine on, man. You should be saying thank you."
Nick glared.
"Well, thank you," he said sarcastically, raising his nose into a sneer.
Warrick quickly saw this strategy wasn't working. "Sorry, man. I know you've had a long day. I didn't mean to make it harder. Your parking's fine." For someone who just got their first driving permit. "I just know how much you care about your truck. Gotta make sure she stays in perfect condition."
Nick nodded glumly. "It's just a truck."
Just a truck?! That was not something I ever expected to hear coming out of Nick Stokes' mouth. "Just a truck, eh? Madeline the Fierce-Engined Chevrolet Glory?" Warrick still remembered the name Nick had given it, or rather, 'her.'
"Eh. Trucks don't have feelin's."
"That so?" Warrick asked, smirking. "How do you think she felt when you let her get stolen?"
"I didn't let her! It was Gre- Gre-" Nick trailed off.
Okay. So the truck strategy, or whatever you'd call it, isn't working either. "Hey, man. Let's go inside."
Nick nodded, looking down glumly again.
He followed Warrick to the door. Warrick felt almost as if it were his house, or as if he were Nick's parent, leading a reluctant Nick to his own door.
He felt like a jailer. It was as if Nick was imprisoned in his own house, in his own life. Maybe that's why he was never home... but that was before he started acting this way. Hmmm...
Warrick was thoroughly baffled by his friend's behavior. Then he caught Nick's glance. It was pointed at the bag still clutched in Warrick's hand. The backpack. With the contents of Greg's locker inside of it. That could easily explain his behavior in the last few minutes. Though he hadn't even seen the bag when he got out of the car without turning off the engine... That's it. I'm thinking too much. What Nick needs right now is a friend to shoot the breeze with. A friend to talk to. Not to be psychoanalyzed by.
His quandary resolved, Warrick smiled at his friend. "You watch the big game last week?"
Nick nodded.
Finally. A guaranteed conversation starter. "So what'd ya think?"
Nick stared blankly.
Had he even been paying attention to the game? "That's it. We're gonna go in there, make some popcorn, kick back with some beers and watch SportsCenter. Okay?"
Nick nodded.
He seemed to let out what -- and Warrick was being hopeful, and honest when he thought this, but -- Damn. That really looked like a genuine smile. Warrick couldn't help but smile back, warmly and fully. A smile on Nick's face was one of the best things he'd seen in a while.
Warrick felt a sudden surge of overwhelming optimism, as he eagerly got out of the way for Nick to open the door, which he did, albeit quite slowly. Slow or not, he's doing something. He's almost acting like a piece of the Nick I used to know. And that's worth being optimistic about. "So, you got any beers?"
Nick nodded quickly, before walking off toward the kitchen. And he's walking, not trudging this time. Meaning he's moving faster, more eagerly, more happily.
Warrick hoped he wasn't being too optimistic. It seemed that, these days, he interpreted every movement from Nick as a sign of improvement.
Well, he can't do anything other than improve. He sure can't get worse... Warrick thought, though he knew that probably wasn't even true. At least Nick was still showing up to work. At least he still knew how to do his job. At least he's still breathing.
Nick returned, loosely clutching a full pack of Sam Adams. Or is that two full packs of Sam Adams? Warrick wondered, seeing the other hand hidden behind Nick's back. Warrick shrugged. As long as he's doing something.
Nick squinted at the room, as if looking for something. He stared at the TV screen. It was blank.
"You lookin' for this?" Warrick asked, holding up the remote.
Warrick could see the realization dawn on Nick' face as he discovered the missing key to connect the mission of watching football with the blank screen in front of him. "The clicker!"
"You mean the remote?" Warrick chuckled at Nick's name for it.
"Clicker."
"It's called a remote, dude."
"Well, Greg calls it a clicker." Nick's face quickly tightened again.
Uh oh. Wrong conversation starter again. "Well, let's turn on the game now, huh?"
Nick nodded, reaching over for a beer. He seemed to be starting to turn it, oblivious to the obviously needed bottle opener.
"Ya lookin' for this?" Warrick said as he made his way to the kitchen and held up the opener. It was still in the same drawer Nick had used to store it in, when they hung out all the time, before Tina...
Nick nodded, smiling again. This smile was even bigger than the last, though Warrick was unsure if that was a good thing -- that, for all his and Catherine's efforts, Sam Adams beer would be the thing to prompt the biggest smile on Nick's face.
"Here, catch!" Warrick said, tossing the opener in Nick's direction.
Nick looked up, with concentration, and caught it. He grinned. "Mad skills." He popped open the bottle, and guzzled half of it in one sip, glancing up as Warrick turned on the game.
"Yeah, but you know who was the better player back in the day," Warrick said, chuckling with relief at the progressively heightening mood.
Nick guffawed. "In your dreams. You really think UNLV had anything on us Aggies?"
"Psh. We were the bomb."
"The bomb?"
"The bomb dot com."
Nick laughed.
Warrick noticed his friend had already polished off his first bottle. He still had the opener, so Warrick hadn't even been able to open his. "Hey! Pass it here!"
Nick glared, but playfully. "Nah. Not until you admit which team was better."
"You wish." Warrick was already savoring the long lost air of playful macho bravado. It had been too long since he and Nick had hung out like this. If only I had thought of this sooner, maybe Nick wouldn't have gotten this bad.
Warrick leaned over, ready to tackle Nick for the bottle opener. For all of Nick's skills as a college quarterback, Warrick was the better wrestler of the two, and definitely with the superior tackling experience.
But suddenly, Nick balked. He glared -- not playfully this time -- and seemed to flinch at the sudden threat of contact, before handing the bottle opener over to Warrick wordlessly.
Note to self: Avoid physical contact. Warrick couldn't help but wonder if this had anything to do with what had happened a month ago. He'd never gotten the details of it from Catherine.
Warrick looked over at Nick. He was staring blankly forward. To the untrained eye, he looked like a zombie, entranced by the game -- basically like the standard American male.
But Warrick knew to follow Nick's gaze. In all his years as a CSI, he had learned to judge the angle of a person's irises and pupils, in order to see what, specifically, they were staring at. He followed Nick's stare. To the trash bin next to the TV.
"There somethin' in that trash bin you want?" Warrick asked.
"Nope. You?"
Warrick looked down at the table. They had been through the six pack. Nick had had four beers, while Warrick had only had two. Both had very high tolerances -- not necessarily a good thing, as Warrick had learned. The worst alcoholics tended to have the highest tolerances to alcohol.
Nonetheless, Nick might be borderline tipsy, even a bit drunk. The two word answer, when a shrug or shake of the head would have sufficed -- especially from Nick, who had been quite stoic for the last month -- meant that the liquor was definitely succeeding in loosening him up.
"So whatcha thinkin' 'bout the game?"
"Eh." Nick seemed to be contemplating it, then turned around with a grin. "We still rock. Better than your team."
Warrick chose not to point out that his team, or rather his adopted team, the Giants, was not even playing. Warrick had often switched between teams, among them the 49ers and the Raiders, before making his way through college largely on the proceeds of a bet that the Giants would win the 1990 Superbowl. In gratitude, he had quickly changed his allegiance. This game, however, was the Cowboys -- Nick's team -- against the Redskins.
Warrick was not a particular Redskins fan, but settled to rooting for them, for the game, just to have something else to bicker jokingly with Nick about. In truth, he had little preference between the Cowboys and Skins, but he knew the competitive cheering would do the most for Nick's spirit.
Warrick leaned back on the couch and sighed. "You just got lucky."
"Luck? Look at the score, man." Sure enough, the scoreboard read a margin of three touchdowns.
"We're going through a transition. I mean -- coaching is major. When Joe Gibbs was at the top of his game, we coulda kicked your asses any day."
"Psh. It's not all in the coaching staff, doofus. It's in the players. It's in the recruitment. It's in the fans. And nobody competes with Cowboys fans."
"Psh. Man, have you not been to DC? They definitely have the fans."
Nick seemed to ponder the situation over. "Wait -- since when are you even a Skins fan?"
"Since they're playin' the Cowboys," Warrick responded, matter-of-factly.
"Psh."
"Hey," Warrick said, reaching for the speaker system. "Let's get us some music to drown out the bullshit I hear echoing from the Dallas side over here."
Nick turned it on, and Warrick groaned as Keith Urban sounded through the house.
"Not this crap."
"Aw, come on man. If you don't like this... " -- a more-than-a-bit-tipsy Nick struggled for the word, before failing -- "well, good, amazing music, then you can just..." He scrunched up his nose. "Get out."
Warrick rolled his eyes. "That or I can actually walk up to the speaker and manually change it myself." He looked down, smirking, at Nick. ""'Cause I know you're not gonna be gettin' up too gracefully 'bout now."
Nick scowled, as Warrick got up to change it back to Oldies.
As Diana Ross's soprano drifted through the room, Warrick got up, smiling.
If humiliating myself is what it takes to get Nicky to have a good time, then so be it.
He started to swing his hips.
"But how many heartaches," he crooned. "Must I stand before I find a love, to let me live again?"
Nick looked up, questioningly.
He began to snap. "Right now the only thing, that keeps me hangin' on --"
Nick raised an eyebrow.
And then, Warrick belted it. "When I feel the strength, yeah, it's almost gone, I remember Mama said!"
Tipsy enough, Nick couldn't hold back his laughter anymore.
"You can't hurry love," Warrick slurred the speedy chorus. "No, you just have to wait! She said love don't come easy. It's a game of give and take."
You can't hurry love
No, you just have to wait
Warrick squeaked as he reached the high notes. He knew he wasn't a Supreme. He knew there was a reason he wasn't a Supreme.
She said love don't come easy
It's a game of give and take
By the time Warrick had finished, Nick was rolling on his stomach on the couch.
"Hey," Warrick said, getting Nick's attention. "It's your turn now."
Nick gave a look of true horror. "You really think I know the lyrics to this stuff?!"
Warrick rolled his eyes. "Seriously, who doesn't know Motown? It's classic," he said, as the familiar chiming filled the room. "Give it a try."
Nick, still chuckling, rolled over off of his stomach, trying to listen to the lyrics.
Listen, baby
Ain't no mountain high
Nick finally started singing. It was an easy song.
Ain't no valley low
Ain't no river wide enough, baby
The singing became slower. Then he sniffled, and stopped. Warrick sighed, turning to face the stereo. The 'Nick singing' idea wasn't working. But the overall idea was. Nick was still laughing. But now his laughter was sounding different...
If you need me, call me
No matter where you are
Warrick turned around, to see the tears falling down Nick's face. Those are not tears of joy or laughter, Warrick acknowledged with a sigh. How the hell did this happen?
No matter how far
The music continued, and Nick continued crying. Sobbing.
Just call my name
He looked so angry, so desperate.
I'll be there in a hurry
Warrick had no idea what to do. He had no idea what had caused this. Well, logically, Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell's duet caused it. But that just didn't seem right.
You don't have to worry
'Cause baby,
Nick started sobbing harder. At last, Warrick reached to turn off the stereo, but Nick's hand stopped him. He put a hand on Nick's back, but the man just shrugged it off. The whole scene scared Warrick. A lot. He moved toward Nick's bedroom.
There ain't no mountain high enough
Warrick pulled out his phone, and called the number on speed dial.
"Willows."
"Cath, I --" he stuttered out.
Ain't no valley low enough
Ain't no river wide enough
To keep me from getting to you
"What's wrong, Rick?" she asked, concerned.
"I -- I--"
Remember the day
I set you free
He reached for the door, closing it and hoping to drown out the music. 'Aint No Mountain' just didn't seem appropriate at the moment, though shutting the door didn't work entirely.
"Are you alright?!"
"Yeah," he said, trying to regain his breath.
She heaved a sigh of relief.
"It's Nicky."
She sighed again, though not with relief this time. "What happened?"
"He's losin' it."
"Isn't he always?"
"Probably."
"You think there's anything you can do?"
Warrick looked back at his friend. The sobbing seemed to be decreasing. In fact, it seemed as if it were being progressively replaced with snoring.
Ain't no mountain --
Warrick shut the door again. "No."
"You're at his house?"
"Yeah."
"Go home."
"I just drank two beers."
"I'll be there in 15."
"Thanks, Cath."
"No problem." She paused. "And nice try," she said, knowing full well that Warrick had put in the effort that night.
"Thanks."
"See ya there."
"Yup. See ya here."
"Is that Marvin Gaye in the background?"
"And Tammi Terrell."
"Good taste."
"It's a good channel."
She chuckled and hung up.
***
They sat in silence on the way home, but it was a comfortable silence. Warrick couldn't help but feel a little guilty. After all, Catherine was driving him home because he was too drunk to drive. But he knew she didn't mind in this case. His mission had been a righteous one.
Catherine broke the silence. "He's not getting any better. You know that, right?"
"Yeah. I caught onto that when he broke down crying halfway through Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell."
"Figured as much."
"The song?"
"And the crying."
"How's that?"
"Because you couldn't handle it. You sounded out of your mind. And, I mean, you're Warrick. Breaking down isn't exactly your thing."
Warrick chuckled. "Most of the time."
"I mean it. You're a rock."
"I thought Grissom was the rock."
Catherine only needed to ponder that for a second before responding. "No, Grissom's ice."
"And how is that?"
Catherine continued. "When temperatures change -- when something happens that irks Grissom for whatever reason --"
Warrick delivered a fake cough, mumbling, "Sara."
Catherine chuckled. "Exactly. When that happens, Grissom melts."
"He loses his cool!" Warrick laughed again, slightly louder than he would have were he not on the tipsy side. He probably wouldn't have said that at all, and certainly with as much enthusiasm, were it not for the alcohol surging slowly through his veins.
Catherine just chuckled again. "True. He really does. Nice pun, Warrick," she said, reaching across the seat to give him a high five.
"Thanks, Cath."
"Anyways, while Grissom melts -- becomes something else from the heat --"
"In all of his chemical change of state."
"Yep. You get it," she affirmed. "But rocks? Rocks don't melt."
"Unless the temperature gets really hot."
"True, but it takes a lot."
"Technically, anything can melt at some temperature, but it happens very rarely and could easily never happen in the lifetime of any given piece of an element or compound with a particularly high specific heat."
"You sound like Wendy. But you got it exactly. Just like, in the most extreme situation, even you could lose it."
"Like tonight?"
"Like tonight."
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Warrick hardly fidgeted to reach for the music. He had had enough for the night.
Catherine, clearly uneasy, finally broke the silence again.
"I... talked to Grissom."
Warrick looked up, patiently waiting for her to explain.
"Big news." Her tone betrayed that the news was by no means positive, and Warrick nodded, savoring the moments before whichever impending disaster struck with Catherine's next words.
"Greg's case got closed."
"Shit."
"My sentiments exactly."
"They found the guys?"
Catherine shook her head. A thin sliver of her bottom lip was clenched harshly in her teeth. The display of concern, unusual for Catherine, looked like it might be the only thing holding back tears.
"Shit," Warrick repeated. "Greg's body?"
She shook her head again.
"We've gotta tell Nicky."
She nodded.
"Do you want to drag along Mr. Icy?"
She choked back a strange laugh-dry-sob hybrid, relieved for the levity. "That might be a questionable tactic."
"Yeah."
Catherine pulled up outside Warrick's apartment.
Warrick opened the door, but was stopped by a question.
"You wanna go talk to him tomorrow?"
"Hmmm..." Warrick rolled the idea over.
"You're gonna have to stop by his house to get your car anyways."
"True. But speaking of cars --"
"Need a ride to work?"
"You read my mind."
"That's what I do."
"I thought that was what Greg did. He kept talkin' 'bout how his gramma was a psychic an' even swapped for a case at the psychic -- Oops. Forget I said that."
"No."
"No?"
"No."
Warrick looked at her questioningly.
"We can't just forget about him entirely," Catherine explained. "Don't you think he'd want to be remembered, and for all the wonderful things about him, not the way he died? It's not like we're going to forget that." She said the last sentence in a lowered, painful voice, which Warrick took as a sign to change the topic. He hadn't been there when Greg was killed.
"So," he broke her from her sorrowed train of thought.
"I'll pick you up at 7."
"Awesome. And we'll stop by Nicky's to talk to him after shift? Unless we can fit it in during shift, preferably towards the end."
"Sounds good."
"And that way I can get my car, too."
"Aw, you don't wanna keep me company some more?"
"I've always loved your company, Cath," Warrick said with a grin as he closed the door.
"But, like all of the XY persuasion, you love your car more."
Warrick chuckled, letting Catherine take his non-answer for an affirmation.
"See you tomorrow, bright and early!"
"Heh. Dark and early!"
"Gotta love night shift."
"Damn straight. See ya then."
"What sad circumstances to meet an old friend," she remarked, humorlessly.
He nodded, and she could see the pain in his eyes.
"Why? Why are you doing this, Ari?"
"For Tam."
She was shocked by the answer. "Since when do you have the right to kill in his name?! Wasn't killing him enough?!"
She knew the words were harsh, and not those generally helpful in a hostage situation, when spoken to the hostage holder that held her and her colleagues' lives in his hands.
At the same time, however, despite everything Ari had done, she still couldn't imagine him hurting a flea. Even though he'd killed Tam, his lover and best friend, she still couldn't reconcile the idea of the murder with the present situation and any leftover potential for violence. In her mind, he was still the man promising to protect and love Tam forever. He was still Ari.
He sighed sadly, again. "You don't know what you're talking about, Cath." His voice was pure resignation, and she didn't dispute his right to call her by her nickname.
"Why Greg?" she asked, this time more quietly. She could even, almost, see similarities between Ari's late boyfriend and her colleague now lying prostrate on the casino's dusty floor. They had the same light in their eyes -- the same youthful, optimistic twinkle of potential and innocence. Or at least they had had it.
Hurting Greg hardly seemed like the appropriate way to memorialize Tam.
Cath shuddered as she remembered the blood surrounding Tam that night. The blood all over Ari's hand... The blood splayed out over the corpse of her friend, in the newspaper pictures...
Ari turned away, as if reading the morbid memories replaying in her mind. But then he turned toward Greg and Nick. And Catherine recognized the handkerchief that Nick held over Greg's stab wound. The handkerchief was covered in blood -- fresh and long dried up and browned. And it had the initials: OTJ.
Ari was a ball of fire, exploding toward Greg and Nick -- especially toward the prostrate man, lying in the same pool of blood, on the same stretch of floor, holding the same bloodied handkerchief.
At that moment, she knew it wouldn't end well, but she hadn't quite realized how bad it would get -- what cruelty 25 years in prison made Ari Marvin capable of inflicting.
Catherine could see the crazy look in Ari's eyes as he turned around to face Greg, and it scared her. Greg groaned as he tried to shift up onto his elbows and backwards, away from the man, but it was clearly no use.
"Ari, stop!" Catherine yelled. Nick made a move toward Greg, as if trying to stand in Ari's way.
"Aw, Ari, we finally gonna get a piece of action out of this one? We're gonna hafta kill him anyways. He's gonna have one of our DNA or whatever on him after kickin' his ass. Might as well have some fun first."
Greg paled at the comment, and Catherine could see the same look echoed on Nick's terrified face.
Ari came closer, as Greg squirmed slowly backwards. Ari leaned over to run a hand down Greg's face. Greg whimpered. The hand settled on Greg's jaw before clenching around his neck. Greg gasped in shock and pain.
All of the sudden, Ari turned around to snarl at Catherine, finally releasing his hand on Greg's neck. "Take care of this!" Catherine could see the pain in his eyes. "Make sure we get out of here. Do whatever you need."
Catherine nodded in response. She could see it in his eyes. Prison, or maybe even Tam's death, had broken Ari. There was no telling what he was capable of now.
"Make sure we get out of here," he said, eyes still crazy. "Or he goes down with us," he added, pointing at Greg.
Catherine gulped, nodding in response. Greg looked back at both of them with terrified eyes.
"And make sure Mr. Jared gets down here also. It's either revenge against Mr. Jared..." He gestured at Greg again. "Or against this one."
Catherine nodded, shocked, and pulled out her phone. She knew Ari meant business, especially given the leers of his co-conspirators. It made her sick.
Ari gently helped her sit down, though she was still separated from Greg and Nick.
"And you can only call one person."
Catherine nodded.
There were only three people Catherine knew she could call. The obvious choice would have been Grissom. But then she remembered the distracted gaze covering his face for the past few months. Ever since Sara left, she thought sadly.
Brass would also be a good choice. Then again, Brass had a tendency of being too tough, and toughness was not what was needed in this case. Catherine knew, from personal experience, that that wouldn't help solve the problem, not when Ari was involved.
Warrick would have been the worst choice of the three. He had been off for a few months, much like Grissom. Nick seemed convinced that Warrick was more 'off,' but Catherine knew better. It wasn't that Warrick was more distracted. He was just worse at hiding it. Grissom, on the other hand, was a very guarded person. He rarely expressed emotions, let alone signs of his personal troubles. That the entire nightshift had figured out that something was wrong with Grissom was, in itself, a sign of just how far off his game the older man had fallen.
Rumors had been going around about the younger CSI for about as long as he'd been on the force. 'He's a gambler,' people said. 'He's an addict.' 'He's got too much goin' on with him.' The last one had been said by Jim Brass, and the former two by police officers. But Catherine couldn't help but remember back, many years, to the day that Ellie Brass had come around. Grissom had been out, with a case or sabbatical, Catherine couldn't remember which. Warrick had been the one to handle it. Warrick had told Catherine later that day, in shock, of Grissom's words.
"When I leave CSI, there won't be any cake in the break room. I'll just be gone. So I wanted to see if you could step in."
They had always assumed that the reason there wouldn't be cake when Grissom left would be that cake didn't seem as appropriate for funerals. Grissom's funeral would only work with chocolate-covered ants. And Grissom, as the whole team knew, would not leave the lab until death. It was a marriage of love, and Grissom, still at least part Catholic at heart, seemed to take 'til death do us part' very seriously. But, then again, Catherine thought, that was all before Sara, or at least before she became romantically involved with the supervisor.
Nonetheless, despite the troubles in Warrick's past, he had been Grissom's choice as 'takeover guy.' And Catherine could tell that, though Grissom hadn't left the lab, his heart wasn't really there anymore. Instead, it was in San Francisco, or wherever Sara was at the moment.
Catherine didn't just need someone who could stay calm in any situation. Grissom did put a lot of energy into keeping his cool, and could probably do the same if she called him. But she needed someone with a different kind of calmness, someone who could keep everyone else calm as well.
She reached for the appropriate button on speed dial.
"Cath?"
"Rick!" she edged out. A loud noise distracted her, and she looked over to see Biggs and Richie trying to handcuff Nick, who was putting up quite a fight. Finally, Biggs moved toward Greg. Nick stilled the moment he saw Biggs straddle a helpless, wounded Greg. Catherine gulped back her fear, hoping it was only a show.
Putting her hand over her cell phone, she murmured to Ari, "Please. Leave him alone."
"We'll leave him alone if you do your job."
Catherine nodded, feeling the pressure increase. Her shoulders drooped.
"Suspect returned to scene. Multiple suspects."
Ari reached for the cell phone, shutting it between his hands quickly.
Catherine looked up, puzzled. She had to explain to Warrick the situation either way. If she wanted the van to come, she'd have to explain what had happened.
"Sorry," Ari said coldly. "I can't have them tracing the signal to the exact room. You have a walkie-talkie?"
Catherine nodded, pulling it out.
Her fingers found the appropriate buttons on the walkie-talkie.
"Brown?"
"Warrick --"
"Cath! Are you alright?!"
She hesitated. "I'm fine. For now. Just... we need an escape vehicle."
"For who?"
"Them."
"I was afraid that would be your answer."
Catherine sighed, wincing at the pain it seemed to cause her wounded shoulder.
"You okay?"
Catherine took another deep breath. "For now... Bullet," she said, wincing again.
"Shit."
"Yeah.. My sentiments exactly."
She could hear Warrick chuckle on the other line. She could feel the soothing effect of his voice already.
"Can you... try to get it? The vehicle, I mean?"
"Yeah. I'll try."
A nudge to her uninjured shoulder drew her attention. Ari looked down, gaze unreadable. "Bruce Jared had better be in the car."
Catherine glared. "He already lost his son thanks to you, Ari."
Ari's cold poker face broke for a moment, revealing pure rage. "Mind your own business, Cath!" The words were vicious and loud, startling Catherine and the others in the room.
"F-fine," she muttered, waiting for her breathing to slow down. She picked up the walkie-talkie again. "Warrick?"
"Bruce Jared, owner of the Tangiers?" She could barely hear the incredulity he was obviously holding back.
"Yeah," she replied despondently, knowing the likelihood of that particular demand being met.
"I'll do my best."
"Thanks, Rick."
"No problem."
She knew 'no problem' didn't exactly summarize the situation, but it was so Warrick to say it anyways.
She set the walkie talkie down, and sat calmly, waiting for a resolution.
That was when Greg inched over to look at her. He reached for a hand with surprising strength.
She crawled over to the youngest CSI. Ari didn't seem to mind.
Greg motioned for Catherine's head and she leaned down. She could see the desperation in his eyes, and the pain in his voice.
"Promise you won't tell anyone."
She looked down, questioning.
"Please. No matter what happens. Don't tell anyone about us -- Nick and I. Especially not Warrick."
Catherine nodded.
Nick had always been passionate about his cases. But he'd been able to put them down. What Warrick saw in front of him wasn't even passion. It was obsession. It was a distraction -- an angry burning kettle to stick on the front burner, in the hopes that it would whistle loud enough to drown out whatever it was Nick was trying to avoid.
Greg. It dawned on him. Where are you now, man? How'd you leave my best friend so crushed? He stared again at Nick, who was now on to the bottom of the next page in his case, his shoelaces largely neglected, with one only half-tied. What happened to you, man? What set them off so much? Where are you? Who are you?
Warrick never felt like he had known Greg that well, and he regretted it. He wished he could go back in time, to befriend the man more.
Then again, if he had, perhaps he would be as torn as Nick was now.
Catherine and Warrick were holding the team together as Nick dealt with his grief, and Grissom with his normal people problems, compounded by some form of heartbreak at Sara's departure.
And Warrick knew Catherine didn't have it all together. She had, after all, been there when Greg was killed. She had watched as Nick pleaded. She had been talking to Warrick with the walkie-talkie, trying to negotiate a deal through which they could all emerge unscathed.
And she had failed. They had both failed.
Warrick knew that failure had to be hitting Catherine hard, even as she focused on the two men falling apart around her. Warrick, he knew, was the most unscathed by the incident, and he was grateful for that. He had no idea what would have happened -- how far they all would have sunk -- if he hadn't been there to keep it all together.
He had, in fact, been on his own sinking ship for a while, with Tina and the divorce, and the pills.
After the incident, however, he had changed his tone. Tina stopped mattering. The pills that kept him awake, and the ones that got him to sleep, and the ones that kept him happy all became irrelevant.
His entire focus was on keeping the team together, and his own problems just stopped mattering.
He still, occasionally, took pills -- amphetamines. He had a feeling what he was doing might even be construed as abuse.
He knew he didn't need them to help him focus. He was already focused -- very focused. The team was his life after that incident, at least more so than before, and he didn't need a pill to remind him of that.
A phone call interrupted the moment of peace and thought -- a moment he felt very privileged to have at the rather hectic present. He got too few free moments these days.
He flicked his phone open. "Hi, Amy."
"Hi, Warrick. I can't make tonight," she said in a glum, yet nonchalant tone. He could almost hear her popping bubble gum in the background. "Have fun," she said, hanging up before Warrick even had a chance to reply.
"Wait -- what?" A dial tone responded to his confused query.
Glaring at his phone screen, he hung up. Well, that was weird. She sounded angry, like it was my fault, or like I should have expected it. He snapped his phone shut. And what did she mean by 'Have fun tonight'?
He shook his head, totally baffled by his girlfriend. This just isn't working. He contemplated calling her back and asking what she'd meant, or why exactly she was blowing him off this time, but refrained. He could find better ways to spend his night, or rather late afternoon, anyways.
"I hope he's the same again, someday."
He didn't need to turn around to acknowledge her. He continued to stare into the locker room as he replied to Catherine.
"He has to be. People get over stuff like this all the time. It just takes time. I don't know what it is that's makin' it so hard for him. I guess it's that he hasn't had to deal with death as much as a lot of people."
Catherine gave him a quizzical glance, even chuckling. "Because he's clearly never seen a dead body before?"
Warrick chuckled himself. "Okay, good point. But you know what I mean. Those are anonymous deaths, at least to us. And we see them after they're already dead. We don't have to deal with our best friends dying, let alone being there for it."
Catherine looked up at him, searching. "So you think Greg was Nick's best friend?"
Warrick looked down, slightly puzzled by the question. "I guess so... I mean, it seems like they've gotten pretty close in recent years, ya know?"
Catherine just nodded slightly. "Just wondering."
"I mean, they must have been best friends for Nick to take it so hard, right?"
"Yeah, definitely. They must have been best friends."
"Why?"
"Oh, just wondering." Catherine paused. "I mean, I'm tryin' to figure it out just like you are."
"Sure," Warrick nodded. There was so much figuring out to do with the man he had used to call a best friend. "There's a lot left to figure, I'd say."
Nick finally emerged from his files, as the clock ticked for the beginning of the next shift. Catherine and Warrick could hear his stomach growling, as if on cue. They both stifled laughs. Nick looked up, obliviously at first, before scowling at them.
"You two want somethin'?"
"Nah, you just sound hungry, man. When's the last time you ate?"
Nick shrugged his shoulders. In all their efforts to keep Nick going, Catherine and Warrick had paid less attention to his eating habits. They figured that a guy like him couldn't exactly forget to eat, but apparently they'd been wrong.
"Hey, Nicky," Catherine started. "How 'bout we take you out to eat?"
"Actually, I had a whole dinner planned out for Amy, before she cancelled. Why don't we just make it a group dinner?"
"That sounds nice, actually. Haven't had one of those in a long while." Like since Sara left and Greg died... "Okay," said Warrick sheepishly. "I'm just not so sure my apartment's in great shape for a big get-together."
"Not in shape for a team dinner, but in shape for a date? Do you not remember the three D's of working CSI?"
Warrick chuckled. "You underestimate me, Cath. Dead bodies, dumpsters and..." He jokingly scratched his head. "Decomp."
"Good work. You're better than I thought, Brown. Now do you really think we would be grossed out by your apartment?"
Warrick chuckled. "It's not that big. Hey, actually, if you wanna offer up your house as the spot -- it is closer to everyone -- then we have a deal. How 'bout that?"
"Sounds good," Catherine said with a grin. She turned around to find that the third participant in their conversation had already left. Nick was gathering his things in the locker room. "Hey, Nicky! We're headed over to my place. Got it?"
Nick shrugged apathetically. "Sure. Sounds fine, Mom."
Catherine rolled her eyes. "You wanna tell Grissom, or should I?"
Warrick grinned. "You volunteered your house, so I'll go tell the bug man."
"Be my guest. I'll go track down Wendy."
***
Grissom watched the bustle in the kitchen quietly.
In all his years working with Warrick and Catherine, he had never quite appreciated their cooking prowess. Or at least he had assumed that Warrick had cooked the potatoes, fish and green beans. Wendy had challenged that theory, teasingly, saying she'd seldom met a straight man capable of cooking anything that smelled that good.
Catherine had pursed her lips thoughtfully -- surprisingly thoughtfully for Catherine, who always spoke her mind, and still managed to say all the right things -- and replied that they had no real proof of Warrick's sexuality.
Wendy, of course, only needed to utter one word: "Tina."
But Catherine had a quicker reply planned to that. "I don't think that skank is proof of anything. She -- or it -- would have to be human."
Nick, of course, had already shied away from the conversation. He was poised in front of a photo frame, staring intently. Or, at least, it looked as if he were staring intently. Grissom really couldn't tell.
He took pride in his objective, observational skills, but when it came to condensing those observations to make a final assessment -- a less than objective judgment -- he was often stuck. He was used to letting the evidence, along with Detective Brass's hunches and the words of witnesses, persons of interest and suspects, do the talking and fitting the puzzle pieces together. The evidence alone painted a picture, but never a clear enough one for a solid venture deserving of Gil Grissom's confidence.
That said, he had a few hypotheses floating through his unusual cerebral strands and cortexes as he watched his team's motions throughout the kitchen.
The room itself was rectangular and narrow, with pale yellow tiling surrounding the occasional, geometrically placed square tile with a central blue floral design. Like Catherine, the tiling seemed simple and classy. Appropriate.
Flooring was not something Grissom had always been one to judge. It contradicted his objective nature, and, Sara had said, his manly nonaesthetics. He had replied with lightly veiled irritation in a rare show of temper, that nonaesthetics was not a word. He remembered how he still loved it when she had rolled her eyes. Somehow, the lack of dark, sepia irises always darting around had seemed to bring out the perfect symmetry of her eyes.
He silently chastised himself for becoming distracted by his own irrelevant thoughts and memories. His job today was not to recall his own losses. It was to assess the damage; to watch his team interact in what was the closest setting to a vacuum that he could hope for. The whole team, standing together, except for him, of course. And except for Greg. Then again, circumstances with Greg could no longer be mimicked. That experiment was lost.
Sara, too. The departure of the love of his life forever tainted the dynamics of the team.
Then again, the losses of those particular members could prove the causes of many of the behaviors observed in the team members. It was likely that Wendy's venture into the field was in part the result of the departure of two other CSIs. Sara's loss could easily have initially triggered Ecklie and the undersheriff's subtle hints regarding a need for a larger night shift. After all, the team grew slower upon losing the additional member.
Greg's loss, of course, had exacerbated the crumbling clearance rates. Though he had been only a CSI level one, his presence was certainly felt, if for no other reason than he had often brought smiles to his coworkers' faces.
His death was more brutal, and unexpected. He was dead, and the result, of course, had a finality to it, one that Sara's departure had not provoked.
The team had always known that Sara had her issues. Furthermore, she had initially come as a temporary replacement. Most importantly, it was still possible for her to come back. It was no longer possible for Greg to do so, at least not as anything more than a corpse. In his mind, Grissom could not help but calculate the likely rate of decomposition in the stagnant remains of the formerly wild, restless CSI 1.
When the maggots in his mind moved to the familiar dark chestnut eyes, he cut off the vision, chastising his own perversions. He was, at times, too much the scientist. He grimaced. The impact of past losses could be analyzed later. The dinner presented a priceless and unrepeatable trial, one he should pay careful mind to.
He stared impassively across the table and into the kitchen. Thanks to its narrow layout, which ran perpendicular to the dining room he sat in, he could see all the action in there. He was grateful.
Warrick stood closest to the entryway, leaning over the green beans. Grissom was grateful for their proximity, as he was lavishing in the delightful smell of the sautéing garlic. He took another whiff of the smell -- apparently not subtly enough, as Wendy, who was facing the other counter while carefully slicing a loaf of baguette, seemed to pick up on his thoughts from the slight sound.
"I know, right? You can never go wrong with sautéing garlic. It always smells divine. That and onions." Her voice seemed a little fast. Almost anxious. Grissom could hypothesize on the causes later.
Catherine, delicately shifting to switch places with Warrick and check the oven underneath the stovetop, shook her head slowly and calmly, signaling her agreement.
"That's how Warrick gets the girls, by shows his cooking smarts. All ya got to do is make the right smells, and they'll think you know what you're doing."
She leaned up from the lit oven, wrinkling her brows slightly before lighting up. Most likely, Grissom hypothesized, that means the bird is going well.
Warrick smiled as Catherine gracefully moved up and to his left, toward the dish drain and out of his way. "There are so many other ways I do that."
"Get the girls?" Wendy asked, chuckling. "Or prove your cooking cred?" She leaned in, inspecting the cut of the bread carefully.
She was the most meticulous bread cutter Grissom had ever seen. Licking her lips, she leaned in further toward the chopping board, measuring what looked to be a quarter of an inch into the bread with the tip of her finger, before slicing down slowly.
Grissom knit his brows, wishing she would do so more swiftly, with less calculation. The trick to slicing bread, as Wendy did not seem to know, was to do it quickly enough to slice through in one motion, so that the bread slice would come out even, with straight edges.
But, in his effort to merely observe the situation, as well as his own introversion, he declined the option of commenting aloud. He could worry about his advisory role later, in the field. Helping Wendy become a CSI was different than helping her become a proficient bread slicer.
A new odor interrupted his observations. Catherine bent down as Warrick dropped the spatula he was holding, carefully setting it against the rim of the frying pan filled with darkening green beans and the sweet, yet, in the best way, bitter garlic. The door to the oven popped open and, in one strong motion, Catherine reached in, oven mitts lightly clutched in her hands. The turkey emerged quickly, still steaming, and barely missed brushing against Warrick, whose eyes still half-lingered on the frying pan's bubbling garlic and oil, but he didn't even flinch as the heavy metal tin baring the bird came close.
The bird looked wonderful. Hearing his stomach growl, Grissom tuned his ears to the banter now coming from the room.
Even Nick finally turned around, moving away from the picture frame to cast deep eyes at the poultry that was emerging from the oven and emitting a delightful, warm odor.
Catherine sure knows how to cook a bird, Grissom thought.
The kitchen looked too crowded as Nick made his way back into it. Catherine seemed comfortable in her own kitchen and Warrick, despite his hefty 6'2" frame, was also at ease.
Wendy, though graceful and light on her feet, was hunched over in concentration, elbows bent stiffly. Occasionally, her eyes darted around quickly and carefully, trying to avoid detection. She reminded Grissom of a student taking a test, while carefully checking for classmates' answers.
Nick, meanwhile, looked equally awkward, but, unlike Wendy, anything but concentrating. He almost seemed to be wavering in the non-existent wind of Catherine's kitchen.
If Greg were here, Grissom thought, he would make a joke about making wind. He chuckled sadly.
Wendy looked up, immediately alert, or rather more alert than previously. "What's so funny, Griss?"
Damn, she's sharp, Grissom thought, sighing with frustration.
Wendy raised an eyebrow, and Catherine turned around to stare at Grissom. She seemed to have caught on with Wendy's query, and raised an eyebrow as well, in near identical fashion. Grissom nearly chuckled at the sight of the two women. Warrick slowed his stirring of the green beans to cast an eye at the exchange.
Nick, of all people, saved him from responding. "You guys have the same eyebrows." It was a blunt statement, but Catherine chuckled in relief, just to hear something vaguely happy and humorous coming from Nick's mouth. Grissom barely caught Warrick scowling at Catherine over his shoulder, not needing to watch the hand holding the spoon. Expert hand-eye coordination, thought Grissom sardonically.
Warrick, as if reading Grissom's mind, looked back to the green beans, as Grissom leaned back in his chair. It was a standstill.
Catherine ignored Warrick's scowl. With expert conflict-resolution skills, she reached over to grab the pan of green beans, even as the other hand clutched the bird, still fresh out of the oven.
"Hey," Warrick said, glaring lightly.
"Let's go sit down," she replied with a smile. "I'd say dinner's ready." She directed her gaze to the green beans, which did look to be cooked to perfection.
Warrick reached for the mashed potatoes, still staying warm on the back burner. Wendy gathered the neatly arranged bread, along with the crostini, and followed Warrick carefully to the table.
"Hey, Grissom?" Grissom looked up startled as Catherine waved a hand in front of his face, or rather a frying pan full of green beans, since that was what was in her right hand. "You just gonna sit there staring, or you gonna help?"
Grissom knew his responding expression resembled a deer caught in the headlights. "What do you need help with?"
"Set out some coasters or something to put these on, will ya?"
Grissom nodded, looking around the room. He reached for a set of purple ceramic... well, square-looking things. He forgot what Sara had called them. Seeing that there were only two, he found three more brownish yellow ones, seemingly of a similar material.
Catherine scowled. "Grissom, those don't even match."
He scowled back, before seeing Nick unearth a set of four in green.
"Nice job, Nicky," she said with a smile.
Coddling, Grissom thought to himself, only slightly annoyed at himself for failing the match test yet again. Even Sara would have done better. He sighed. No thinking about Sara. That's an order, Gil Grissom.
After helping spread the placemats, plates and silverware out, he was able to quickly return to his observations. He resisted the urge to say blessings, as he had learned years ago as a young Catholic, but saw Warrick take over the task anyways. The blessing was said quietly, but Warrick's deep, rich and commanding voice made it work. In a matter of seconds -- maybe even less than a second --the food was making quick rounds around the table.
Grissom served himself moderate portions of each dish, surreptitiously glancing around every few seconds to continue his observations.
What, he thought, would be the proper trigger, to set off a reaction capable of exposing the underbelly of the team's problems? Typical conversation starters, he thought, would not quite work. He rattled off a few in his head. Weather -- too boring; sports -- only Nick and Warrick know sports; work? Everyone's tired of work, unless there's some new news...
"So, is this a congratulatory dinner?"
Nick stared up, his face as blank as ever. Warrick and Catherine's faces held mild curiosity, Catherine's showing more apparent on her non-poker face. Wendy's face bore a small smile in between spoonfuls of mashed potatoes.
Wendy gulped down her bite, and looked up, smiling more broadly. Her smile seemed to give away hints to the rest of the team -- or at least Warrick and Catherine -- of what was meant.
Catherine quickly broke the silence. "You finished the case?!"
Wendy's smile grew. "Yep. This afternoon -- or night. Whatever you say on nightshift."
Warrick chuckled. "We're special."
"Damn straight," Catherine replied, between small, ladylike mouthfuls that she chomped down, less than ladylike.
The team continued to eat, but in more silence. Grissom regretted the silence, but made no further attempts to change it, fearing the repercussions of altering the experiment further, and enjoyed the delicious food prepared.
Taking his last bite of his own potatoes, Grissom turned to stare, again surreptitiously. Warrick and Catherine were, again, at ease. Wendy seemed to be involved in a battle with the chunk of salmon, as she tried, scowling, to push off the pieces of skin. It was the second time that evening that Grissom noticed an unusual level of concentration applied to something not normally warranting such focus, by Wendy. He noticed Wendy pause, and begin to look up, so he too turned his head, this time to his immediate left, where Nick sat in a harsher silence. His face was hard, but still blank, so that Grissom couldn't tell whether it was an expression of apathy or a scowl.
Grissom looked more closely. He was surprised to catch Nick's furtive stares -- or, rather, glares -- directed across the table. Wendy. Something to do with Wendy. He's staring at her; glaring at her.
Based on the newly retrieved piece of evidence, Grissom decided to test the waters further. "So, Wendy." She picked up her head quickly to look at him, almost in surprise. "You ready to be a CSI?"
Warrick and Catherine stared at him, Catherine's expression of definite bemusement. Grissom knew the words were not those expected of him. They sounded awkward, and more so than his normal words. They sounded forced. Good job protecting the validity of this experiment, he chastised himself. But I will go on with this.
Wendy nodded happily. Nick's scowl was less furtive this time, stronger, Grissom noted. "We could sure use the extra pair of hands, and eyes, on the grave shift."
Wendy beamed again, or as much as was possible through a mouth full of green beans. Nick scowled more. Wendy and Nick's expressions seemed to exist in an inverse relationship. Where one's happiness grew, the other's decreased even more. The more talk of Wendy's inevitable promotion, the more her face lit up, and the more Nick's fell.
Hmmm, Grissom thought, intrigued.
Grissom was done observing. He was normally a patient man, but he could wait no longer to puzzle over his findings and hypothesize. Besides, he justified. With this many observations swirling around in my mind, I'm bound to forget something. The more I add, especially without thoroughly processing and encoding, the more I'm bound to forget.
He could see the change in facial expressions, and the surprise at various realizations. Though that was not what most caught his notice. Catherine's ease and sense of humor, just like normal. The only abnormalities in her behavior had been her words towards Nick, which seemed unusually maternal and coddling.
Warrick was at ease, and seemed to follow Catherine's lead more than usual, even in small situations where she blocked his path in the kitchen. Nonetheless, in those cases, only Grissom could see Warrick's small and quickly corrected scowls.
Wendy was attentive and focused. In some ways, she reminded Grissom of a Nick of earlier days, a perfectionist no matter the task. At the same time, however, she seemed very in tune with her surroundings as well as the task she herself was focusing on.
The contrast between Wendy and an earlier Nick was what most illuminated the kitchen's most obvious abnormality. Nick seemed so distracted, so... elsewhere. So faded. So different than he used to be. Grissom couldn't quite pinpoint where the change occurred, but he could still, definitely sense it.
Grissom's hypothesis solved itself.
Nick used to be so bright. Bright like a star, not like a scientist. He really did cast the sort of smile that could light up the room. It was sad to lose those smiles.
Even Grissom could see how it hurt team morale. He knew it wasn't just Greg's loss that plagued them. In reality, they were down three CSIs, not just two. In the last year, while Sara had left and Greg had died, Nick had simply faded away to nothingness. Nick was a shell, and the only difference between him and Greg was that they hadn't found Greg's corpse yet. In the darker depths of his entomologically oriented mind, Grissom wondered if he would find month-old maggot colonies growing in Nick by now.
Tearing himself from the painful metaphor, Grissom stared at the scene before him, and watched it paint the path to his solution.
"Whatcha thinking about, Griss?"
He turned to Catherine, realizing that the last small strain of conversation had died out five minutes ago as he had continued to stare and observe.
"Just the team," Grissom replied.
Catherine raised both brows and nodded, before turning back to her food. Grissom could see the expression on her face, the one that read thought, and, inevitably, an incoming comment. Her next words arrived right on time, as planned for. Nonetheless, they were unexpected. "Hasn't been quite the same for a while, has it?" she asked.
Bold move, he thought. Then again, bold has always been one of Catherine's most notable features. So no surprise there.
"No, it hasn't," Warrick replied, shooting Catherine a strange look, seemingly one of reprove.
"Hasn't been the same since Sara left," Catherine added, more aimed at Warrick's questioning look than at anyone else at the table.
Grissom coughed uncomfortably at the name of his girlfriend -- if that's even what she is anymore... -- and nodded. I'm not looking for my reaction. I'm looking for theirs.
He was surprised to see Nick finally venture words, but the words only served to bring him down further. "Nothing's been the same."
Four simple words that told Grissom everything he was looking for at the moment.
Grissom had a hypothesis, as proved, as best it could be, by the dinner experiment. More importantly, however, he also had his solution.
Watching as Catherine cleared the plates with the eager help of Wendy, Grissom excused himself, reaching into his pocket. His cell phone had never felt so much like a key to happiness before, as when he reached for the familiar, much loved button.
***
Sitting in Grissom's office -- Grissom had been MIA all day -- Warrick put his feet up on the desk and stared up at the ceiling. But he knew it held no answers.
He closed his eyes and took another deep breath. He reached for his walkie talkie again.
Catherine answered quickly.
"What kind of vehicle?"
"Um... not sure." He could hear her point the question to someone else, no doubt one of the robbers.
"Something big. Less hard to spot on the road."
"So a popular SUV works?"
She seemed to get where he was going with the question.
"Sounds good."
Warrick shook his head, trying to find the right thing to say to calm the situation. He could only think of one thing, though he couldn't help but doubt the accuracy of the hypothetical assertion. Nonetheless, weighing the fear that was, no doubt, pounding through Catherine's mind, he said it anyways. "I'll find it."
The SUV, he knew, would be the easy part. Negotiating with Bruce Jared, casino magnate, to sit down in an SUV filled with bank robbers and murderers -- probably not so easy.
Nonetheless, he reached for his keys, grateful that, after enough cases at the Tangiers, Rampart and other establishments formerly owned by Sam Braun -- now owned by Bruce Jared -- he had the location of casino's headquarters memorized.
"Yeah?" Warrick looked up from the food he was helping place in Tupperware containers.
"We need to talk to Nick."
Warrick nodded.
"Greg's case."
"Ugh. Yeah."
"My sentiments exactly."
"I'm guessing he wasn't quite ready to handle the news when you broke it to him about the locker?"
Catherine shook her head. A thin sliver of her bottom lip was clenched harshly in her teeth. The display of concern, unusual for Catherine, looked like it might be the only thing holding back tears.
"Shit."
"I know."
He chuckled sadly. "And I thought cooking would be the hard part."
She let out a grin, though her mouth was still clenched in frustration with the impending, but necessary task.
Fortunately, Wendy, who looked particularly exhausted after pulling so many shifts as both a CSI-in-training and a lab tech, had left quickly after dinner, helping Catherine bring in dishes and then sneaking out with quick goodbyes to all visible team members.
Grissom's location was a mystery, although Catherine had seen him pull out his phone. Warrick and Catherine both knew that Grissom had the discretion to avoid the conversation and would, if necessary, sneak out of the house or into another room to stay out of their way until it was over.
Warrick forced a smile as well, clearing his chest and pushing a foot forward. "Well." He looked up, seeking her affirmation. "No time like the present."
Catherine nodded as they headed out to the living room, where she had instructed Nick to wait.
Finally, Warrick found himself looking down at the information table.
"Tangiers. How may I help you?" A skinny young man with short red hair barely looked up from his computer to greet Warrick -- if it could even be called a greeting.
The kid barely looked old enough to be in a casino, let alone working for one. His voice exuded boredom. From the pace of clicks and taps on the keyboard, Warrick would comfortably wager that the receptionist was in the middle of some game; since they were, after all, in Vegas, it was probably internet poker of some sort. Given the apathetic tone, Warrick wasn't optimistic about the kid's inclination for helping Warrick as quickly as possible.
Hopefully, he thought, sounding official and urgent would get the job done.
"Hi. I'm with LVPD working on the Tangiers investigation. I need to speak to Mr. Jared, immediately."
"Um..." The man shot a brief, concerned look at the computer before turning down to face his desk, clearly in thought.
Thinking the man might need an extra push, Warrick added, "Any delay could cost the investigation and even count as interfering with an investigation --"
"Okay, okay."
'Interfering with an investigation' probably wasn't the most accurate term. If the receptionist -- or whoever it was that worked the Tangiers information booth -- had taken a while to find Mr. Jared, it wouldn't exactly have constituted a crime. It would just be an interference. Fudging the truth, Warrick thought. Brass would certainly understand. Sometimes -- not often, but sometimes -- the ignorance of the general Vegas population could be quite useful.
The kid reached for the phone in front of him as his eyes darted around the room, looking at Warrick briefly. He hung up the receiver and motioned for someone standing further behind Warrick, off in another room to the left. "Mr. Martino! Police guy wants to talk to you!"
Warrick sighed, trying not to roll his eyes at being called 'Police guy.' The first thing people noticed about Warrick, other than his impossible turquoise eyes, was his skin color and big, burly build. When they heard LVPD, or, often, even 'working for the city,' they just assumed his vocation consisted of shoot-outs and beating and/or intimidating confessions out of druggies and suspects. But he was a scientist before he was a police officer.
A slim man moved quickly toward the counter. He was clearly a somebody in the casino. He was dressed crisply and professionally, with full, dark hair combed neatly across his head, though not in a comb over, but barely venturing to touch the clear, deep olive skin. "Hi. I'm Rex Martino, Mr. Jared's assistant," he said, reaching out a hand. Warrick noted the strong handshake. This is a man of confidence and efficiency.
"Warrick Brown, crime lab."
Mr. Martino nodded. "Your team is investigating the murder at the Tangiers." It was more of a statement than a question.
"My team was investigating it."
"Was?" Mr. Martino wrinkled his thick brows. He began to speak but was interrupted by Warrick.
"The robbers came back."
Mr. Martino looked Warrick in the eye, searching for the rest of the story. He kept a good poker face, but Warrick could see the anxiety belied in the calm expression.
"The perps came back and took my team hostage. We have three men -- err, three officers -- two men and one woman down there." He added quietly, "The perps threatened to hurt them."
Mr. Martino pursed his lip, reaching up a hand to rub his chin; he was clearly lost in thought. "This certainly complicates matters."
Warrick nodded.
"What do they want? Money?" Warrick could see the anxiety growing in the man's voice, even as his face hid it well.
"I think they already found the money."
"How?" Mr. Martino looked thoroughly baffled, but waved it off. "Never mind. Um..."
"I need to speak to Mr. Jared, right away."
Mr. Martino nodded. "I'll go find him. Follow me."
Warrick heaved a sigh of relief, knowing he was one step closer to the goal that had, minutes ago, seemed insurmountable. It still seemed insurmountable, of course, to get Mr. Jared to go along with the plan -- to jump in the escape vehicle of four crazy robbers with who-knew-what on their minds. Nonetheless, Warrick reminded himself. This is one step closer. One step closer to bringing them all back, safe and sound. One step closer to quashing the fear in Catherine's voice.
Mr. Martino's walk was brisk and Warrick was surprised to find himself struggling to keep up with the petite man. Guess I'm getting older than I thought, he thought with a shake of the head as he followed Mr. Martino, weaving between people and offices. He was surprised by the sheer size of the office.
Mr. Martino knocked at the door, hand steady. "Mr. Jared!"
A moment passed, and Warrick thought he could hear someone on the phone behind the door.
"Bruce!" Mr. Martino yelled again.
"Come in, Rex." The voice from behind the door was smooth and patient, surprising for a man of such power and responsibility.
Rex opened the door before leaning in to whisper into the ear of the man at the desk.
The man, turning around to face Warrick, nodded. "Thanks, Rex. I'll take care of it."
The door closed and Warrick got a good look at the man in front of him. His face was aged, but gentle, and it surprised Warrick, once again, that such a man could grow into the role of one of Vegas's premier tycoons. Wispy grey hair was combed over his balding head, and slight grey eyebrows were barely visible above large, open eyes. The title at the desk confirmed that this was indeed Bruce Jared.
"Rex has informed me of the entire situation."
Warrick looked up, perplexed that Mr. Martino had even had the time to give all of the information in a second's worth of whispering.
Mr. Jared, as if in response, tapped a cell phone. "He informed me on the way over."
Warrick nodded, knowing he hadn't been able to keep track of Mr. Martino half the time as he followed the man into the office.
"One of the best assistants I've ever had, Rex is. Very efficient," Mr. Jared added as he edged his chair closer to the desk, and to Warrick.
Warrick nodded. "Ah --"
"Yes, yes," Mr. Jared smiled at Warrick -- gravely but reassuringly. "Let's get right to business. So, what is it that they want?" His voice remained sublimely calm and gentle. Warrick couldn't help thinking that he must have made a terrific poker player at one point in time.
"Ah, at this point?"
"Rex mentioned that they probably already had some money?"
"Yes. Something to that effect. But, Mr. Jared..." Warrick felt the sudden need to rush, even in the slower pace of Mr. Jared's southern hospitality and grace. "That's not what they want. And they're going to hurt my friends -- the investigators down there -- if you don't go to the scene."
Mr. Jared raised an eyebrow, which Warrick suspected conveyed all the more on such a poker face. "Me?"
"Yes. I don't know why. I'm not really sure what the deal is --"
"Mr. Brown," Mr. Jared replied, clearly picking Warrick's name off of the CSI vest. "We don't negotiate with terrorists. I'm sorry. I really am. They ask for my cooperation now, but next thing you know, it'll be the entire casino."
"Mr. Jared, with all due respect, they couldn't handle everyone at your casino. There's only four of them."
"Mr. Brown." Mr. Jared leaned forward again. "Don't doubt the abilities of four men to handle a hell of a lot."
Warrick leaned forward as well, meeting Mr. Jared's eyes. "Right now I'm only concerned about their abilities to handle my friends and teammates."
"Mr. Brown --"
"Call me Warrick."
"Warrick, I... I don't know what to say. I'm sorry about the situation. I really am. But I can't just go out every time a bunch of terrorists or robbers or murderers makes that sort of threat. Giving in only encourages them, and others like them. The more we give in, the more they'll ask for, or the more other robbers will ask for."
"But they're only asking for you. Seriously, what could they want?"
"Well, I'd imagine they want the correct combinations to open one of our various deposits. I'm the only one who knows all of the combinations at present. Their asking for my help is no different than them asking for all of the casino's money. And if we gave that to them, they'd just as easily drive every one of my employees out of a job. Given the number of casinos under my direction, they could easily bankrupt half of the major casinos in this city. Surely you see that this is no light matter, Mr. Brown. It's a question of the entire Las Vegas economy, of present and future."
Warrick grit his teeth, seeing the man's logic. "Well, you wouldn't have to give them the information."
Mr. Jared bristled at the comment. "They'd get it out of me, one way or another. Threaten the hostages some more, threaten me."
Warrick glared.
"I really am sorry, Mr. Br-- Warrick. I really am. In the words of a great hero, 'With great power comes great responsibility.' It may be clichéd, but it's true. I'm responsible for everyone who chooses to make their living, or even those who choose to spend their living here. I'm sorry. But my hands are tied."
Warrick didn't know how to respond, but to grit his teeth again. With Mr. Jared's hands tied, his were too.
"Mr. Jared --"
"Call me Bruce."
"Okay, Bruce. Would you give me a minute?"
"Sure."
Warrick slipped out of the room and pulled out his walkie-talkie.
"Rick?!" He could hear the fear and franticness in Catherine's voice.
"I just talked to Mr. Jared. No go."
"Oh."
He could hear a commotion on the other end, as Catherine no doubt broke the news to everyone else hidden in whichever back room of the casino.
A new voice broke through the static, this one cold, male and melancholy, with a frightening hint of rage. "Put Mr. Jared on. Please." It was unmistakably an order, not a request.
Warrick handed the phone to Mr. Jared and watched as the man's face grew white. He shooed Warrick out of the room and Warrick obliged.
Catherine was relieved when the conversation ended. Nick had taken it stoically -- almost too stoically. He was uncontrollable, and she was grateful for the opportunity for control that was hidden under her bed. Finally alone in her house, aside from her sleeping daughter, she made her way back to her room, to reflect on the dinner and the case that would, hopefully, ease her team's tension.
The conversation had been followed by an awkward silence, which Nick quickly broke, announcing that he had a hard case and had to be up early for the next shift. Grissom, sure enough, had left immediately afterwards, with a gentle goodbye to Warrick and Catherine, as well as a sincere thank you for the news they broke to Nick. Warrick had followed quickly out the door.
Upon reaching her bedroom, however, Catherine was beckoned by the soft pillows and comforters. She had been working too much lately, and sleep was too inviting and precious a commodity. But Nick... he needs closure, and he needs it now, she thought. Then again, she realized, at the rate she was going, working the case as a solo during the limited time that she had off, who knew when it would actually be solved.
She groaned, knowing what she had to do, and reached down for the box.
Minutes later, the gentle swoosh of the front door again interrupted her from the task at hand. Peering out, she saw Warrick, heading toward the kitchen. Staring back at the box with fatigue, she chuckled and followed Warrick.
He turned around, looking not quite startled but not quite expectant either. "Aw man. Did I wake you up?" he asked with a grimace.
She chuckled, looking down meaningfully at her jeans and blouse. Her night's culinary feats was still barely visible. Specks of olive oil dotted a sleeve, clear evidence from the "crime," as Warrick had called it, of sneaking a green bean off the hot skillet.
"Well, sorry," he said, laughing. "I forgot ladies of class never conk out fully dressed after a long day's work. I guess it's just lazy bachelors like me."
She laughed back. "Well, lazy bachelors habits aside, I'm assuming that you didn't plan on conking out, after a long day's work, in my kitchen. What brings you back here, Mr. Brown?"
"Mashed potatoes."
Catherine tried -- and failed -- to stifle a laugh. "Mashed potatoes over sleep?"
"Did you try those mashed potatoes?! If you did, I think you'd see that there's no comparison."
"Okay," she said, still laughing. "I'll give you that."
"More specifically," he explained, "I promised Amy I'd save her some. So she can have a part of the romantic dinner I had planned."
"Oh, Warrick. What a gentleman." She rolled her eyes. "You couldn't just order out?"
"Hey now. We'd agreed that I could take some of the food home afterwards. Specifically, you asked me to because you said you and Lindsey couldn't go through all of the leftovers and you didn't want it to go bad."
Catherine chuckled. "Very true."
"So, what's keeping you out of bed?"
She looked guiltily to the side, giving herself away immediately.
Warrick laughed. "Judging by the guilty expression, I'm gonna go with porn?"
Catherine raised her eyebrows in mock-offended shock. "Hey!"
"Just kiddin' with you, Cath."
She turned to look at him smugly. "This is Vegas, Warrick. If I want porn, do you really think I would risk downloading it and watching it at home? That's what 'Boys Down Under' is for."
Warrick choked back a surprised laugh at the Australian porn show that made its home in Vegas.
Catherine followed Warrick's stare to the clock in her kitchen. Ugh, it's getting late. And I still have to work on that case. Ugh. Wait.
"Actually," Catherine said, turning serious. "I'm working on a case."
"I thought you never work on cases at home."
"It's not a case for the Lab."
He looked back at her, puzzled, waiting for an explanation.
"Ari Marvin's case."
"Wait -- what... I thought that was closed. I mean..."
"Not the case. Not Greg's case. Ari Marvin's original case. The one he was convicted of. In 1985. Tam Jared."
Warrick furrowed his brows, clearly of many emotions at the news of Catherine's new case.
Catherine began, calmly but quietly, with, paradoxically, both resoluteness and trepidation. "We can't find closure for Greg. We can't find his body. But we can at least find out why. Why they came, and robbed... Why they killed him."
Warrick pursed his lips, finally looking up to stare at Catherine. It was a look of affirmation.
"What do you need help with?"
***
CHAPTER 12: CINCUENTA MIL MINUTOS, PART 1
Ari paced menacingly, and Greg didn't want to know what would be in store for him and Nick should Warrick fail. At the same time, he recognized that it would probably take nothing short of a miracle to convince Bruce Jared to get in an escape vehicle with the four malicious men. He didn't doubt Warrick's powers of persuasion, but it would be a challenge for Cicero himself to convince any man that valued his own life to do what Ari was asking of Mr. Jared.
Which left Greg Sanders in a debacle.
He knew his chances were poor. He could see it coming. He had cheated death twice -- in the lab explosion and later in the beating. The third time would, after all, be the charm. He accepted it with a sad sigh.
Today, it is my day to die.
He stared out blankly, surprised that the tears hadn't come out yet. Perhaps, he wondered, he was just too exhausted to cry.
More than anything, he didn't want Nick's last memory of him to be one of him crying, lying helpless and, above all, weak, on the ground. He wanted to be remembered as strong.
The most precious memories pushed themselves back into his mind and, to his surprise, they were not memories of his achievements. He'd won enough chess tournaments and science fairs in his day, along with the full scholarship to Stanford. He'd always expected that graduation day and the day he'd received his acceptance letter, or perhaps the days -- now hypothetical -- when he would get married or got his book published would be his greatest days. Looking back now, though, past accomplishments and beautiful dreams fell to the wayside.
xxxxxxx
He remembered sitting at the breakfast table, in silence, reading the paper as Nick looked over chapters of Greg's book draft."Hey, Greggo."
Greg looked up.
"This is really good. I never knew you could write like this."
Greg beamed with pride. "So many things you don't know about me, Tex. So much left to learn," he spoke with a smirk and licked his lips.
"Hah. I can't wait," Nick replied. "Waffle?"
The plate made its way across the table before Greg had a chance to nod his head. "Not gonna even wait for my response, eh?"
Nick chuckled. "I know you -- and your stomach -- too well to wait."
Greg laughed back. "Fine. Though my stomach, which you claim to know, most definitely prefers my Nana Olaf's waffle recipe."
Nick laughed again. "Aw, did Greggy's grandma not teach him how to make those waffles?"
Greg scowled. "Shut up. Knowing how to cook is a good thing. I'm proud of it."
"Aw. It's alright. I love how domestic you are."
"Please stop."
"Why? You got a break from the cookin' an' cleanin' an' stuff, wifey."
"I'm not your housewife, Nick. Just because I'm smaller than you doesn't mean I'm the girl in the relationship. We're supposed to be equal. Which is kind of hard when you're too ashamed to even admit we're together."
Greg glared again before shuffling away from the table. He half expected Nick to follow him to his office, where he now sat, reading up on the latest events in Russian politics. Somehow, Vladamir Putin was not enough to keep him interested.
His growling stomach in agreement, he headed back for the dining room to find one now-lukewarm waffle left, his own bite marks still intact. It didn't taste quite as sweet, even with exorbitant amounts of whipped cream and defrosted strawberries unearthed from the freezer. Somehow, the dressings just made it soggy, which summed up his sentiments on life at the moment.
At least it's soggy and not stale, he thought with a smirk.
He glazed over the paper yet again, at least forcing his eyes over all of the words. He doubted he'd remember what he'd read an hour from now, but at least he'd read it. He wasn't ill-informed, per say.
His stomach growled and he glanced at the now-empty kitchen, forcing himself up. Grandma Olaf did teach me how to make those waffles.
xxxxxxx
"I had Micky in my pocket then. Oh lordy, he woulda' done anythin' I asked 'im to, ya know? Course you don't. You're not real Vegas. Not from the olden' days. Dey called 'em the golden days for a reason, kid."He stared intently at the next sentence, trying to separate his sloppily speed-written vowels, when friendly words jolted him from the detailed escapades of Vegas showgirl-turned-legendary-gossip Bertha Torrence, as interviewed two months prior.
"Hey, you."
Greg turned around, looking up from his writing. "Hey," he mumbled, barely meeting Nick's eye.
"That all I get tonight?"
Greg nodded tentatively.
"I didn't mean to upset you."
"I know. No biggie."
"If it's no biggie, then why don't you come talk to me?"
Greg looked up and saw the genuine remorse in Nick's eyes. He looked back at his notes, weighing his options carefully, before standing up.
A warm hand on his back immediately greeted him as he stepped towards the door and reminded him of the comfort of human contact.
"You make good waffles."
Greg nodded, smiling sheepishly. "I learned from the best."
Nick chuckled. "I'm sure you did."
Greg looked up to catch Nick's eye. "Why?"
Nick chuckled uncomfortably. "Because your Nana Olaf --"
"That's not what I'm talking about. You know that's not what I'm talking about."
"Greg..." It was a warning voice. The You-know-I'm-not-discussing-that-so-stop-freakin'-bringin'-it-up-cuz-it's-End-Of-Discussion voice.
Greg interrupted before Nick could finish scolding. "I hate living a secret."
"Greg..." There was the voice again.
"Tell me, Nicky," Greg practically spit out his partner's nickname. "What's the difference between living a secret and living a lie?"
"We're not getting into this now."
Greg could see the fire building up, yet again, in Nick's eyes.
"Whatever," he replied, albeit knowing -- and knowing that Nick knew -- that the discussion's significance was anything but that. "I've got a book to write." He was tired -- tired from a long day, but also tired from the long many months of hiding -- and he didn't care if he was playing dirty this time.
"Aw come on now, Greggo."
"Greggo?! Doesn't sound very professional now does it, Stokes?"
"Come on. Don't be like that. You're bein' immature. Do you really wanna get hassled on the job? Do you really want all the crap that comes with bein' out?!"
"Do you really want me to be myself?!"
"Of course I --"
"So the answer is yes, but only in the house. Only in your house? Huh? Is that right?"
"Oh come on, Greg. You know it's not like that. Quit bein' such a drama queen."
Greg chuckled drily at Nick's word choice. "You wouldn't even call me that outside this house because it has one of your 'bad words' in it." Greg embraced 'bad words' with bitter mocking and scoffing quotations marks.
"Okay. You're clearly tired --"
"Yeah! Damn right I'm tired! I'm tired of pretending to be someone else! You know what Sara fuckin' told me the other fuckin' day?!"
Nick took a step back, caught off guard by the display. "Language, Greggo."
"Language? Language?! Is 'fuckin' that bad, to you, in comparison to 'honey' or 'Nicky?' "'Cause if I said those words at the Lab, you'd be way more pissed off. Yeah? Yeah. Don't bother answering because you know it's true."
"Greg, you're getting out of --"
"Shut up, Stokes!"
Nick was temporarily speechless, and cut off again before he regained verbal capabilities.
"So you wanna know what Sara said, huh?"
Nick looked confused, as if weighing options between a rock and a hard place. "Uh... sure."
Greg rolled his eyes. "She said I'm not myself anymore."
Nick looked up, as if waiting for more. "Uh... so...?"
Greg growled loudly in frustration. "Of course! Why should you care?! I --"
This time it was Nick to interrupt. "Time out! Okay?! Time out. Hold your horses. I'm sorry, but I feel like it's the spoiled California boy in you talkin' right now, Greggo. It's not the end of the world if you can't be your flamboyant and wacky self 24/7. It's called compromising. Seriously, it's not that difficult to act mature, and professional and calm. You don't need to be embodying the full essence of Greggo every second of every day at the lab. You can just be normal."
"Normal? Normal?! --"
"You'd hardly be the first to front it, Greggo. You know how long I've been fakin' it?"
"Fakin' it is your middle name. Not mine. Just because you're not comfortable in your own shoes doesn't mean I shouldn't be comfortable in mine." Greg, growing more frustrated and, conversely, less capable of articulate speech, by the minute, turned on his heel and headed back toward the office.
"Greg, wait."
He risked one look and three words back before shutting the door again. "Shove it, Stokes."
xxxxxxx
An hour later, Greg's notes were stained with tears.Opening the door to grab more Kleenexes and, hopefully, if Nick wasn't in the room, to grab a bite to eat, he heard a clang under the door.
Looking down, he saw a plate of waffles.
"I'm sorry, Greggo." He looked up to see Nick emerging from the living room.
Greg nodded as warm arms embraced him, and he dropped his head down to Nick's shoulder, finally letting out a noisy sob. Nick gently caressed his now-misshapen hair and whispered comforting words into his ear. Greg nodded at the sentiment.
He felt a hand reach for the back of his thigh, and it didn't take long for Nick to scoop him up as they both descended to the ground.
An hour later, there they sat, empty plate with maple syrup smudges now pushed off to the side as they laid, cradled into each other, against the wall.
xxxxxxx
Greg groaned. Perhaps that wasn't the most precious memory. His mind fought for happier ones, but, somehow, every one of them involved some other sign of his own weaknesses.He glanced up as footsteps rushed toward Catherine, and watched Catherine and Ari converse in hushed voices. They were still loud enough for Greg to catch the details: as he'd known all along, Warrick had not been successful.
Ari reached for the walkie talkie and began debating heatedly with someone on the other end before rushing through the door again, into the adjoining room that Nick had been processing. The tone of the other person's voice didn't sound smooth or young enough to be Warrick.
Greg reached out for happier memories as he watched his life filter through the waning hourglass.
xxxxxxx
Right before it had all happened, Greg had just finished his case, and another successful court appearance. Somehow, successful court appearances always seemed to precede the most unfortunate, violent events of his life. But at least the first beating had been followed by a week back at home with Nick, being tenderly doted on by the Texan."Greggo! How ya' doin'?"
Greg could hear the emotion in Nick's voice by the increased accent. He knew Nick was really concerned, and he was willing to do just about anything to alleviate Nick's fear.
So Greg stood up, pushing himself off of their worn, navy couch. He winced as the bruises on his legs and back conspired against him in pain.
"Hey! Watch it! Ya' don't wanna mess with the stitches!"
"I'm fine, Nick," Greg said, rolling his eyes. "I'm just as much a tough macho man as you." He added flexed arms for emphasis, though they quickly turned on him, as he felt the even more bruises and stitches in his shoulders and elbow. "I can take the pain," he said, cringing noticeably.
Nick chuckled from his place in the living room doorway. "Sure you can, Mr. Tough Guy. But I still want you to be better quicker. It's not nearly as rewarding to tackle and pin you when you're covered in casts."
Greg scowled mischievously. "Is that so?"
"Yeah! It's like wrestlin' a cripple. You were never any competition for me in the first place, Greggo. But now it's even worse. You're like a freakin' girl!"
Greg exaggerated a pout. "Sara would be offended by that statement. Also, am not."
"You know who wears the pants in this relationship."
"Just because you're the one bringin' home the big CSI 3 bucks? Eh?"
"Among other reasons."
Greg glowered. "Like what? Name one." He interrupted Nick before he could respond. "And nothing dirty, mind you!"
Nick rolled his eyes. "Fine. First of all, you're so much littler than I am."
"Am not."
"Are too!" Nick rolled up his sleeves to flex his own muscles. "See the difference."
"Pshh. You're just built that way. I am built more like a long-distance runner, or a swimmer or something."
Nick faked a cough. "Or a ballerina."
"You jerk!"
This time, Nick was prevented from responding with a pillow heading for his head. He diverted it easily. "See! You even throw like a girl!"
"Well, I've got my whole freakin' arm bandaged up! I am a fuckin' cripple, at least for the moment!" Greg stuck out his tongue.
"You can't have it both ways, Mr. Macho Ballerina Cripple."
Greg squinted, trying to imagine the picture. "Well, at least I'd make a hot macho ballerina cripple. But wouldn't I be a ballerino cripple? What's the masculine form of ballerina?" He was interrupted with a returning pillow. "Hey! Watch the delicate stitches, jerk!"
"Aww. Does my poor little geek need a band-aid?"
Greg extended his arm with a pout. "No, but can you kiss my boo-boo better?"
"I'll kiss your whole freakin' face better!"
And he did. It hadn't quite made the whole ordeal worth it, but it sure made it better. Having Nick by his side for every trial coming from the Demetrius James and beating fiasco had made it all so much better than it could have been.
Not for the first, or last, time, Greg almost wished he could have Nick to kiss, and generally help, away the pain this time. But he knew the scars went far too deep for that this time. And he wouldn't burden Nick with that this time, if Nick would have even been willing, which Greg doubted he would have been. Sticking with the plan, he knew, was better for all involved.
Greg knew he wasn't making it out of this one. When he got out -- if he got out -- there would be no retreating weakly into Nick's arms.
Greg knew that, soon enough, he's have to say goodbye -- the goodbye he'd been rehearsing for so many months, maybe even so many years. Except this goodbye would be different than planned. It wasn't just a goodbye to Nick, but a goodbye to his team -- to his world.
xxxxxxx
Lake Mead was stormy, but that was just right. They weren't there for the memory, but for a new experience, and the dark, gloomy rain served them well.Greg reached for the mast as familiar footsteps reverberated against the wooden deck.
The only other sign of the other man approaching was the warmth spreading through the empty wisps of air.
"Ready?" he murmured.
Out of the side of his peripheral vision, he could make out Nick's nod. With the affirmative, he scuttled across the deck for the railing.
"No hurry."
He nodded, slowing down to pacing. Tonight, he reminded himself, was about calm. They had nowhere to be but that spot that would always be familiar to Nick.
Looking up, he glanced at the mast once more, as the heavy off-white sheets exchanged passionate whispers with the angry sky. Winds and sails wrestled for a few more minutes, as Greg watched with awe.
Glancing over, he saw that Nick had meant it when he said there was no hurry. His partner stood on the side of the boat, sipping a mug of hot chamomile-mint tea. Greg knew the goal was calm when Blue Hawaiian wasn't even permitted.
The wind heaved angrily into the thick cloth, but the sail couldn't move fully, even as its middle dove down with the stormy power.
Reaching over, he released the rope, to end the battle. Vehement air filled the center of the sail immediately, creating a pillowy hollow. Greg turned his gaze to his first mate, as Nick reached for the steering wheel with ease and one arm, the other still clutching the steaming mug, with two fingers attached to the thick wooden railing.
Greg knew the sails were not alone in their battle with the wind when he realized that pieces of the sky's musty tune were not, in fact, the work of the clouds and atmosphere, but of Nick's puckered lips.
The notes caught, turning into empty puffs periodically. Greg knew it had been a while since Nick had whistled much. Seeking scientific explanations, Greg ventured, to himself of course, that Nick had lost the muscle memory for just how much air was required. Nonetheless, the familiar notes brought a smile to Greg's face.
It was an ironic choice. Lake Mead was no San Francisco Bay, nor were they exactly wasting time. Nonetheless, somehow, the sorrows of life left them there. As far as Greg was concerned, Georgia was close enough to Texas anyhow. Just as the placid waters had calmed Otis Redding back in the day, the stormy waters of Lake Mead eased Nick's state of mind. That was, after all, why they were there.
Greg took over the steering wheel, allowing Nick to rest peacefully against the railing with both hands, his tea long gone and the mug haphazardly clutched against the wood with three fingers. Nick stared out over the water.
Greg could tell that they were approaching the spot, and he saw Nick's eyes linger on the minute, yet dense island.
Roots from a small, twisted tree dug through the clay and mud into the dirty water, and Greg knew it was the spot. There was no need for Nana Olaf's supposed psychic powers in order to see through Nick's lens, to the fragile hands once again clutching stiff branches.
xxxxxxx
Greg's recollections were interrupted by the angry footsteps' diversion -- they were clearly moving closer, and fast.Rough hands grabbed his shoulders, rubbing harshly against new bruises. Hands reached up to a vice lock around his shoulders from behind, pulling him up.
He knew Catherine and Nick were watching, waiting to see what happened next -- what trouble Greg got himself into next. Greg glared off at the wall, wishing the stares away. Instead, as his head moved, seeking some less offensive target, his gaze ended up on Richie, who sat off in a corner, licking his lips like a cat. Greg looked away, ashamed. He hoped that, no matter what they did next, it would happen in a different room, where Nick and Catherine couldn't watch his humiliation.
"Where ya' takin' 'im?" The words, which Greg attributed to the quietest of the four, Julian, made Greg nauseous.
Ari didn't respond, but instead continued to drag Greg away.
Greg could hear someone standing and moving to follow Ari.
"Get down, Richie. Stay here." Ari's voice was commanding. Greg was grateful that he'd only have to deal with one of the men. Then again, that left the other three in the room with Nick and Catherine. He knew it was a lose-lose situation.
One hand -- and one vice grip around one of Greg's shoulders -- loosened, as Ari reached for a door. Instead of relief, though, Greg just felt more pressure on the other shoulder, prompting a cry of pain. He quickly bit his lip to stifle it, hoping nobody heard it.
Finally, Ari had the door pried all the way open. Greg could vaguely hear Nick and Catherine's cries of protest, but he ignored them. He couldn't look them in the eyes, and he knew it.
He was relieved to hear the door close, so much so that he barely minded being tossed to the floor, landing on sore ribs. He suspected that the bloody handkerchief still clutched in stiff, tense hands would do little good to save him now. There would be too much blood.
The door opened one last time. Ari scanned the room again, no doubt to stare menacingly at each and every one of its inhabitants. His words and tone were sinister. "I suggest you all cooperate with me," he hissed out, mainly at Nick and Catherine. "If you don't want to end up paying the way this one is going to." He punctuated the last words with a kick to Greg's stomach, eliciting a muffled growl. "And make sure that your friend on the walkie talkie understands that as well."
With that, Ari closed the door.
***
CHAPTER 13- CINCUENTA MIL MINUTOS, PART 2Nick stared at the locker with hatred and reverence.
It was Greg's locker -- had been Greg's locker, as he'd had to remind himself countless times over the past month.
He didn't want to remind himself. He didn't want it to be true. It couldn't be true. Even as the brutal images forced themselves through the stubborn dams of his mind, he willed it all away. It couldn't be true. But it was. Greg was too alive, too young. His happy laughter still bounced through Nick's mind. Nick still expected him to come home. He still remembered what his lover and best friend looked like. Therefore, Greg couldn't be dead.
Grief didn't make any sense. Heartbreak didn't make any sense. What happened to Greg -- that really didn't make sense -- how someone could just snuff out such a beautiful, kind, loving light -- and to do it so cruelly?
But Nick, in all his realism, couldn't wrap his head around the idea of Greg just not being there -- not being there when Grissom handed out assignments in the break room, not being there when they worked a case together or chatted in the locker room. Not be there waiting at home. It couldn't be real.
He wanted to reach into the locker and grab everything that used to be there -- to pass over it and love and fondle each remnant of his favorite ghost.
Nick stared back at the locker, pondering his options. It had been a month, and they had needed to clear out the space. But Nick couldn't. He hadn't been able to.
It had been a month since that horrific night. Exactly one month. Nick had wanted to skip work that day, but he also hadn't wanted to be stuck at home, alone with his thoughts.
Home. It felt so empty. A month later, it still felt so empty. No joy, no laughter, no flirtation. None of the famous Nana Olaf pancakes and cookies. No more chiding Greg for eating said cookies for breakfast. Nick chuckled at the memory, but the chuckles quickly turned to pain, as did most memories of Greg.
He was gone. Gone. Nick could repeat it to himself over and over again, but that wouldn't make it seem any truer in his mind. The truth couldn't seep through, even as Nick saw, once again, the blood and tears and sweat dripping down the pained body of his lover.
Yet he could never reconcile that memory with the man he had known and loved. What had happened, what they did to him -- those did not fit with the wacky, loving lab-tech-turned-field-mouse.
A month later, it still didn't make any sense.
The lab was silent. Ghostly. Eerie. Haunted.
Nick always came back to the lab when it was like this. He didn't care if it wasn't his shift. It just felt more right. The lab techs were in a meeting and most of the CSIs on shift were out on cases, or at least in evidence or interrogation rooms. The day and swing shift DNA techs were always working in the other DNA lab, leaving that familiar room open and available.
In the stillness of the two emptied rooms, the locker room and the night shift's DNA lab, Nick could always pretend.
He didn't need to see Greg to know that he was there. As much effort as Greg had put into his hair, his image was not -- was never -- what defined him. It was the noise and the motion that made him Greg Sanders.
Nick only needed to hear the gentle noises of the lab -- a click or a swoosh or a chirp -- coming from any direction, to know that Greg was there. He didn't need to actually hear words, physically spoken, because he knew Greg well enough to imagine the dialogues in his head. He didn't need to see a tangible Greg standing in front of him because Nick would never forget what he looked like.
Memories of their life together echoed off the walls of the two rooms, leaving Nick surrounded, submerged in haunted, fluorescent and inebriated amour.
But this time it felt different. Rich experiences, conversations and life with Greg were drowned out, interrupted in Nick's mind by fierce shards of flashbacks. Warrick and Catherine's words -- insisting that Greg was dead, that the case was closed, that his corpse would rot away somewhere, unloved -- cut through his imaginary world like the fists and feet and bullets that had cut through the corpse, now ghost, that Nick loved so much. And it hurt.
Flurries of conflicting thoughts resonated and bounced through the chambers of his subconscious, and he could never predict, nor control, which ones sliced through into his immediate awareness. It was a nightmare and his best dream, swirled together and come alive.
But, in each vibrant scene of imaginations' mélanges, it was the immediate words -- still sharp and focused in his mind -- that cut through and lingered furthest.
Even the empty locker room, where they'd shared one of their first, and favorite, kisses, held no restitution to his former state of pseudo-sanity, and all he was left with was noxious, all-pervasive, obliterating grief.
His friends' words were a razor, shredding his fantasy of denial once and for all.
Nick stared at the now-empty locker. It was all clean, though it would only be a matter of time before Wendy made it hers. No trace of Greg. But the smell...
He sniffed the air. It smelled like Greg's hair gel.
xxxxxxx
"Geez, Greggo. What's takin' ya so long in there? You're like a freakin' woman, takin' an hour in the bathroom."A response came from the closed door. "Oh, come on. Like you love the way my hair stands up."
Nick rolled his eyes. "For your information, I notice your eyes a lot more. Seriously. You really think I care about how your hair looks? I just want to get out the door."
"Well, we go in separate cars anyways, so what's the difference?"
Oh no, Nick had thought. Not this discussion again... He went for the door. Locked. With expert CSI skill, he reached for a paper clip. Well, there's no law against breaking in to your own bathroom, he thought. The door popped open, revealing a shirtless Greg staring carefully up into the mirror as he pinched what looked to be three individual pieces of hair, all of which were covered in gel, and held the pieces up.
"There's a reason I locked the door," he said without even looking up at Nick.
"Like I haven't seen you without a shirt on before," Nick responded with a smirk.
Greg rolled his eyes. "But you comin' in here removes the mystique of my hair care routine."
Nick guffawed. "Mystique, eh?"
"Yes," Greg said, biting his lip as he moved on to the next few hairs.
Nick rolled his eyes. Eventually, he thought, he would convince Greg that Greg's mystique had very little to do with "zesty"-scented hair gel.
Nick chuckled, staring at the locker. Later that day, he had finally convinced Greg that hair gel was unnecessary, though his method had been of... arguable morals...
Greg had been immersed in his case -- stressed out, really. Finally a CSI 1, he was determined to prove himself. A little too determined, Nick thought. Greg pulled ridiculous hours on his cases. Nick knew it was enough when Greg had Sara beat for overtime that month. And Sara, Nick had insisted, had an excuse. Her boyfriend was a fellow workaholic, and he wouldn't be waiting at home for her. Greg just gave Nick a mischievous smile.
"Then why don't you go home? You sure aren't waiting for me at home right now."
Nick rolled his eyes.
"Really! How do you know I'm not just working here until you do, so you'll have to make dinner and put the kids to bed by the time I get home?"
Nick chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, Mr. Genius. I'd say, first of all, I know that because the kids you speak of are two cockroaches you adopted from Grissom that don't exactly need to be tucked in."
Greg glared. "That's the second time this conversation you've mentioned Grissom. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were cheating on me with him."
"And second," he leaned in to whisper in Greg's ears conspiratorially. "I don't think you wear the pants in this relationship."
Greg glared harder, his tips of his dark eyebrows almost touching his impossibly long eyelashes.
"And the real reason you know I'm not cheating with Grissom is --"
"You wouldn't be able to handle that many cockroaches."
"Exactly."
"You know, you'd have more time to work if you didn't take an hour fixing your spiky hair."
Greg raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
"Yes."
"I'd have more time to spend fixing your breakfast, you mean, Mr." -- Greg finished his sentence in a high-pitched vocal imitation -- "I-wear-the-pants-in-this-relationship."
Nick chuckled. "I'd love to actually have breakfast with you every once in a while." He added in an even more high-pitched voice, "I'll even make you your favorite Belgian waffles, honey."
Greg cringed. "If I never have to hear you sound like Catherine saying 'honey' again, I'll be happy to eat breakfast with you. But you will be cooking."
Greg had stopped spiking his hair after that, and eventually went to the salon to get it highlighted differently. Nick couldn't decide whether he liked the shaggy look or the spiky look better on Greg, but he did know the longer hair had been easier to grab. Then again, he didn't mind it when Greg had cut his hair short and simple. It saved time to spend in so many other ways... He lost himself in fantasies of that perfect, highlighted or not, spiked or shaggy, delicious hair, and how it felt in his hands as he --
"No," Nick told himself. He stared back at the locker, smelling the gel again. It brought back too many memories. "It wasn't supposed to go like this..."
Choking back tears, he fled the locker room.
THE CASINO
Louder yelling emerged, and, in a whirlwind, a heavy load fell to the ground with a groan.All Nick saw was red.
They sat in silence. Nick watched Catherine and Greg weave in and out of consciousness, terrified. He couldn't tolerate it.
Carefully, and slowly, he inched toward his half-prostrate lover, moving a comforting hand over Greg's flushed forehead as he turned the younger man around on the ground.
Unfocused eyes wandered, gently, yet frantically ambling through and past Greg's line of sight.
"Come on, Greggo. Stay with me." Nick could feel the tears gathering in his eyes.
"Tell Cath," Greg rasped out. "Hafto tell Cath."
"Tell Cath what?"
"Thank you... keep... promise." Greg nodded his head as if verifying the message -- which Nick still didn't understand. "And thank... for being there... being mentor... being friend... being mother... most of all, for making this job fun."
Nick now understood what Greg was trying to do -- say his goodbyes -- and Nick would have none of it.
"Greg, no. You're not going to die. Don't give up yet."
Greg stared up at him forlornly, clearly not believing him. He reached up a hand to cover Nick's mouth, trying to shush him. He wagged the pointer finger of his other hand, clearly willing Nick not to speak, and to let Greg finish.
"Thank Griss..." Greg cleared his throat, and seemed to be regaining his voice -- a good sign. "Thank Griss for giving me the chance. For teaching me so much. For keeping me in line. Tell him..." Greg cracked a smile -- Nick didn't know how he did it. "Tell him... I would have gotten him a life supply of chocolate-covered... grasshoppers for his wedding present... and that I had the best toast lined up." Greg laughed, though it came out as more of a painful hack.
Nick sat silently, waiting for the words to end, so that he could convince Greg that none of this was necessary.
"Tell Sara sorry. She's had too many people die on her already. Tell her to keep being strong, and that Grissom will come around eventually, but if he doesn't, she should still come out and kick his sorry, bug-eating ass. And tell her thanks for being a best friend.
"Tell Wendy good luck. I know she can do it. I know she'll kick butt. More than I kicked. And that I'm honored that she's following in my footsteps.
"And Warrick..." Greg looked into Nick's eyes with clear focus and intentions. "Tell Warrick that he was right about Thackeray. He'll know what I mean."
Greg breathed out with a scratchy throat. Nick knew part of the reason lay with the screams forced out but, seeing the confused eyes, he knew there was something more. The edge of crimson sneaking over thin pink lips, already bruised from biting down to stifle screams, confirmed his unfortunate conjecture.
"Come on, Greg." Nick rubbed the sweaty, blood- and tear-stained forehead below him vigorously. "Please. Greggo. I've gotcha. Please." He pushed back tears yet again. "Please don't die on me."
Another scratched murmur greeted him.
Nick turned Greg's head around. He didn't want to look into the pained eyes, not when they were that way. More practically, he didn't want Greg to choke on the blood. He could only hope the blood came from Greg's mouth, rather than up through his throat, from internal organs.
Greg let loose a cough, which quickly turned into dry heaving. Greg winced, gripping his stomach at every movement, leaving even more bitter possibilities for the cause in Nick's mind.
Nick's stomach churned at the possibilities and Nick stuttered as he tried to comfort his lover and best friend.
"St--stay with me. P-please."
He was surprised to see Greg twist his neck, wincing less at the motion, before staring up at Nick. His eyes were suddenly, surprisingly focused, but it did little to alleviate Nick's concerns. All he saw in the gaze was pain, resentment, sorrow and, worst of all, acquiescence.
"Ah..." Whatever Greg was trying or not trying to say was cut off by another cough, and Nick could see a few more specks of blood oozing out.
Greg looked up imploringly, begging Nick to understand, before stumbling over his words again. His mouth was wide, and he looked pained at every movement of his jaw.
"Ah..." Greg let loose another pained sob, clearly trying to repress more screams and hold down the no doubt excruciating pains.
"N-Nicky," he whispered, voice husky and garbled. He was clearly putting much effort into looking Nick in the eye. The pain in Greg's eyes was one of the most excruciating things Nick had ever witnessed. Greg shakily reached a hand up to cup Nick's face, even as the hand trembled.
"I-- I-- mm -- I'm sorry," Greg finally whispered.
Nick didn't know how to respond.
"F-for what?" he got out shakily.
Greg blinked his eyes slowly, staring off in to space, or at the door -- away from Nick.
"I'm sorry," Greg repeated, his voice gaining strength. He gripped Nick's hand, and Nick was relieved to feel so much strength still in the younger CSI's hand.
"You have nothing to --"
Nick was interrupted by a surprisingly lucid stare from Greg, and a hand pushing up to cover Nick's mouth again. Greg shook his head at Nick, clearly willing his boyfriend not to speak.
Nick nodded quietly, waiting.
Greg took a deep breath. "You have to promise me." He still avoided Nick's gaze, even as he spoke, voice drenched in emotion. "Promise me you'll..."
He paused, his eyes welling with tears, but he finally managed to look Nick in the eyes.
"Promise me you'll keep going." The pitch of his voice grew higher as the last words flew out. "Promise me --"
He paused again, clearly thinking. Nick didn't know whether to cry or breathe a happy sigh of relief when Greg crinkled his brow -- he looked so cute when he did that.
Greg's voice was still scratchy. "I know a lot of people... say that they don't want to be forgotten," he started and paused again.
Nick couldn't see where he was going.
"But... you have to keep living, Nick. Please."
Nick stared at him, still confused.
"You can forget me."
Nick gagged on the response he couldn't possibly come up with and that certainly wouldn't come out.
"You're a great guy, Nick. I -- I wanted..."
Tears reappeared on Greg's face. He had clearly long given up on holding back the tears, but he still maintained the fight against loud sobs, opting instead for as dignified an exit as possible.
Greg cleared his throat, blinked away tears and continued. "I wanted to be the one... to be with you. To grow old... and love you forever... with you. But... I should have known it wouldn't work out. You deserve love -- someone who loves you --" Greg paused. "But someone that you can love also."
Nick stared back, still speechless.
Greg's voice grew higher -- more pained -- under his boyfriend's stare, and under the desolate circumstances. "Promise me you'll live your life. Find somebody."
The next words came with fortitude, and a strong, sturdy gaze into Nick's eyes.
"You have to forget about me. I've heard what people say, but remembering is overrated. You deserve to be happy, Nick."
Nick stared back, tears filling up his eyes as he finally realized what Greg was trying to say.
Greg seemed to be trying to speak again -- the same words, approximately -- as if trying to convince himself as well as Nick. Nick knew now, even as he couldn't imagine, just how painful and difficult of a message this was for Greg to deliver.
"I wanted to be... with you. But I can't. I never could. And I know it now." He paused, rolling his lips back to bite back tears. "You..."
Greg laid a gentle hand over Nick's, but held back more tears. "Whoever you find... they'll be lucky. You're a great guy, Nick. Go find someone -- a... guy... or a girl -- a lady. Someone good."
Nick could tell the words were genuine, and that was what made it all the harder to hear.
"Whoever they are, they'll be lucky to have you." Nick could hear the tears that Greg was barely holding back in his voice. "Someone that lucky -- they can tell the world about you. They should. Find someone who can actually make you happy -- like I couldn't."
Nick moved to protest, but couldn't. Greg continued.
"Find someone you can be proud to be with. Who can make you smile every time you look at them." He looked wistful for a moment. "I know... I know what we had wasn't perfect. It never was. But you made me happy. Find someone who can do the same for you." Greg turned his head to let the tears fall away, as best he could. "It's a wonderful feeling, trust me. And you deserve to feel that way, Nick. You deserve to be happy Nick. Promise me --" Two tears stuck in Greg's eyes as he looked up, his gaze so sad, but, more than anything, so strong and resolute; so determined. "Promise me you'll be happy."
"Greg, I --" He barely got the words out, in between sobs, before he was interrupted by Greg's gentle shushing shake of the head.
"No, Nick. Stop." The words were whispered so softly and sweetly.
Greg gulped again and regained his composure, which, in turn, forced Nick to do the same.
Holding back his own tears was now impossible, and Nick stuttered over any trace of a response. "Ah-- ah -- I..."
Choking back a maelstrom of tears, he finally gave up on words and just settled for stroking Greg's forehead as he maneuvered Greg's head to, once again, lie sideways, parallel to the ground, to ensure that Greg's airway stayed clear.
Greg sobbed again, this time more loudly.
The door opened again. Ari angrily cast a walkie-talkie into Catherine's hands, and it was painfully obvious what had happened.
Ari approached Nick and Greg, walking slowly -- deliberately -- over, to face Greg.
"You ready?" His stare was penetrating, but unreadable.
Greg nodded, slowly and weakly, giving Nick one last long, sad stare. As tears leaked out of Greg's eyes, he reached up a trembling, bloody hand to gently caress the side of Nick's face.
"I'm sorry, Nicky."
Nick didn't have a chance to respond before Ari was prying Greg out of his arms. "Wh-- what -- why?" His words stumbled out.
"We're putting him out of his misery."
Nick gasped. "N -- no -- no!"
"Too late now. He already agreed. Didn't you, bitch?"
Greg sobbed, but Nick couldn't mistake the small nod.
"Greg no!"
Greg's last stare conveyed all apologies, as he was half-dragged, half-carried out of the room, into the parking lot.
Sixty seconds later, Nick heard the gunshot, and the short, pained scream.
PRESENT
Everything was a blur. He had no idea where to go. Each room of the lab was another container of invisible, intangible memories, capable of opening another can of worms for Nick, should he choose to enter. Spinning around, he could see no escape. The lab techs' meeting had clearly ended, and he found himself interspersed in clumps of people, all traversing LVPD for whatever reason.
Nick escaped to his car. Pushing his head back against the worn, polyester seat, he closed his eyes and hoped that the memories would find silence, but it was little use.
He took a deep breath and tried to reassure himself of his next move. But what is my next move? he asked himself. His own cases, suddenly, meant nothing. They were just notches on a long, long ladder paving his way towards whatever his dull destiny entailed. He had no need for it. He didn't want to climb his ladder alone.
Words continued to assault him.
"Closure, Nicky. You've got to find closure." Warrick. Where had he come from? How come Nick didn't talk to him so much anymore? Why did he care?
"The case... the case is closed, Nick. I'm sorry... The case is closed." That was Catherine, swinging her arm up and around him, trying to halt his fall in a strong embrace. But he was so ready to fall... or was he?
He had wanted to be buried next to Greg, so that their ladders to... wherever it was... still, no matter the time, sat side by side. But Greg had no burial, no coffin, no closure. And there was nobody to get it for him. Nick stared back into the building, imagining the ghost waiting for him, on some other side. Imagining the lonely tombstone. The one that would say Greg was a beloved son. Thirty-three years and just a son -- nobody else listed as loving him.
Greg deserved closure, and Nick wouldn't fall until he got that. It was the least he could do for his beloved ghost.
Tearing out of the car and back into the lab with a fury, Nick found his last case. Frantically, he reached for his journal and retraced every piece of memory from the night. That night.
Sixteen hours later, by the time the rest of night shift had filtered in, every potential piece of evidence to be found from the casino heist had been recorded in Nick's journal. And Nick was a man with a mission.
Returning to the locker room, he reached for the backpack, filled generously by Warrick with the contents of Greg's locker. He looked at the locker with a smile.
"I'm gonna find you, Greggo. I don't care if the Feds gave up. I'll find you. I love you. And I'm not ashamed of it."
***
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