Title: Cracks in the Surface
By: sandersyager
Pairing: Greg/Warrick
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Big Shots, Fannysmackin', Post Mortem
Summary: Sleep should come easy.
Prompt from 2x5obsessions: Insomnia
Posted to: csi_fandom, csi_slash, warrickgreg, csi slash archive 2x5 obsessions
Disclaimer: The boys belong to people who aren't me.

Sometimes, sometimes, it's hard as hell to fall asleep. Doesn't matter if it's day or night, not when you've been working, running on adrenaline, coffee, sugar for two days and counting, and you finally get to clock out and go home and there's five hours before you have to be anywhere. Sleep should come easy after you've crawled past the point of sore to... to something without words, only you can't remember a time when the ache wasn't bone deep and flowing through your veins, everything throbbing in time with your heart.

So, Greg tosses and turns, beats his pillow into submission, and still sleep doesn't come. The curtains are drawn tight against the sun. Maybe against the moon, he's not sure anymore and the clock is no help. It's five o'clock somewhere, and somewhere, someone else is probably dreaming of the next cocktail, of the next pick up line, of the next anything, and right here? Right here, Greg's wound in the sheets and too cold and too hot at once, and his body begs him to stop moving while his brain can't slow down.

It's his own fault really, everything that went down at work, everything that's gone wrong with Warrick. Everything crowding into his brain and keeping him from getting any peace at all. And maybe he doesn't deserve it. Murderers don't deserve to sleep easy and that's what he is—a murderer—regardless of the circumstances, he killed a kid. Killed another human being, and taking a life, even in self defense, is still murder.

Two seconds changed everything and nothing, turned everything upside down and backward and wrong. Two seconds, Warrick and Nick did the calculations, and Warrick... looked at Greg like he didn't know him. Like he was just another case, another cold set of facts and charts and computer recreations that could never touch the truth of what happened. There are no calculations for fear, for panic, no equations that take into account....

Greg presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, pretends his hands aren't shaking and he's got blood on his hands. Two seconds. His whole career is built on split second decisions and this is the one he can't get past. This is the one that could cost him his job, has cost him his relationship with Warrick, and he can't sleep. He doesn't deserve to sleep because a kid died and he could have and no one will remember that Demetrius James was a murderer, too—takes one to know one—only that Greg was the White Cop who ran down a Black Kid. Doesn't matter that he's not a cop, he's a CSI, dammit, and it wasn't a kid but a murderer, a kid making very adult decisions and playing god and two seconds more could have changed everything.

He never thought Warrick would get caught in the middle. Black man, veteran CSI, which is it? That's the question. Which loyalty comes first and when did he start to crack under the pressure and why didn't Greg see it sooner? Oh, right, nearly dying makes you a little self-centered. Except. It's not new, he could see that much in Warrick's face, in the set of his shoulders when he walked away, hear it when he said. When he said.

Greg can't blame him. He literally can't. He's tried and he can't. Just like he can't fall asleep and can't get comfortable and Jesus, why does his bed have to be so big? He knows why it's empty. He's the one driving home that latest blow to split Warrick open, and they're both bleeding from this one and no, he probably doesn't deserve to be held today.

Greg's not even sure he can love himself, so he can't blame Warrick for not being able to do it. And he can't get angry about it, but he's pissed off that his sheets still smell like Warrick, like sex, like them, and no matter how he rearranges the pillows or piles the extra blankets, they don't take the simple shape of what's missing. The weight of an arm around him, yeah, he can fake that, but the even breathing that rustles through the curls at the back of his neck can't be replaced.

And here's the thing. Demetrius James died and Greg played a part in it. A major part. But his buddies? Kicked the living shit out of Greg for fun and no one's talking about that part. No one talks about Greg's bruises, broken bones or even the fact that, yeah, the kid is dead, but Greg could have been, too. Not even Nick's asked, and he's looked down the barrel of a gun way too many times to not know how fucked up it to be praying for your life, praying for anyone to come and save you, praying to god you get a chance to say all the things you never did before.

And here's the other thing. Greg doesn't feel guilty about it, not about surviving that night. Not anymore than he feels guilty about being a CSI or about being white. Guilt doesn't change anything, doesn't help anyone, and with all of it, there's responsibility. He doesn't have a problem with responsibility. He can keep living, respect the science, try not to be a racist dick, and everything since that night still makes him wonder if he's got it right.

He shouldn't have to question any of it, and it's not like he's finding any answers with four hours to go before his alarm's going to ring. It's not like he'll find sleep, not like this, not alone, and his brain really won't turn off. He wishes he'd taken the offer of sleeping pills from the shrink he has to see and he wishes he knew where the hell Warrick was. If he's having an easier time getting some rest, if he went home or if he's having a beer with Nick or Catherine or even Sara somewhere. If he's sitting in one of the casinos on the Strip or Blue Diamond Road.

He's not here, Warrick's not here and that's the only thing Greg knows for certain and that says a lot. It says the third piece of the puzzle—being Greg's partner, his lover, hell, even just his friend—that's the part that comes last after everything else. That's the one Warrick can let go of. He can't change who he is or what he does, but who he loves, that's a loyalty he can change.

Greg kicks the blankets off again, turns his pillows over to find the cool side. Bed's still too damned big and too empty and he can't sleep when it's this quiet. When it's so damned loud in his head and he can't stop seeing the alley way, the courtroom, the look on Grissom's face. The under-sheriff and Mrs. James both echo in his head and if he'd been black, would it have really been different?

If it'd been Warrick out there—but it wasn't, and Greg wouldn't have ever thought about leaving him like this. Not that he's sure, not one hundred percent, that Warrick's gone for good, but he's still alone right now. If it'd been Warrick, Greg couldn't have taken it. Not because of the politics, but because it was Warrick. Still, he wouldn't have asked for space, wouldn't have walked out. He'd be walking through the front door now to settle into bed.

Or now.

Maybe now.

Maybe not just yet. Maybe now. They're foolish hopes and Greg knows it but he's exhausted and each minute ticking by is one less he won't have to sleep. One minute closer to starting another shift and another night where... another night he might not be lucky enough to make it through. Really, that's any night in the field, or in the lab, and he's running out of places without scars.

Now.

It still doesn't work and Greg twists to run his hand over the scar tissue at his shoulder. He traces the ribs he knows have knitted back together stronger than before. Not all scars are visible and sometimes—

Sometimes, there's there sound of a key in the door and steps in the hall and Greg's pulse threatens to drown it all out. And it's nerves, not fear. He's safe, he knows that, like he knows the sounds of Warrick coming home and he's spent so many hours staring at the ceiling but he closes his eyes now. Pretends to sleep as the door opens, as Warrick goes through the routine of choosing pajamas and trying to stifle the creak of Greg's ancient dresser. Greg can hear the slide and fall of jeans being taken off, the way Warrick sighs a little as he shrugs out of whatever shirt he's worn that day, and the faint whine of the bedsprings when Warrick sits on the edge of the mattress.

These are the things that were missing, the shift and dip of the bed as Warrick settles, the rustle of the blankets, his long legs fitted against Greg's and his arm around Greg's waist.

"I couldn't sleep without you," Warrick whispers. "Tossed and turned for hours and I couldn't... I couldn't stop thinking that it's twice now I've almost lost you and I can't just walk away because I'm..." His voice is thick, tired, and Greg wants to hear the rest, wants him to keep talking, and he keeps pretending, keeps his eyes closed and waits. "Scared, Greg. I got scared, and of course I get here and you're knocked out, but you're here and I'm here. And I'll be here when you wake up and maybe... maybe we can get through this together."

Greg listens to every word Warrick says and the ones he doesn't, and he blinks his eyes open to look at Warrick, reaching up to lay his palm against Warrick's cheek. "I need you, too," he says softly, simply, the noise in his head finally going down a notch or two. "I need you, too, Warrick."