Title: It's Always You
Author: Lament
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Fandom: CSI
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine. Sigh.
Author's Notes: This is a series of snippets that trace the progression of Nick and Greg's relationship from their first meeting to their first actual date. They take place over a two or three year period. Thanks to shacky20 for reading it over.
Warning: WiP. Major Character Death in the first chapter! AU.
Author's Notes: This is an AU ghost story. It's a little different from what I normally write, so I'm walking uncharted ground. The first chapter is basically a set-up chapter for the rest of the story. In this first chapter, there is a major character death. That's kind of a given, considering this a ghost story. Don't try to place the case Nick was working on prior to the start of the story. I made it up. Also, all of the major characters will appear, but not all of them will be CSIs.
Summary: Nick thinks his house might be haunted. And he happens to be right.

***

I wanted to wait until I had a little more of this written before I posted the first chapter here, but now I do, so here you go.

Thanks to saebuffyboy for the title.

-----

Las Vegas, 1954

It was late afternoon, and the Nevada sun was glaring down on Las Vegas. Even sitting inside with a cold drink, Greg Sanders could feel the blistering heat. He was sitting in a little diner he'd never been to before with a cop he barely knew, and he was internally telling himself off for even being there. This was crazy, and Greg knew it.

Detective Hennessy leaned across the table. "Sanders," he said, taking a drag off his cigarette. "Just think about it. You can help us put Charlie away."

Greg stared into his lemonade. "No," he said, shaking his head. "No way. I gave you what you needed already."

"What we need," Hennessy said, "Is for you to testify in court. You've seen more of—"

"Testify against Charlie Croft? Are you kidding?" Greg leaned back in the booth and massaged his temple with the ball of his hand. "That's insane. Of course, one could argue that I'm already crazy. I ratted him out to you, didn't I?"

"You'll testify then?"

Greg stared at the detective. "I'll think about it," he said. "Right now, I have to get out of Vegas before Charlie sends someone to look for me."

Shaking his head, Hennessy said, "Nobody knows you turned on Charlie except for me and my partner."

"Charlie won't need proof," Greg said. "He's gonna know it was me. I'm a dead man if I stay in Vegas."

Hennessy nodded. "How'd you wind up in Vegas, anyway? Shouldn't you be off working for some laboratory? Curing a disease or something?"

"If I was smart, that's where I'd be," Greg muttered.

"So why aren't you?"

Greg raised his eyebrows. That was an excellent question, actually. How had Greg, a bright, relatively handsome guy who seemed to have a world of options, wound up in Vegas, connected to a guy like Charlie Croft? The answer was simple—love. Greg had fallen in love with Charlie the moment he saw him. He had fallen in love with Charlie when Charlie was still a good guy, a happy, fun-loving guy who liked to laugh and take long drives.

Now though? Charlie was a different man, and the changes had happened so slowly that they snuck up on Greg. One day, Greg had taken a good look at the man he loved, and he had realized what Charlie had become.

"Does it matter?" Greg asked.

Hennessy cocked his head, as if to turn Greg's question over in his head. "I guess not," he said.

Leaning across the table, Greg said, "You know, I didn't know what Charlie was doing. I was never involved in his business."

"I believe you," Hennessy said. "You know, Sanders, you seem like a good man."

"Thanks." Greg rubbed his eyes. "You want to hear something funny, Hennessy?"

"What's that?"

Greg let out a dry laugh. "For a while, I thought about becoming a cop."

"Never know," Hennessy said. "You might've been a good one."

Greg nudged open the door to his house and stumbled inside. The house was almost dark now, and Greg wanted to keep it that way. It's not like he wasn't planning to stay long. He just wanted to grab some clothes and money and get out. .

He ran upstairs, taking two steps at a time. Throwing his bedroom door open, Greg yanked his suitcase out from under his bed. He tore open the dresser drawers and threw a few pieces of clothes into his bag. Then, he grabbed a book and a stack of handwritten notes and formulas and tossed them into the suitcase as well. Swallowing, he gazed into the bag. This was his whole life, then, reduced to a leather satchel. Well, good enough, Greg supposed. Picking up the suitcase, Greg hurried down the stairs and ran to the kitchen. He had some money stashed in the cupboard next to the refrigerator. It wasn't much, but it would get him back to California in one piece. Or maybe he would head east. He grabbed the wad of cash out of the cupboard, shoved it into his coat pocket, and turned to leave.

Then he heard the radio.

"Damn," he whispered. Either his house was suddenly haunted, or Charlie had found out about him sooner than he figured. Holding his breath, he moved toward the back door.

As he turned the knob, he felt a hand reach out and grab his neck. "Hey, Sanders."

Greg closed his eyes. Jimmy Carelli. Damn.

Jimmy pushed Greg into the living room, where Gus Mueller was standing by Greg's radio, tapping his foot to "I've Got the World on a String." As Greg and Jimmy walked into the room, Gus glanced up. "Hey, Greg," he said conversationally. He sounded like he was here to play cards or something.

The house was dark, except for the stray flecks of moonlight that glanced through the drawn charcoal curtains. It was just enough light that Greg could see the smirk on Jimmy's face.

"Jimmy," Greg choked. "Be reasonable." He folded his arms and took a step backward.

Shrugging, Jimmy said, "Reasonable? What did you expect, Sanders? You turned on Charlie." Jimmy turned to Gus. "Right, Gus?"

Gus glanced up from the radio. "That's right. Hey," he grinned. "Dean Martin. I love this song."

Greg let out a breath and glanced around the room. He wondered vaguely if he could overpower Jimmy and Gus and make it out the door, but he knew he was no match for them. Jimmy was built like a bear. And Gus, he was small, but he was natural athlete. Greg was a scientist, a thinker, and even though he was in good shape, he was no fighter.

"Look," Greg said. "I just didn't want Freddie to die. That's all. He has a daughter."

"Yeah?" Jimmy said. "You should've thought about Charlie. He took you in. He put you in this house. And yet you turned on him."

Greg swallowed. "Look," he said. "I could disappear. I don't have to testify."

Jimmy shrugged. "And you won't testify."

Something in Jimmy's tone caused a shiver to shoot over Greg's body. He lurched toward the nearest door, but Jimmy grabbed his arm and flung him back against the wall. "You'd never have to see me again," Greg pleaded. "Just let me go." He turned to Gus. "Gus? You know me. I'll disappear."

Gus shook his head apologetically. "You dug your own grave."

Before Greg had a chance to react, he heard the click of Jimmy's revolver. After the bullet hit his chest, Greg felt himself drop to his knees, teeter for a moment, and then collapse face down onto the Oriental rug Charlie had gotten for him when Greg moved to Vegas. As Greg laid there bleeding and struggling for breath, he could hear Jimmy and Gus chatting about where they were going to eat dinner. And he could hear Dean Martin on the radio…"When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that's amore."

And as he faded away, he kept telling himself to get up, if he got up, he'd be just fine.

Las Vegas, Present Day

Nick Stokes pulled himself out of the silver Chevy and pushed the car door closed with his side. Every muscle in his body ached, and all he wanted was to crawl into his house and collapse somewhere. He turned to Jim. "Thanks for the ride, Jim. I don't think I'd have made it."

Jim Brass rounded the car and slapped Nick on the back. "Hey, no problem, Nicky. Wouldn't want you passing out at the wheel." He gazed up at the white Victorian house. "Hey, I like it," he said. "How much work are you gonna have to put into it?"

"Some," Nick said. "That's partially why I bought it. I thought it'd be a good hobby. You want the penny tour?"

Jim raised an eyebrow. "Penny tour?"

"I'm too tired for anything more," Nick grinned. "Come on in. I'll show you around."

The two men strolled up the stairs and through the front door. Nick winced as they entered the foyer. He tossed his bag onto the floor and just stood there, gazing helplessly at the boxes that littered his living room. He'd been living in the new house for two and a half weeks, but he'd barely unpacked. He worked midnights, and he was working a lot of doubles besides. That didn't give him a lot of time for real life. "Sorry for the jungle of boxes. Still got a lot of unpacking yet," he said.

Grinning, Jim said, "You know, I still have unpacked boxes in my closet from where I moved here from Jersey?" He gazed around the foyer. "You probably have a lot of storage space."

"Quite a bit," Nick said. "Got a big attic." The two men passed through the foyer into the living room. "This is the main living room," Nick said. "And that's the dining room over there. There's a parlor in there, but I'm gonna turn it into a library."

"That's good. Very Grissom. You check it out?"

"Hm? The attic?" Nick felt a blush rush to his cheeks. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."

"Boy, this is a big house for one guy."

"Don't try and marry me off," Nick laughed.

"Nah," Jim said. "I won't. So, this is a major move, Nicky. Is this the best time to shake things up?"

"You sound like my shrink."

"How's that going?"

Shrugging, Nick led Brass into the kitchen. "Pointless," he said. "We just sit there and talk about how I'm feeling and how I'm handling crime scenes." Nick blew out a breath. "It's not like I was never attacked at a scene before. You know, Ecklie just wanted to prove a point. That's the only reason he made me go."

"At least you're on duty." Jim walked around the kitchen gazing at nothing in particular. "Just tell the doctor what she wants to hear, and she'll cut you loose. I've been there."

Nick leaned against the wall. "Yeah," he said. "It's just wasted time, is all. Well, I'm going to grab dinner and turn in. You want something to eat?"

"Nah," he said. "I'm gonna head out. Night, Nicky."

"I'll walk you out."

With a breath, Nick dragged himself to the refrigerator. He was ten kinds of tired, but he still needed to eat something. Leftover pizza, maybe. Nodding, he pulled out the box, grabbed a slice, and ate it cold. After he finished his pizza, he guzzled a can of root beer to wash it down. Placing the empty can into the sink, Nick slumped against the counter and closed his eyes. He hoped he'd be able to sleep tonight for a change.

As he stood there, Nick began to feel a chill creep along his skin. It was as though someone was watching him. He knew no one was there. He knew that. No one had been there yesterday when he'd had the same feeling. Or four days before that. But still, he could feel a pair of eyes staring through him, and it was an eerie sensation. Finally, Nick took in a breath and spun around. But like all the other times, no one was there.

If he told his shrink about this, he knew what she'd say. She'd tell him that he experiencing normal reactions to having nearly been killed so recently. A little paranoia was normal, she would say. And she would encourage him to work through it. Knowing her, she'd schedule an extra counseling session for him.

Shaking his head and scolding himself for being so jumpy, Nick trudged upstairs and into his bedroom. He pulled the door tightly closed, toed his shoes off, and climbed into bed without undressing. Closing his eyes, Nick snuggled into the pillow.

As he started to drift off to sleep, he heard the sound he'd been dreading—footsteps. He'd been expected them, but he hoped they wouldn't come. In the two and a half weeks Nick had lived in the house, he'd heard the footsteps every night. Sometimes they came from the attic. And sometimes, Nick could hear them out in the hall in front of his bedroom door, or on the steps leading downstairs. The first night he had slept here, Nick thought maybe the house had been broken into. He'd gone up to the attic with his gun to surprise the intruder, but no one had been there, and after that, the footsteps had stopped for the night. The next night, he'd searched the house before he went to bed, and satisfied, he had turned in. No sooner had he gotten into bed, he heard the footsteps again.

Of course, Nick knew they weren't footsteps. They couldn't be. Footsteps would mean that someone was in the house with him, and he hadn't found anyone. Of course, an intruder wasn't out of the realm of possibilities. Nigel Crane had lived in his attic for weeks.

Nick sat up in bed. Since they couldn't be actual footsteps, there had to be a rational explanation. What was it his dad used to say? The house was settling. His mind was playing tricks on him because of his past experience with Nigel Crane and his recent close call. The house was settling, and Nick's anxieties were turning normal noises into footsteps. That was a damn good explanation.

Satisfied, Nick pulled off his shirt and jeans and tossed them onto a nearby chair. "There's nothing up there, Nick," he said to himself. "You're alone."

Finally, the footsteps stopped and Nick let out a breath. "That's better," he muttered, and then gradually drifted off to sleep.

***

Nick pulled himself out of bed, and yawning, he trudged toward his bathroom. He loved that there was a bathroom attached to the master bedroom. He supposed it didn't matter much, since he was the only one living in the house and so, he wouldn't have to fight for his turn in the bathroom anyway. But still, Nick took great pleasure in knowing he had a "master bathroom," allocated exclusively for his use.

After he finished his shower, Nick wandered back into the bedroom, a towel tied loosely around his waist. He pulled open his dresser drawer, and then, out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw his bedroom door. Ever since he was nine years old, Nick had always slept with the door closed. He was borderline anal about it. Yet, at the moment, his bedroom door was standing open. Not just ajar…wide open. The rational part of Nick's mind suggested that he must've gotten up in the middle of the night to get a snack, and when he came back into the bedroom, he had forgotten to close the door. But Nick knew himself better than that. Exhausted or not, he can't sleep with an open door. He just can't

Walking over to the door, Nick ran his thumb over the latch on the doorframe. It looked solid. The wood on both the door and the frame was good quality, barely any sign of warping. Narrowing his eyes, Nick pulled the door tightly closed and shook the knob without turning it. The door didn't budge. Taking a step backward, Nick put his hands on his hips.

Okay, he thought. This is weird.

He leaned forward and gave the door one more shake, just for good measure. When the door remained securely fastened, Nick let out a breath and with a resigned shrug, proceeded to get dressed.

Nick eased his way through the horde of people who were milling around the lobby of the Rampart. In all the years he'd lived in Vegas, this was only Nick's second visit to the Rampart, and so far, he wasn't impressed. Nick didn't feel comfortable around overt displays of wealth and extravagance. He i liked /i his fixer-upper house and his five-year-old dresser and his old vinyl records. He liked old things, things with character. The plastic, glitzy, always-new side of Vegas didn't do much for him.

To his relief, Nick spotted Brass waiting for him by the front desk. With a wave, Nick plodded forward to meet him.

"Hey, Nicky," Brass said. "You have any problem getting to work? I thought about calling you."

"Nah," Nick said, shaking his head. "My next door neighbor, Allen, brought me. He was going to a late movie anyway."

Jim narrowed his eyes. "What's this guy do?"

"Allen?" Nick shrugged. "He's an orthodontist."

"Is he single?"

Nick stopped in his tracks and bit back a grin. "Don't get your hopes up, Jim. Allen is straight and divorced."

"Aw," Brass said, chuckling. "I'm just looking out for you, Nicky. You need to get back out there, start dating again."

Nick shook his head. "Not until I'm ready, Jim. And I'm not ready."

Jim was about to protest when he and Nick reached Grissom, who was standing next to an older, well-dressed man Nick took to be the Rampart's owner, Sam Braun. Nick had a vague recollection of meeting Braun once. Braun's son, Tony had been murdered a couple of years before, and Nick had worked the case with Grissom. Nick had noticed then, that Braun was smooth, and his responses to questions were cautiously measured.

Grissom gazed at Nick—or through him, actually, and then he turned to the Braun. "Mr. Braun," he said. "Officer Miller will finish taking your statement."

"Of course, Mr. Grissom," Braun said. "Whatever I can do to help. I want you to find the son of a bitch who murdered that young man."

Grissom waved over a uniformed officer, and then turned to Nick. "Nicky, David's finishing up with the body," he said. "Hanson's collecting evidence. I want you to interview the guy who found the body. Get him to walk you through it."

Nick nodded. "Where was the body found?"

"In the restaurant right ahead," Grissom said. "Behind the bar."

Brass flipped open his notebook and cleared his throat. "The decedent, a Travis Meecham, was found behind the bar by the gentleman right over there by the piano. The guy claimed he came back because he left his cell phone." Brass rolled his eyes, as if to show the utter absurdity of the man's story. Then he leaned closer to Nick and whispered, "This guy's a real smart ass, so good luck. I like him for it. He copped an attitude with me the whole time I tried to get his statement."

Nick was the people person, and because of that, he frequently wound up "handling" the people Grissom and Brass didn't want to mess with. It wasn't so bad, Nick supposed. By the time CSI became involved, people were hurt or scared or angry. Usually, they just wanted to vent a little, or be reassured.

Taking a deep breath, Nick walked across the dining room to a piano in the corner. Hunched over on the piano bench, sat a tall, well-built man who seemed to be either distraught or exhausted—Nick couldn't tell which one. Clearing his throat, he said, "Excuse me, sir. I'm Nick Stokes, with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I understand you found the body?"

The man glanced up at him and blinked several times. "I already gave my statement to the officer."

Nick nodded. "I understand that, sir. I'm from the Crime Lab, and I have some additional questions. It would really be a big help if you could clarify a few things."

Letting out a long-suffering breath, the man said, "Well, I already missed my date, so where else do I got to be?"

"Yeah?" Nick smiled. "Pretty?"

"Oh, gorgeous," he said. "Smoothest skin…" The man shook his head, as if trying to knock something back into place. He regarded Nick for a moment and then outstretched his hand. "Warrick Brown."

Nick smiled and shook his hand. "Pleased to meet you. You're the pianist here, Mr. Brown?"

Brown nodded. "Yeah, I've been working her for around a year."

"How well did you know Mr. Meecham?" Nick asked.

"Not well," Brown said with a ragged voice. "He'd only been her for a few weeks. And Meecham and I weren't exactly compatible."

"Not compatible?" Nick said, narrowing his eyes. "You ever get into a beef with him?"

Brown leaned back and took a hard look at Nick. "What are you asking, man? You think I had something to do with this? I tried to save his life."

"Mr. Brown," Nick said evenly. "I'm just trying to get the facts. I'm not accusing anybody of anything. Now, did you and the victim ever have a problem?"

"Yeah, we did," Brown said. "He had a mouth."

"It ever come to blows?"

Licking his lips, Brown said, "Once. But it was nothing. Just a shoving match."

Nick nodded. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"

Brown stood up and stretched slightly. "He ran his mouth about something, and I told him off."

As Nick was about to respond, a beautiful redhead breezed past him. "Hey, Warrick," she said breathlessly. "You all right? What the hell happened?"

"I'm fine, Cath," Brown said. "Can't say the same for Meecham."

Cath squeezed Brown's upper arm and said, "Well, that'll save me the trouble of firing his ass." Turning to Nick, she thrust a hand forward. "Catherine Willows. I'm the manager of this establishment. Who killed my guy?"

Nick blinked. "We're trying to figure that out, ma'am," he said.

"Like you figured out who killed my ex-husband, I suppose?"

Nick felt his insides tighten. "I'm not familiar with the case, ma'am," he said.

She folded her arms across her chest. "Well, what do we know about this case?"

We?

Nick swallowed. "Uh, we're conducting a preliminary investigation, ma'am."

"So you know nada," Cath said.

Resisting the urge to shift from foot to foot, Nick said, "I'm not actually at liberty to discuss the particulars of the case with you, ma'am."

Cath gazed at Nick for a moment. "You're cute," she said, smiling.

Nick narrowed his eyes. For a minute, he thought Cath might pat him on the head. Almost against his will, Nick glanced over to the bar, where Grissom was chatting with Hanson and Brass. Grissom grimaced at Hanson, who walked away looking as though he'd been slugged—a reaction a lot of people had after talking to Gil Grissom. Nick tried to mentally will Grissom to glance up, but Grissom stubbornly refused to comply. Instead, he turned and walked out of the room.

Clearing his throat, Nick turned back to Cath and Brown. "Okay, then. I just have a few more questions."

After Nick finished the interviews, he met Grissom and Brass out in the parking lot. "Hey Gris. I'm all done in there."

"Well," Grissom said. "What are your impressions?"

Nick shrugged. "Brown had some problems with the victim. He admitted that."

"And he found the body," Brass reminded them.

"Yeah," Nick said. "And he seems pretty tight with the manager of the restaurant."

Brass pursed his lips. "By tight, you mean tight?"

"Maybe," Nick said.

"Well, I like him for it," Brass said. "Guy who finds the body? First suspect."

Grissom nodded. "That's quite possible."

"I don't know, Gris," Nick said. "He seems like a good guy."

"Nicky," Gris said patiently. "It's not about his personality."

"It's about the evidence," Nick said, as if on cue. Nick heard that phrase so often, he occasionally had dreams where Grissom was standing over his bed, wagging his finger and saying it over and over. He wondered what his shrink would make of that little nugget.

From the attic window, Greg Sanders watched as the familiar black truck of his new housemate pulled into the driveway. Almost against his will, the anger started to well up inside him. Or maybe it wasn't anger at all. Maybe it was frustration and sadness and loneliness, all jumbled together. Greg was in a melancholy mood, that was for sure. Having someone move into the house again was always bittersweet. Greg had welcomed his first new housemates with open arms. He'd even tried to communicate with them, be a part of their lives. But soon, he realized that he was more alone i with /i someone in the house than he was by himself. Having people in the house was like a cruel joke. It was having something dangled in front of him that he could never seem to latch onto. And when Greg did finally learn how to make himself known to the living, he was greeted with fear, or sometimes as a fleeting curiosity.

"What do we know about this guy?" Greg said aloud. He started ticking off bits of knowledge on his fingers. "We know he keeps weird hours. We know he carries a gun, and we don't like guns, do we? He has a badge of some kind. Maybe he's a cop."

Greg glanced at a mannequin that stood in the corner. "She" was wearing a dusty pink dress, a pink frilly hat, and a cameo. The clothes belonged to one of Greg's old housemates, a woman named Ivy. She had moved here in 1967. She was in her 70s then. For three and a half years, she and Greg had lived together, and although Greg never manifested himself to her, she seemed aware of his presence. And not at all bothered by it, either. She had passed on in 1971, leaving the house emptier than Greg had seen it in a long time.

To keep from going crazy, Greg held conversations with the mannequin. But despite his best efforts, Greg still felt like he was going insane with loneliness. Really, he should be happy to have a housemate, some company after so long. And Greg would admit that the guy wasn't too bad to look at—particularly when he ran around in a towel. But there was a part of Greg that felt resentful of Nick, of his life. Nick was older now than Greg had been when he was killed, and that very thought made a shiver of cold bitterness rush down his spine.

Letting out a long breath, Greg folded his arms tightly across his chest. He didn't need this guy. He was doing i just /i fine by himself. Yeah. He'd scared off other people. He could scare this guy off, too.

"Ivy," he said to the mannequin. "We'll get rid of this one in no time."

***

Greg watched as Nick closed the door of his truck and began to trudge up the walk toward the house. The poor guy looked exhausted, and Greg felt a twinge of guilt, knowing that he was at least partially responsible for Nick's sleeplessness. But only twinge. After all, the guy was trespassing in Greg's private home. If all went well, though, he'd be out of here in a day or two. Greg was planning to make Nick so petrified that he wouldn't be able to sleep comfortably in this house ever again. With a determined look on his face, Greg walked straight through the attic door and marched down the stairs toward the foyer. He stopped on the bottom step and watched as his Nick dragged himself through the front door, his duffle bag in one hand and a Styrofoam container in the other.

Stretching, Nick dropped his duffle bag and leaned back against the door frame. With a jerk, he yanked off his ball cap and glanced around helplessly at the boxes that were stacked around the room. Shaking his head and mumbling something Greg didn't hear, Nick tossed the cap carelessly onto the floor.

"Messy," Greg said disapprovingly. With a frown, he turned and followed his housemate into the living room.

Nick stopped in the middle of the room and narrowed his eyes at a stack of records that lay strewn all over the hardwood floor. "Hmm," Nick muttered, kneeling down for a closer look

"Sorry," Greg winced. "I was looking through your record albums earlier. You know," he said, leaning against the entertainment center. "Some of that stuff is from my era. Of course, I'm not a big country fan, so I question some of your choices." He shuddered. "I'll give you Hank Williams, though. He got me through some tough times after I broke up with this guy, Cliff. Long story short, Cliff wanted to be a Hollywood actor, but he had some associates who were of the, uh…" He leaned closer to Nick. "Wrong political persuasion, shall we say. Anyway, he got blacklisted. By the time I met him, he was out of work and sat around the house all day in his bathrobe. Left me for a girl whose dad owned an architectural firm." Greg took a breath. "And then I met Charlie."

Greg knew Nick couldn't hear what he was saying, but it made him feel good to talk to someone other than Ivy. Besides, Nick had a kind face. He seemed like he'd be a good listener, if only he could hear Greg.

After he straightened the records, Nick dragged himself into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a beer. Then, he opened the Styrofoam container to reveal a hamburger and coleslaw.

"Yeah," he muttered to himself.

Greg narrowed his eyes as Nick picked up the sandwich and swiped up a bit of ketchup with his finger. The anger Greg had felt in the attic bubbled up inside him as he watched Nick bite into the burger. Greg didn't need to eat, and he didn't really feel hunger in the traditional sense. But he did miss a good meal. What was the last thing he had eaten? A ham and cheese sandwich and a glass of watery lemonade from that crummy diner? If Greg had known it would be the last thing he ever tasted, he'd have popped for a steak and a bottle of red wine at a real restaurant.

He pointed at Nick. "What if you got stuck by lightning in the next few minutes? You want that to be the last thing you ever eat?"

Glaring Greg reached out a hand and touched Nick on the shoulder. Nick swatted at his shoulder as if he'd been stung by a bee. He sat his food down on the counter and rubbed his hands together.

"Chilly?" Greg smirked. A long time ago, Greg had discovered that living people experienced feelings of intense cold whenever he made physical contact with them. He'd heard one of his housemates liken it to having her body plunged into a frozen lake. At first, Greg had felt awful about that and had tried not to touch anyone. But after a while, he'd learned to appreciate his "superpowers." It wasn't much, but it was a harmless way to freak people out.

After a moment, Nick shook off the feeling and took a swig of his beer. Slowly, he ran his tongue along his bottom lip. "Mm," he mumbled, placing the half-empty bottle onto the counter.

Greg swallowed, at the sight of Nick's tongue. Frowning, he walked behind Nick. "Not good enough, huh? Okay." He opened a cabinet door, and lightly pushed it closed. Nick twisted around to find the source of the sound, and then, raising his eyebrows, he went back to his dinner. Undeterred, Greg repeated the action, this time a bit more forcefully. Nick turned to look again.

"That's right, Nicky," Greg grinned. "The cabinet door is moving by itself. Yikes."

Nick walked over and played with the door, opening it and closing it. He bit down on his bottom lip and ran his finger along the latch. Shrugging, he took another sip of beer.

Greg let out a longsuffering breath. After a few seconds, he closed the door again, this time with more vigor. Then, for good measure, he tugged the door open and left it ajar.

Jerking his head up, Nick stared at the cabinet for a moment. Grimacing, he snatched up the phone from next to the microwave and punched in some numbers. "Mom," he said after a few seconds. "Is Dad there?"

Greg bounced on the heels of his feet. "You're calling Mom and Dad? I'm good!"

"Well, have him call me back," Nick said. "I have a cabinet, and the latch is worn or something. It keeps popping open. I don't have a clue how to fix it." Rubbing his eyes, Nick yawned, "Yeah, Mom. I'm eating. Right now, in fact. What? No, I see the shrink tomorrow."

"Shrink, huh?" Greg said, folding his arms across his chest. "What's the matter with you?"

"I love you too, Mom," Nick said. "See ya." Laughing to himself, he hung up the phone and took a bite of his food.

Greg watched Nick for a moment. "You know," he said finally, throwing his hands into the air. "I'm trying to scare you. The least you could do is look apprehensive."

But Nick didn't look a bit apprehensive. Instead, he looked oddly calm. Glaring at his housemate, Greg pulled open the cabinet door and, with a flick of his wrist, slammed it hard.

Nick jumped and spun around.

"That's more like it," Greg smirked.

"The wind," Nick mumbled.

"No," Greg said testily. "It's not the wind. You have a ghost in your house."

"It's only the wind, man."

"I feel like a Casper wannabe," Greg snapped. In a huff, he stormed through the living room into the foyer. He scooped up Nick's ball cap and stormed upstairs, making sure he stomped a bit on the steps for good measure.

He tore open the attic door and walked to Ivy. "The guy is impossible," Greg said, waving the cap at Ivy. "I was down there slamming things and touching him, and he was acting like Mr. Tough Guy. Please." Greg dropped onto a trunk left behind by a former housemate—one who had the good sense to run from the house in a proper state of panic. He slumped his shoulders. "You should see him lick his lips, though. Not a bad show."

Letting out a breath, he held the ball cap up to the light and ran his finger along the embroidered emblem: Police. And then it said, Forensics "Hey, Ivy," Greg said, grinning. I think this guy is a cop. Police scientist or something."

There was a time when Greg had considered becoming a cop himself. He'd always had an amazing amount of respect for the police. They put themselves on the line so that everyone else could live their lives in relative peace. Truthfully, that was why Greg had been willing to talk to them about Charlie. It had been his bit to keep the peace.

After he was shot, the first person Greg remembered seeing was Detective Hennessy, the guy he'd gone to about Charlie in the first place. Hennessy had gotten choked up and had stood there in his living room, promising he'd bring Greg's killer to justice. Of course, he never did. Bringing Charlie Croft to justice was like catching a star in your bare hands.

Greg closed his eyes. "So what do you think, Ivy? Do I let the kid stay? Give him a chance?"

The mannequin stood silent, and Greg took that as a sign of her assent. Nodding, he tossed the cap onto a nearby table and walked out the door.

Nick had turned the air conditioner on and the house was relatively cool now, even though the sun outside was blazing. He lay on his couch, stripped down to just his jeans. He knew he should really go to bed, but he was still jumpy from the weirdness in his kitchen. Try as he might to rationalize what had just happened, cabinet doors didn't open and close by themselves.

Shifting his body, Nick settled down into the cushions. As he felt himself start to drift off, heard the familiar sound of footsteps from the other room. They sounded like they were coming closer. "The house is settling," he told himself and firmly closed his eyes. The footsteps seemed to stop directly behind him, but Nick willed himself to relax. Just then, the phone rang, causing him to sit up with a start. Part of him didn't want to move from the couch, but Dad and his logical judge's mind were probably on the other end, all set to give him a reasonable explanation for his slamming kitchen cabinets.

He stood up and grabbed the phone. "Stokes," he croaked.

"Hey, cowboy."

Philip.

"What up?" Nick said in his most casual tone. He felt anything but casual, though. He and Philip had been apart for seven months, but sometimes it seemed like seven seconds. The pain of their breakup was still sore to the touch. Philip had been good to Nick, for the most part, but he could never quite deal with Nick's job—the long hours, the uncertainty, the grim moods Nick came home in.

And Philip most definitely couldn't deal with being faithful to one man.

"Not much," Philip said. "You know where I am? I'm at that barbeque place we used to go to sometimes."

Nick licked his lips. It was the restaurant they'd gone to for their first date. All Nick could think to say was, "Are you?"

"Yeah," Philip said. "I had a craving for ribs and coleslaw. You back at work?"

"Have been for a while," Nick said, swallowing.

"Good. Hey, Nick," Philip said. "I'm sorry I wasn't around more while you were in the hospital."

"No, no." Nick waved his hand dismissively. "You have your life now. How is Mr. Fabulous?"

There was an uncomfortable silence on the other end, just like there always was when Nick was brazen enough to mention Alex. "Look, Nick," Philip said carefully. "I didn't screw around with Alex on purpose."

Nick laughed. "You had sex with the neighbor accidentally? How does that work?"

"What I mean is I didn't intend for anything to happen. You were working doubles and triples, and I was lonely."

Nick rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Look, Philip, I need to sleep."

"Listen," Philip said. "Why don't we get together and—"

"And what?"

"I'd like to see you."

"Well, I'll think about it," Nick said. "How's that?" Turning off the phone, Nick tossed it onto the end table. Every time Nick thought he was over Philip, he got a phone call or a birthday card or a visit. He knew he should just unload on Philip and tell him to stay away. But some small part of him still needed the connection. He released a sharp breath through his clenched jaw. Tossing a throw pillow across the room, he groaned, "Men suck."

Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, Nick heard laughter coming from behind him. Not laughter… Giggling. He sat up and turned toward the sound. He'd heard it. He knew he had.

Nick got to his feet and walked over to the window. It was shut tight, and even if it had been open, there's no way he could hear someone outside with the air conditioner on. Maybe that was it. Maybe the air conditioner was making a rattling sound.

"Or maybe the house is haunted," he said half-jokingly. "I'm sharing my house with a ghost who has a juvenile sense of humor."

Ghosts. He chuckled to himself. Saying it out loud highlighted the absurdity of the notion. Here he was, thinking that his doors and cabinets were opening on their own, and that a ghost was listening in to his conversations. What an idiot. For the first time in quite a while, Nick felt relaxed. Still laughing, he jogged upstairs to bed.

***