Title: They're coming
By: Demon Faith
Pairing: semi-Nick/Greg if you squint
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Greg POV. A line taken from Ronny Cox's beautiful 'Quintanaroo', cos I couldn't resist. writers_choice: faith.

***

The shadows sweep like a curtain, and then there is nothing.

He listens, strains to hear them moving, hoping he doesn't. He needs space to breathe, time to think, to plan escape.

Pulling at the bonds is pointless, he knows; these men know what they're doing. And that scares him. He's never been this afraid, so utterly terrified that the sky falling wouldn't break him from his panic.

He's lost track of hours, maybe even days have passed, but he thinks that it's only late evening. He hopes it is; he's not sure he's strong enough for days. Dust settles in his mouth, and he coughs harshly, feeling the burn in his throat. There's blood on his face – slick, and he's glad he didn't pass out in a funny kind of way. Conceding any kind of victory seems wrong somehow.

What would Nick say if he knew such a little blow knocked him out? Would Sara smile indulgently for a hero with a scar? Maybe Catherine...? He allows himself a smile then – he can still think of his friends, even here, and that brings a settlement of sorts.

He knows they'll find him; it's just a matter of time. It's just unthinkable that he'll never tease Nick again, half-compete with Warrick for Sara's attention, take a child's scolding from Grissom, cover for Catherine. Just...unthinkable.

Maybe it's around midnight now – he doesn't really know, but it helps to pretend. At least they've left him alone now, one blow enough to convince them he had nothing to say. Codes for the evidence locker, how to enter the lab undetected...no, these are things he barely remembers in the waking world, but in this pseudo-dreamland, he can barely recall his own name.

But really, who steals from the crime lab? They don't stand for that, they always get their stuff back, always get their guy. Far too possessive, those CSIs. They'll come for him – he's part of the lab, just like the mass spec and the microscopes. He's their lucky mascot, their comic relief, their prodigy.

He loves them all, and he thinks maybe they like him too. He's counting on that now, but he's not really worried. They're coming for him, he knows it. They would never leave him here, never play with his life. Never.

Could be morning by now, but he's really past caring. It's getting boring here; he wishes they would hurry up already. Really, he left enough of a mess in the parking lot, is pretty certain at least one window was smashed. He could smell blood in the air, and maybe not just his own. He wanted to leave evidence, has become an expert in aiding the race.

They'll be here, they have to be. He isn't really strong, isn't smart like Sara, never popular like Nick, a ladies man like Warrick. He's just Greg Sanders, lab tech, CSI hopeful, and now captive of some justice evaders who want an immunity he can't give.

There are voices – harsh and low, huh. Wrong people. He feels like laughing, but they might not take too kindly to that. No kiss for the hero with too many scars, he thinks. The door bursts open, and a flurry of chatter, the distant keening of sirens. About time too.

Something cool touches his cheek, and there's a distinct click. Okay, this isn't really a good plan, he'd expected better from them, especially as Grissom's on shift tonight. Ecklie maybe, but not Mr Crime Lab himself.

More talking, and he tries not to move. It's hard, his muscles want to stretch, but he stays still. This he can do, this is his part, and he can do it. He can wait a while longer, surely.

Slowly, the cool metal falls away, and suddenly, the voices are closer, and he can maybe recognise a few, pick out the ones he's been waiting for.

"Greg? Greg, can you open your eyes for me? GREG!"

Warm hands settle on his face, and he opens his eyes slowly, and there's a blur that seems like Nick, who sighs softly.

"That's better, Greggo. You've had enough beauty sleep for one day."

"How's he doing, Nick?"

Grissom. See, he knew it had to be the best behind this. And it's surely not a minute past midday.

"A little battered, but he'll be fine. Can you hurry with those knots, Sara?"

"Some kind of sailor knot, give me a minute..."

A light touch on his numb fingers signals her steady work, and he's ready to sleep again. He mutters softly, a smile gracing his lips.

"I knew you'd come."

He feels the knots release, and the sudden rush of blood makes his fingers ache.

"I'll take him out, the paramedics still aren't cleared."

Strong but gentle arms lift him up and he feels the warmth settle in. He thinks maybe it's okay to sleep now, now they're here and it's all okay.

See, he knew they'd come.

***