Author's Note: A little Greg/Grissom bonding piece. Set after Big Shots.

Summary: Thieves don't mug killers.

Disclaimer: Own nothing but the plot. Half the plot, the other half belongs to 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner'

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray;
But or ever a prayer had gusht,
A wicked whisper came, and made
My heart as dry as dust.

I closed my lids, and kept them close,
And the balls like pulses beat ;
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky
Lay like a load on my weary eye,
And the dead were at my feet.

-- The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Samuel Taylor Coleridge

He hated that Grissom had sent him home early. He hated that he wouldn't get any sleep, and would come back to work just as exhausted. He hated that he was fighting to keep his eyes open, so that he wouldn't dream. He hated that the sleeping pills stopped working, and that his shrink refused to prescribe him something stronger.

He hated that he was a killer. He hated himself.

Did he even have the right to hate himself?

"Of course I do. Everyone else hates me. Why can't I?"

He hated that Holly Gribbs died. He hated seeing the horror in Nick's eyes after Kristy Hopkins was murdered. He hated that Nigel Crane existed. He hated the fear in Greg's eyes whenever he passed by the DNA lab. He hated that Nick didn't set foot in an interrogation room for two months because of claustrophobia after the coffin. He hated that Brass was shot. He hated that Catherine was nearly raped because of the perversity of Vegas. He hated that the James family was floating in money, while his CSI was floating in guilt. He hated that Sara was hurting and would keep hurting.

He hated that shit happened. He hated that shit happened to his team.

But shit happened to everyone right?

"Of course it does. I think..."

Greg pushed himself off the couch, and, grabbing his coat and keys, left the apartment. He stumbled to the car, and reversed out of the driveway. He put Marilyn Manson on full blast, trying to drown out his thoughts.

He drove aimlessly. Maybe it wasn't aimless. When Demetrius James died, him aim was to stop the crime. That proved futile. Would that mean that that was aimless? Would that mean that this wasn't aimless? But if this had an aim, what was it? It he didn't know what his aim was, did it mean that it didn't exist? Did it mean life was aimless?

Greg parked, breaking out of his sleep-deprivation induced thoughts. He looked to his right wondering where he'd gotten to.

"St. Patrick's Church," he whispered to himself. Turning forwards, he contemplated going in. He didn't want to; he hadn't prayed since he was eighteen. Yet a voice in that back of his head urged him on. It was probably his father. Oliver Sanders had always believed that God would forgive you if you forgave yourself. Greg thought bitterly of his parents' divorce when he was only eight. He hadn't understood it then, as far as he was concerned, his father had abandoned him. He hadn't talked to his father since, too deeply wounded to even try.

He turned off the engine, and exited the car. He wasn't sure what he was doing. He hadn't prayed for ages, and didn't know where to start, but he supposed he should start by going in. Sticking him hands deep into his pockets, he entered head down. Looking up he stared at the rows of God fearing Catholics, heads bowed down in prayer, and he felt suddenly sickened by himself. He closed his eyes against the guilt washing over him. He contemplated leaving, but a sudden swaying dizziness made up him mind for him. He sat down and wondered what he was doing.

The priest's words mingled together as he delivered the sermon. Words of hate and anger; of pain and suffering; of wrong and right. Greg mind numbed as thoughts of the beating mingled with reality.

The sermon was very different from what he was used to. Greg heard the priest calling out to the congregation, asking them to give their input and experience. He sat half listening as people talked about their past experiences.

Panic flooded through him as a familiar voice penetrated his thoughts. He looked up in shock, as Marla James' voice shook the crowd. He fought against his panic and tried desperately to sit still. Yet as hard as he tried he was soon out the door. He ignored the harsh looks, but could not disregard the hate filled look Aaron James shot at him. His throat closed up as he rushed outside. He leaned against the wall, and taking deep breaths, tried to calm down.

It was dark, and the stranger's presence was not known to him until he felt a hand grip his collar, twisting it, and pulling Greg closer to him. All thought of calming down forgotten; Greg took in sharp breaths, both uneven and shallow. At first he thought it was Aaron James, but his mugger's voice was gruff and experienced; not that of a teenager.

"What's your name?" he demanded. His breath was bittersweet; a mixture of weed and cheap beer.

Greg swallowed hard, trying to moisturize his dry throat in order to speak. He wasn't fast enough though, for the mugger's knee connected with his crotch and he doubled over. He fell to the floor as a heel connected with his back. A boot flipped him over onto his back. Greg's attacker pressed his heel into Greg's chest and repeated his question.

"Greg Sanders," he gasped out, looking fearfully up at his assailant.

Recollection glittered in the mugger's eyes. "Greg Sanders," he whispered slyly, "You killed that kid."

Greg closed his eyes and turned his head away in shame. The assailant kicked Greg's ribcage, and forced his to look at him. Then grabbing him by the collar, the thug pulled him up and against the wall.

"We thugs don't steal from killers," he whispered into Greg's ear. "Just give me your damn car keys so I can get out of here."

Greg handed them over. His attacker pulled Greg towards him so that their faces were only a couple of inches apart. "I'm pulling out your GPS don't even try to track me."

He pushed Greg back hard, and his head spun as it connected with concrete. His attacker kneed him again, and Greg slid to the ground, as pain flooded over him. He waited before his assailant was out of sight, before pulling out his cell phone. His mind clouded over and he hit no. 2 on speed dial. He tried hard to recall who he was calling, but all he could remember was that it was from work. The dial tone was shrill and hurt his head. He closed his eyes as he waited for someone to pick up.

Grissom looked down at his ringing phone.

G. Sanders

Damn that kid! He had sent him home early. He probably wanted to come back in. Couldn't he take a night off when it was given to him?

"You're not coming back in, Greg," he said sternly upon answering the call.

"Griss?" said Greg. He sounded unusually weak, but Grissom dismissed it as a bad connection.

"Yes Greg?" he said irritably.

"Griss? Could you come pick me up from outside St. Patrick's Church? I...ah...could you just come? Please." stuttered Greg, his voice slurred with pain.

"Greg, are you alright?" asked Grissom anxiously as he left his office.

"No. No, I'm not alright!" said Greg, his voice shrill, as fear washed over him. "I…could you just come get me? Please. It's dark and cold. I'm scared," his voice cracked, and a rough sob escaped him.

"Okay Greg, I'm on my way, just keep talking," reassured Grissom. "Tell me about, uh, tell me about your Papa Olaf.

Grissom let Greg's voice drown out, giving an occasional 'hmm' or 'go on' to keep Greg talking and raced through the lab, stopping only to tell Catherine where he was going. He rushed out of the building, hastily unlocking his car, and starting the engine.

It took Grissom fifteen minutes to arrive, and, when he couldn't see Greg anywhere, he thought he was at the wrong place. It was then that he saw a small figure curled up against the side-wall of the church.

Hurrying over, he crouched down in front of Greg. His arms were wrapped around his knees and his head set down on them, as he rocked slightly. He clothes were muddied and torn in places, and dry blood matted his flattened hair.

"Greg?" he cooed softly. When he didn't receive a reply, he called out again, and reaching out, placed a hand on Greg's shoulder. He removed it though, when Greg visibly flinched. It did get Greg's attention though, as he looked up at Grissom, his eyes wide and body tense.

Greg seemed to calm down when he sighted Grissom, for he closed his eyes and his breathing deepened. Grissom was about to wake him, when his head shot up. His eyes were wide and unfocused, as they flickered around him. His breathing was uneven as his gaze looked at something over Grissom's shoulder. He eyes were transfixed on it, and yet, didn't seem to be seeing anything.

"No," whispered Greg, his voice quaking. "No...Get him away from me," Greg's eyes flickered to Grissom, as his voice turned hysterical. "Get him away from me, Griss."

Grissom chose to ignore Greg's sudden outburst, partly because he wasn't sure how to respond. Instead he grabbed the younger man's shoulders and hoisted him up. Greg seemed to have gone completely limp, and Grissom had to lead him to the car.

Once buckled up though, Greg seemed to have regained coherence. "I'm not going to the hospital."

Grissom frowned, and opened his mouth to retort. Turning towards the young CSI however, something threw his off his about-to-be denial. There was a resolute calmness in Greg eyes, and his voice was steely. Somehow Grissom knew that he was making the wrong decision, and yet he simply nodded and redirected the car to his own town-house.

I'll take him to the hospital as soon as he's thinking straight, Grissom promised.

Grissom bandaged up Greg's cuts, as well as the head wound. Even though he wasn't officially a doctor, he knew a few techniques and the cut hadn't seemed to deep. Not deep enough for a concussion at least. Grissom realised that much of Greg's non-coherence was due to shock, stress, and something else that Grissom couldn't place. Guilt? Fear, maybe? He wasn't sure.

Greg himself remained eerily silent throughout the whole process. His eyes were lucid and focused. But whatever he was giving thought to it was not his surrounding. Not that Grissom was complaining. He was quite happy with the quiet. He had never completely understood the young man, sitting stoic in front of him, and he hadn't really tried. He left that to Sara and Nick. With anyone else he would have chosen Catherine instead of Sara, but she and Greg had a connection. He hadn't quite understood what Sara had saw in the bubbly kid. When Sara and his relationship progressed, however, he saw Greg through her eyes and started to respect Greg. Then the Lab tech transferred to CSI, and gained Grissom's respect in more than one way. Of course Grissom wasn't about to tell Greg that.

Grissom sighed, and closed his eyes again, trying to find sleep. Shift would have already ended so there was no point in going back in. Sara was obviously planning on overtime (no surprise there) so she wouldn't be home for a while. He knew that he should call and tell her about Greg, and yet he didn't have the heart to worry her. Greg was asleep in the guest room, and Grissom knew he was risking Greg finding out about him and Sara, but he was too exhausted to be bothered about that.

A migraine was pounding behind his eyes, and his medication hadn't kicked in yet. Beethoven played out quietly in the background, and his eyes drooped. It had been two hours since he had gotten into bed and he was finally getting some sleep.

Grissom woke the next morning listening to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. The quiet tune was comforting. Looking over at the clock, Grissom saw that he had been asleep for six hours. Sara wasn't home yet.

Grissom stood and stretched. Pulling on a pair of jeans and a black T-Shirt he washed up and continued to the living room. He was thinking about the steaming hot coffee that he was going to brew, and he didn't realise that it had already been brewed and drunk.

Greg was awake and on the phone. He laughed hard at someone the other person had said. "Bye Charlie, gotta go, Boss is awake."

While Greg was on the phone, Grissom took the time to examine the younger man. His cheek was battered, but not badly. His arms were a mess of blue and red bruises, but Grissom guessed that most of the damage done was under his clothes. He looked exhausted, and was leaning against the kitchen counter like it was the only thing holding him up

"Hey Griss," Greg greeted merrily, as though nothing had happened. "I was just about to get home, to get ready for work, but I figured I'd have some coffee fir--"

"You're not going into work today," said Grissom calmly, as if expecting it.

"I'm not?" asked Greg confused.

"No! I mean look at you. You're barely standing up on your own! You're a mess of contusions. Plus you haven't given your statement yet."

Greg blinked. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again, not speaking for a moment.

"Grissom, I'm not giving a statement. I don't want the case investigated."

"Is this because you feel guilty about Demetrius James?" Grissom hissed his eyes narrowed.

Greg was surprised at how fast Grissom had interpreted his feelings, especially since he himself hadn't figured them out yet.

"No," he replied hotly. "But it's not like it'll make court. Breaking news: CSI MUGGED. BEATEN TO THE EXTENT OF A FEW BRUISES. DENALI STOLEN. No wait! How about: CSI KILLS TEENAGER AND PAYS."

"So that's what this is about," sighed Grissom. "Greg--you need to realise that by not doing anything about this, it's only going to happen again. If not to you then to-"

"God Grissom, I'm not in grade school! Okay! I don't need the pep talk. Plus I know that if I don't want to do this you can't force me. So you don't have to try to persuade me to do anything."

"Greg-"

"No! I just want to forget about it, okay! So just shut up!" Greg burst, and seemed to realise he was out of line because he added uncomfortably: "...please...boss..."

"Okay Greg," said Grissom defeated.

They were silent for a moment, unsure of what to say.

"How's your head?" Grissom asked eventually.

"Alright," shrugged Greg. "I mean I woke up and it was pounding, but I had some Advil and it's pretty alright now."

"Glad to hear it," said Grissom.

This was the difficult part. He didn't really want to get involved in his teams emotions, but he knew he had to. Ever since Nick's stalking incident he had vowed to be more open with his team. It hadn't worked quite well, but every time something happened to his team he promised with renewed vigor, and Greg's beating was no exception.

"Do you want to talk about it? I mean as a friend not a CSI."

"Nah," Greg waved it off, "I'm over it, you know."

"Greg," Grissom said warily, "I don't think it's healthy to get over this so fast..."

"Oh! Yeah!" Greg said, laughing. "No I just--well shit happens and you have to get over it, you know. That's always been how I get through the day. I did it with this and the lad explosion and I think I can do it with the beating too...I just I think that if everyone else leaves it alone, I can too. I have to"

Grissom smiled. "'To the question whether I am a pessimist or an optimist, I answer that my knowledge is pessimistic, but my willing and hoping are optimistic.'"

"Yes that's what I would say if I was Albert Schweitzer," Greg laughed.

"I'm impressed Greg."

The laughed together and everything was okay, if only for a moment.

"I don't understand you Greg," said Grissom interrupting the light-hearted conversations.

"That's funny Griss 'cause I don't understand you either--but I guess we could try harder."

"Work hard and the rest will follow. That's how I get through the day."