Icarus Drowning

Summary: What happens when Greg flies too close to the sun?

Author's Note: Thanks to LaughableBlackStorm for the beta. Also, a thanks to Erowid-Dot-Com for the research, as well as my own personal field worker "Tom" who has reported to me the many pleasurable and not-so-pleasurable effects of psychoactive drugs in as honest a manner possible.

"unsignificantly
off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning"

--William Carlos Williams, "Landscape With The Fall of Icarus"

I know what I'm doing.

He took a step backwards, blinking, out of touch. His hands grasped for something to hold onto as he plummeted back down to the earth, his arrogant flight of fancy cut short by the sound of the gun shot, her eyes locked on him even as they grew cloudy with the dark storm that would soon consume her. He imagined that he saw forgiveness in them, but he wasn't quite sure what such an ambiguous idea may look like. He thought that perhaps it resembled a flower, maybe a lily, blooming in the water, struggling against the mud and rain, and yet blooming all the same. But if forgiveness was a flower, Greg saw no blossoms in her eyes. Only tricks of the light.

I don't need your help.

The man who held her looked down as the blood began to trickle out of the corner of her mouth silently. She made no noise, nor did she squirm or move or cry. She simply just slid down against the man who held her upright, until he dropped her callously like a rag doll and looked up at Greg, almost daringly, challenging the boy to shoot again.

He didn't.

I don't need you babysitting me.

Greg dropped the gun. He heard it clatter when it hit the concrete. Heard the yelling, saw the flashes of red and blue that reflected off the walls. The man had already started running, the body of the woman in the white dress strewn haphazardly on the concrete. Greg didn't have to approach her. He knew she was very much dead. She was dead the minute he'd pulled that trigger.

It's easy. In, out and I'm done. Bada bing bada boom.

There were hands on his shoulders, shaking them. He recognized the firm grip, the gravelly voice, the echoes of a person who used to be on his side. He called Greg's name again and again and Greg blinked repeatedly, forcing himself out of his trance, knowing he would have to act, have to tell the detective what had happened.

"He shot her."

If that was the truth, then why did he feel like he was lying?

"Who? Did you see him?"

Greg tried to imagine his features, but all he kept coming up with was his own face. "White. Curly hair. Brown. Thirties, maybe. Little taller than me."

"Who is she? What was she doing here?"

"Dunno. Came out of that building, the both of them. At first they were laughing, and she was Latina, just like the vic in the garbage bags out here… Told them it was a crime scene. Didn't listen. He grabbed her. She got scared. I fired. He killed her."

"You fired?"

"Into the wall," Greg breathed, nodding at the brick next to the door they had come out of. "I have shitty aim."

"And he shot her?"

"Because I shot at him."

The haggard detective looked over his shoulder at the body that other officers were checking out. He turned his attention back to Greg. "Your shot hit the wall?"

No, it hit her, he wanted to say. "Yeah. You should find the slug there."

"You OK?"

"Peachy."

"You sound… detached."

"I'll be fine. It's a job hazard, right?"

"I'm gonna call Grissom—"

"Don't tell him I shot anyone, OK?"

"You didn't shoot anyone, Sanders."

"Yeah, well just… Say he shot her. You don't have to say that I…" He frowned, the last moments of her life flashing before his eyes, the haze that invaded her vision, the lack of blooming flowers in her soft brown orbs…

"… Greg, do you want me to take you home?"

"No, I can manage, it's OK. I'll go back to the lab. Process the… Process the evidence."

"This scene is contaminated. Double crime scene now. Things are going to have to be reprocessed. By someone who isn't you."

"Fine. I have old cases I'm working on anyway."

"Greg, go home."

"Why? Physically, I'm fine. Emotionally, steady as a rock. Look." He held out his stable hand to prove it.

"And psychologically, you're dissociating," said the detective. "Go home. Have a stiff drink. Come back in the morning."

"I told Nick I knew what I was doing…" Greg muttered.

"You did good, Greg."

"Solo case and all…" Greg continued. He focused on the detective and smiled. "He'd wanted to come. Just for company, he said. But I knew better. He was checking up on me. He'll never let me live this one down, will he? I'm gonna be stuck in this rut forever. You think I'm cursed?"

Greg saw the older man sigh. "No. I think you're a smart kid who's handled some sticky situations, and pretty damn well I might add."

"Mm…" Greg murmured, feeling far away. "Maybe."

"Let me take you home. Would you?"

"I can take care of myself, thank you, Captain."

The detective frowned. "It'll make me feel better. And I know it'll make Grissom feel better."

But as was his fashion when he was uncomfortable, Greg forced a goofy grin. "Relax, Jim," he said to the detective. "This happens every day." People fall from grace every day.

He could tell that Brass wanted to protest, but they both knew with the grim understanding that came with their jobs that Greg was absolutely right. Although, Brass had interpreted Greg's statement as a sweeping generalization about people dying, and had no inklings of the thoughts Greg wished to voice. As far as Captain Jim Brass could tell, Greg seemed to be handling the situation rather well. And Greg knew this, because he saw the detective's face morph into several different expressions of unease and ambivalence.

"You'll call me, when you get home?" Brass asked, slowly.

Greg nodded. "And if you need anything…"

"You don't need to worry about it, I think we have that covered," said Brass. The detective patted the young CSI on the back and Greg felt his hand linger there momentarily before he walked away, leaving Brass to clean up the mess that he had made. He walked determinedly to his car and grasped the handle, pulling the door open before calmly climbing inside. He turned the key in the ignition and the engine rumbled to life. He exhaled as he gripped the wheel and closed his eyes.

He felt like a criminal fleeing the scene of the crime.

Half of him wanted Brass to run up the car, drag him out, and slap cuffs on his wrists.

But the other half kept repeating that it wasn't his fault.

He couldn't go home. He knew that. He needed to get his mind off death and women in white dresses. It was iconic, and it was chilling, and Greg desperately needed to purge it from his mind. He caught his lip between his teeth and hit the gas, driving off into the artificial noon that was the lights of Las Vegas.

The club was loud, the heavy bass rattling Greg's bones as he entered, glancing around for the bar. Everything was black-lit in purples and the odd neon glow stick stood out in the crowd. But Greg was used to this scene. He hadn't been on it in a while, due to the demands of his job, but returning to it was like coming home after a very long day. He had missed the anonymity, the thrill, and the sheer nonchalance of everyone there. No one came here in search of a relationship. They came here in search of a connection. They came here because the music was far too loud to have any real conversation, and the drinks were far too strong to spend too much money on them. In short, people came here with their hearts and wallets intact and tended to leave the same way. It was one of those rare businesses that was actually in it for the experience, rather than the pay off.

Greg knew for a fact they didn't water down their drinks. He had worked here for a short period of time back when he was naïve and idealistic about the world, before he'd settled down and gotten a "real job," as his mother had put it. Most of the employees he'd known back then had all left for greener pastures, but there was one bartender by the name of Lyle who still worked there.

"G-man!" he exclaimed over the heavy beat of the music as Greg took a stool at the bar. He wasn't large, but he was quite well-toned, with dark eyes and a square jaw which was under a blanket of brown and black speckled stubble. His left arm was covered with one grand tattoo which stopped at his wrist like the sleeve of a shirt. "Long time no see! What can I get for you this evening?"

"Scotch on the rocks," Greg ordered, managing a weak smile in greeting.

The bartender nodded and moved to make Greg's drink. In the meantime, Greg sighed, and tried not to dwell on how far he had fallen since he had begun working on the crime lab. But it was difficult.

"I'm sorry ma'am, sir, but this is a crime scene, you're going to have to leave."

"Crime scene, eh?"

"Is there a body? Oooh, do you think he'll let us see the body, querido?"

"Hush, doll. What kind of crime scene?"

"Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to escort this fine lady away from here. I can't have you contaminating the scene."

"You good at your job, man?"

"Well, I'd like to think so… Please, come on, I'll show you the way to the street from here—"

"How good are you when you have a gun pointing at you?"

"Querido!"

"Shut up, doll!"

He was jolted from his thoughts by something vibrating against his thigh. Blinking, he absently noticed his scotch sitting there in front of him. He downed it all in one shot, swallowing three times, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone.

The word Nick flashed at him on the display. He gripped the phone momentarily, contemplating answering, but inevitably decided against it. If Nick really wanted to talk to him, he'd leave a message. Besides, he wouldn't be able to hear anything over the pounding music.

"You alone, sugar?" asked a slim, scantily-clad brunette on his right.

He was rarely interested in women, but he also was becoming weary of his isolation. And, after all, he had come here in search of a connection, just like everyone else. "Isn't everybody?" he replied, slipping his phone back into his pocket. "In the end, I mean."

"That's a morbid thought," she commented, but slid closer to him. He had obviously piqued her interest.

"Well, I'm a morbid guy," Greg told her with a shrug.

"Ya don't look it," she noted, her eyes making a quick sweep of his body. She smiled. "Can I buy a morbid guy a drink?"

Her voice was nasal, and flared, like a few New Yorkers he had met back in the day. "Sure, why not?" he said half-heartedly.

She gestured at Lyle. "Two whiskey sours."

Greg scoffed. "Whiskey sour?"

"Not your drink?" she said, with a sly smirk that suggested she would make it his drink.

"A bit strong for a lady such as yourself, isn't it?" he said, almost flirtatiously.

"I can handle it," she said as Lyle arrived with their drinks. The burly bartender caught Greg's eye for a moment before he was whisked away by another order.

His phone was vibrating again. He looked down and fished it out to see that Nick was the cause of it. He chewed on his lip, knowing that a second call meant that it was urgent, but he guiltily put the phone away. Talking on the phone in this place was like trying to talk to someone through a brick wall. He would call Nick back as soon as he left the club.

He reached for his drink absently and took a sip, pursing his lips slightly at the lemon juice. It seemed there was more sour than whiskey in his drink, and he looked up curiously at Lyle, but the bartender was busy entertaining a pair of drunk blondes with glow stick necklaces.

"How's it taste, sugar?" asked his new friend.

Greg looked up to see her chewing on her straw, her legs crossed as her gaze pierced him, like a predatory bird. A hawk, maybe, if she'd possessed yellow eyes. But she didn't. Her eyes were hazel, but looked just as dangerous.

"A little sour," Greg replied.

"Isn't that the point?" she chuckled.

Greg took another sip through the straw and decided she was right. It wasn't his favorite drink, but he did get it for free, so he might as well enjoy it. "So where do you…" He blinked. "I'm sorry, lost my train of thought. Um… where are you from?"

"Alabama," she said with a smile. "A little place called Elkmont. We almost have five hundred people living there, you know."

He nodded, but stopped abruptly when he noticed it made him slightly dizzy. "Small town, eh? Yeah, I… sometimes I wish I grew up in a…" He closed his eyes tight and rubbed them with his hand. "Um, I'm not feeling so good. Guess it's been a while since I… alcohol and I… my job doesn't let me… What were we talking about?"

"Finish your drink, sugar," said the sweetheart next to him.

He frowned at the glass in his hands, which was already two thirds gone. "Small drink… Don't think that's a good idea anyway, seeing as I'm… What's your name?"

"You can call me Camellia," she said. "And you are?"

He took the last sip of his drink and slammed it on the bar. A smile claimed his features as the tension in his body seemed to melt away and splash onto the floor. He was drowsy, but also daring. "Greg," he said. "Care to dance?"

Camellia took him by the hand and pulled him out of his seat. "Sweep me off my feet, querido."

Greg was momentarily startled. Flashes of a Latina woman in a white dress danced across his vision. "What did you say?"

But before he knew it, he was being whirled around, the lights around him were spinning, and he felt the air hit his face… After that, it was just patches of memory, insignificant moments as someone led him out the door, flashes of her black high heels, a pounding headache, the urge to vomit, and someone hitting him hard in the chest, and then there was nothing.

The sound of a car rushing by echoed in his ears. Fireworks were erupting behind his closed lids, and there was this odd, shrill ringing in his ears, like a school bell that wouldn't relent. He wondered if it was his alarm clock and his hand exhaustedly banged at where it should have been.

There was the sound of jingling bottles and paper as his hand landed in something soft and wet. That's when Greg registered the smell permeating his nostrils. It was one he knew well, and yet, one he loathed, and as he recognized the smell, he suddenly knew exactly where he was. It was a compound smell of old pizza and rotting fruit, combined with wet newspaper and cardboard. Slowly, painfully, he opened his eyes to find himself staring up at a blue sky between the roofs of two buildings. The bed he laid on buzzed beneath him and he felt something crawl across his skin. He noticed a rather large cockroach with its antennas cocked in his direction in a curious way. Greg shook his arm violently to rid himself of the insect.

The headache that had invaded his skull refused to vacate. It had found a nice cozy home for itself after it had burrowed into the center of Greg's brain, and Greg imagined it was cranking its stereo up as loud as possible to intentionally be a very rood roommate. He groaned. His muscles were sore, especially his stomach, and he smelled like…

He smelled like garbage.

I should probably get out of the dumpster, he reasoned. But moving seemed like a foreign task at the moment. Even considering where he was, he was still reluctant to sit up, let alone climb out of the dumpster. He was caught between his revulsion for where he was and the disinclination of movement. When he heard a squeak somewhere near his feet and felt something scaly slither across the skin of his ankle, he decided movement was best.

His hands gripped the edge of the dumpster and he hoisted himself up. His headache began furiously pounding on the walls of his skull, obviously annoyed that Greg had decided to move. But he tried to ignore it by gritting his teeth and swinging his sore leg over the side before dropping to the ground with a splash.

Splash?

"Aw, man!" Greg moaned as he looked down to see that he had just leapt into vomit. And judging by the stale taste in his mouth, it was probably his own. He felt absolutely worse than disgusting. He reached into his pocket in search of a phone and found nothing there. Growling, he glanced over into the dumpster to see if anything had fallen out there. It wasn't on the surface, and Greg wasn't in the mood to go dumpster diving when he wasn't on the clock.

So instead, he resolved himself to take a cab and reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

It was absent.

He tried to recall what events had led him to this place and then it suddenly occurred to him. Camellia.

"Fuck me!" Greg exclaimed, letting his head fall back on his shoulders. He knew she must have slipped him something, and then led him out here to mug him. Which would explain why his gut was sore. He groaned again as his headache decided to dance around his skull, first jumping on one part of his brain then another.

Now what? he wondered, gaping at the sky. He needed to get home. He needed a shower. He needed to get the repugnant stench of sour milk and sulfuric eggs off of him. The hair on his arms began to prickle and he felt a strange burning sensation on his skin. He wondered half-interestedly if there was any toxic waste in that dumpster.

He shuddered and tried to shake off the acidic sensation as he walked out of the alley and towards the parking lot of the club he had gone to the night before, scanning it for his car, only to find it missing. "This is just great," he grumbled with a roll of his eyes, and strode back into the alley.

He noticed the back door to the club and wondered if someone inside would be a good Samaritan and lend him money for a cab. He pushed the door open and found himself in a stairwell leading to another door and moved towards it, pulling it open. As he walked, he tried to stretch out his stiff and lethargic muscles. He was in the main room now, which was completely empty and all the lights were on. No black lights, no roaring music, no enthusiastic dancers. It felt so much smaller without all the people cluttering up the space, and Greg was mildly surprised.

He noticed a busboy cleaning off the counter of the bar, who looked up upon his entrance. "I'm sorry, sir, but we're closed."

"Is Lyle around?" Greg asked, ignoring the boy's statement.

"Um..." He seemed conflicted. "Do you know each other?"

"Where is he?"

"In back..." the boy said slowly. "Do you want me to go—"

"That would be swell," Greg interrupted, forcing a smile. This boy seemed to be a sycophantic peon who wasn't sure who he wanted to please. But he nodded rapidly at Greg's assertive demand and moved away from the bar and into another room. Greg heard muffled sounds for a moment, and then the door flew open and Lyle stepped in, his figure imposing as he looked around for his visitor.

"Who—oh shit," Lyle muttered, rolling his eyes as he saw Greg. He shook his head. "I knew I should have warned you. What did she do to you?"

"You mean you know her?" Greg seemed appalled.

"Cam is a regular and each time she comes she leaves with a different guy who I never see in here again. I just figured she was a heartbreaker, but you look like you got the shit beat out of you." He pulled out a bar stool and sat down. "So what happened?"

"I don't know... Could I just get money for a cab? She stole my wallet."

"Damn!" But Lyle couldn't help but toss his head back in a loud guffaw. "You got played!"

"Yeah, yeah. Money?"

Lyle pulled out his wallet. "How much do you need?"

"You should do something about her, you know," said Greg. "She drugged me."

Lyle looked up. "She did?"

"Yeah."

"With what?"

"Dunno."

"Huh..." Lyle muttered, flipping through his wallet. "Will a twenty do it?"

"Sure," Greg said. He was in no position to ask for more. He and Lyle weren't exactly friends, just old acquaintances.

"Here," said Lyle, handing him the bill.

Greg frowned. "You don't seem too concerned about the drug thing."

Lyle smiled wickedly at Greg. "It's a club. Drugs happen here a lot. Nothing I can do about it, I'm just the bartender."

"You know, your institution can get shut down if there's too much drug traffic."

"Again, not my problem," said Lyle. "I'm just the bartender."

There was something suspicious about his smile. "What do you have going on here, man?"

"This place? Nothing. Just a nightclub."

"Then why do you look so smug?" Greg probed.

"Let's just say I know a lot of people who come in here," said Lyle. "And they like to give me a little something extra as a tip."

Greg scanned his arms for tract marks, his hands for nicotine stains, and his eyes for prominent veins, but found nothing. For a moment, he wondered if he would eventually have to ask until Lyle sniffed and all became clear. "You have a cold, Lyle?"

He wiped at his nose. "Nope."

"I see..." His opinion of his old brawny acquaintance dropped a level. "You're going to kill yourself, you know."

"I don't do it on the job," said Lyle. "Don't bother anyone else but myself. So keep the judging to yourself."

"Whatever..." Greg muttered, turning around to leave. He had seen firsthand the effects drugs could have on a person, and it wasn't just the drugs themselves. People had been killed over drug squabbles and money. As far as he was concerned, it was poison.

"How was the trip?" Lyle asked as Greg reached the door.

He tried to remember. "Shitty," he replied, though in truth he had no memory. "Get off the crack, Lyle."

"Thanks for the PSA!" Lyle called bitterly after Greg slammed the door.