Author's Note: This is a sequel to Quitting The Scene. I wasn't planning to continue this, but some people asked me to, and I felt obliged. Hope this lives us to your expectations.

These changes ain't changing me.
The bold-hearted boy I used to be.

Greg sat down on the bench and leaned his forehead against his locker. He fiddled with his phone. There it was: Robbie's number in New York. Dick had given it to him expecting him to call. Even Greg had expected himself to call. But now, he wondered... should he? Could he?

Surely, there had been something between them? Something more than stolen kisses, and stolen sex and stolen pills? Or had it just been time that allowed him to made something out of nothing?

Nick came into the locker room, and Greg let himself be distracted by the strong jaw, strong eyes.

"What up, G?" Nick asked, head buried in his locker.

Greg sighed, looking back at his phone. His finger hovered over the call button. "I was just going to make a call, but..."

But what right did he have to make that call? Robbie was married. And only two things could come out of calling your married ex: a broken marriage, or pity. Fucking pity.

Was he pitied? Robbie was married, and what did he have? He studied Nick again. Strong jaw, strong eyes... strong heart.

What did he have?

Was he pitied? For this?

"But?" Nick watched him now, with inquisitive eyes and an arched brow. Greg watched him back.

"But I don't think it's a good idea," Greg said plainly, standing up and slipping his phone into his back pocket. There: out of sight and out of mind. Or so he hoped.

Nick's expression changed from curiosity to concern. His eyebrows lowered into a frown, and he jerked his head slightly to the side. A question.

But Greg just shook his head, the movement equally imperceptible. He didn't want to explain, not today.

"How'd your case wrap up?" Nick asked closing his locker and leaning against it.

"Uh... It had nothing to do with the drugs," Greg blurted out. He blushed, but Nick didn't seem to notice. "Honestly, that was a relief."

Nick didn't ask why, and Greg didn't think he had ever felt so grateful for this man.

"It was assisted suicide. The kid's grades dropped. His girlfriend broke up with him. He started having fights with his friends. He befriended some depressed chick, and she offered to off him."

"Wow," Nick looked shocked. "And you think this had nothing to do with drugs?"

Greg said nothing, suddenly apprehensive, suddenly scared.

"His academic performance dropped, he felt isolated from his friends. Doing drugs can make you feel alone."

Alone. Greg felt something harden inside of him. What did Nick know anyway, about how drugs can make you feel? What did he know about that rush? Sweaty, pulsing, terrifying lights and sounds and waves of feeling. Knowing that every wide-eyed fool around you was feeling the same elation. What did Nick know about how it felt to take someone's sweaty palm in your own, and feel them inside of you? What did he know about that unity, that shared feeling? Knowing that, with this sweet hand in yours, you can do anything, go anywhere, be anyone. Be everyone. What did Nick know about how it felt to be everyone at once? Where did he get off saying that drugs make you feel alone?

That was the difference between Nick and Robbie. Robbie and Greg shared that connection. Robbie knew what it felt like. Robbie and he had history together. He had to call.

"Greg? You okay, man?" Nick said softly, and Greg felt something soften in him. He looked at Nick and smiled. Well, if Robbie and he had history, then Nick and he had this, had the present. They had every change that Greg had faced in the last thirteen years, and oh God, there had been so many. Yes, Nick didn't understand, but Greg didn't need him to; didn't want him to have to.

"I'm fine. Great." Greg smiled reassuringly. "Just a little tired."

Nick took a step closer and fingered the side the of Greg's wrist. He murmured: "Well, we're both off shift. We've got some time on our hands."

Greg nodded, but didn't reply. He swallowed. Nick. Nick, here. Nick, present. He wrapped his fingers around Nick's wrist, then pulled away.

Nick.

"Greg?" Nick drew out the word slowly, and Greg knew he could see through right through him. Nick grasped Greg's wrist tightly, in defiance of Greg attempt to withdraw from him. When Greg didn't pull away, his grip loosened. Feeling reassured, his words softened too, and he cooed gently, "It's okay, man. It's okay."

"What's okay?" Greg turned to him, his gaze intense and defiant.

"This," Nick pushed Greg's hair off his forehead, pressing his palm there for a moment, to calm Greg down. "What happened today, Greg?"

Greg was quiet for a moment. He felt bad for being short with Nick, especially since he had no reason to be. Eventually, he sighed and said honestly, "Nothing. I don't know." He stared at Nick for a long, dull moment, then said blankly, and wihtout conviction. "Today was a good day. I met a couple of old friends at the club. It was... uh... it was nice to see them again."

"Okay," Nick said, voice deadpan. Greg winced; he was disappointed that Greg wouldn't confide in him. If only Nick knew that he didn't even know what was bothering him, let alone how he would tell Nick about it.

After all, how could he explain the feeling to himself, let alone to Nick? The extent of this acute disappointment in himself was like nothing he had ever felt before. He had done it: he had pulled himself out of a lifestyle—hell, forget lifestyle; a whole world—with no motivation other than what he gave himself. He had done it alone, and he had built a whole new world around himself.

So how could he admit to this man, to Nick, a part of the elaborate world he had set up around himself, that he was suddenly discovering that he had left a piece of him behind in his old life? That, after everything he had done, after everything he had achieved, he missed it? He still missed it.

So what was this life then, his life at the lab, his friends, his family? Was it all a lie? He had convinced himself, so long ago, that this was the right thing for him, that this was what he wanted, and now, his chest burned with longing for what he had left behind. Who he had left behind.

The part of himself that he had left behind.

He couldn't say that to Nick. He couldn't possibly reveal himself like that.

"Umm..." he looked at the floor, hating the disapproval he saw in Nick's eyes. "I promised I'd visit the club soon. Thought I'd drop in on my night off."

He looked at Nick. He looked away.

He wanted to say sorry.

"What day are you off?"

"Friday."

A ghost of a smile crossed Nick's face. Greg's heart lightened. "Me too," Nick said. "Maybe I could come with?"

It was a tentative request, but for Greg, it felt more like acceptance. He couldn't help but smile.

"You'd really do that?" Greg placed his palm on Nick's chest.

Nick smiled with his eyes. "If you want me to."

Greg heart surged with affection. But he hesitated. He appreciated Nick attempt to understand his past, but he found himself wondering, did he really want Nick to? He tried to imagine Nick's reaction to the club, to his friends. Shame coursed through him, and alarmed him. Is that how Nick would feel, ashamed of him? Concerned?

He didn't want that. He wanted to say, that's okay Nick, you don't need to know that part of me. More so, he wanted to be able to say that it wasn't a part of him. Not anymore.

Except that it was.

Before he could reply, Russell stopped in the doorway. Greg pulled away from Nick hurriedly, stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets. He felt relieved that he had no time to say anything more to Nick. Then he felt ashamed.

"Greg," Russell said. "I need you in Brass' office."

Greg raised his eyebrows in surprise. "What for?"

"Ian Smith's parents are here from LA," Russell's voice softened, "They're a little confused as to what happened. I thought you might be able to answer some of their questions."

Greg frowned in bewilderment. He wanted to ask why Russell would think that, but all of a sudden he knew exactly why. His throat dried up. He couldn't ask; he couldn't bear to hear Russell's answer.

"I don't think I can help them," he forced out. It was the truth, but that wasn't the only reason he was reluctant to speak to the victim's parents.

"Well, I think you'd have to meet them to know for sure."

Greg closed his eyes, feeling stupid. Russell was speaking to him as though to a child, and yet his voice held a hint of mockery that Greg couldn't ignore.

"I'm off shift," Greg blurted out. Anything to get him out of this.

Russell raised his eyebrow, and cocked his head to the side. Greg blushed, feeling even more childish. Now, Nick too glanced at him worriedly. They could see through him; they knew he was just making excuses. But he couldn't stop. Couldn't give in. Any amount of embarrassment was better than having to face Ian's parents.

A part of him felt responsible for what had happened to their son. He knew he was thinking irrationally, but he still felt like he had a hand in this somehow. Ian had gone to the same club as he had. Tipped the same bartender. Dick said he was a good kid; they were probably friends.

So how come Greg had ended up okay, and Ian was dead?

The thought threatened to overcome him. He couldn't do this. He had to get out of this. "It's not my job," he said weakly, as a last attempt to deter Russell from his request. "It's not my job to speak to the victims' families."

Russell frowned, his gaze turned steely. "Greg, I'm met very few good CSIs who have said that to me." Shame rose in Greg like nausea. He dared a glance at Nick, but the older man stared at the ground, as though he too was embarrassed for Greg.

"And it hasn't taken me very long to lose respect for the CSIs who have," Russell continued. Greg closed his eyes; he couldn't stand this. "Your job, technically speaking, to collect and process evidence, and then to put the evidence together to reach a verdict. But if you came here everyday, and did just your job, you wouldn't solve half the cases you do. When you commit yourself to this, Greg, to getting closure for victims and their families, then you can't turn around and say it's not your job. Everything is your job."

Greg stared at Russell for a long moment. His ears burnt in humiliation. "Okay," he swallowed, searched for his voice. "Okay, I'm coming."

He followed Russell out of the locker room, his head bowed. He couldn't look at Nick.

Outside Brass' office, Russell stopped Greg with a hand on his back. "Greg?"

Greg stared at the floor. When Russell didn't continue, he spoke softly. "All I can give them," he swallowed. "Is a reminder of what their son could have been if he'd toughed it out and made the right choices." he looked up at Russell finally. "That's not closure."

"Greg, they think it's their fault."

"Well, maybe it is," Greg muttered. His voice gained more conviction as he continued. "Russell, I had it easy. If you saw the kind of people that I have, people worse off than even Ian, then you'd know that it was easy for me to get out of the scene. It wasn't heroic; it was easy. I had a family to fall back on. I didn't, but I could have. I had a university education, and a job at the second best crime lab in the country. I had it so easy. Ian's parents don't need to know that. They don't need to know that they only people who can get out of the scene are the ones who didn't have enough reason to get into it in the first place. If Ian was screwed, he was screwed from the start. And they probably had a hand in that."

Greg took a deep breath, tried to calm himself down. "That's all I can say to them, Russell. And I don't want to."

Russell sighed. "Give yourself some credit. You got out when you could. Just because Ian didn't, you shouldn't feel bad that you did."

But Greg shook his head. "It wasn't all bad. But in the rest of my life, in the real world, I had it better. Ian didn't. That's why he couldn't t get out. He had nothing better waiting for him. And that wasn't up to him. Or to me. That was just... the cards that were dealt to us."

Greg bit his lip, and looked away. He grimaced, feeling vulnerable, naked. Like everyone walking through the hallways knew what he was thinking.

"Okay," Russell nodded, and smiled. He patted Greg's arm, and said cheerfully. "Okay, fate or no fate, you're here. You made it. That's what's important."

Greg smiled faintly, soothed by Russell's effective, albeit simple words. He ducked his head, and shuffled his feet. A dull ache throbbed in his chest.

"What is it, Greg?" he looked up to see Russell with his hand on Brass' door. Russell's question held an air of patience that put Greg at ease. Despite himself, he replied to Russell in earnest.

"I miss it," he murmured. "And I feel like such an... ingrate. I've got this wonderful life, and I still miss the club, the drugs, my friends."

Russell nodded seriously. He took a step closer to Greg and put his hand on his shoulder. "There's nothing wrong with that. You go back, you visit... Just make sure you come back to us."

Greg opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. He sighed in frustration. "How?"

Russell frowned at a spot over Greg's shoulder, thinking. Then he said. "Well, take a look around. Would you choose the clubs over this?"

Greg did look around. The great, open spaces of the lab—the glass walls giving it the illusion of free, empty space. Sara and Mandy in the print lab; Hodges bothering Morgan. And there, emerging from the locker room, sans jacket and messenger bag, was Nick. Nick turning in the direction of the break room instead of the parking lot. Nick waiting for him.

Greg smiled at Russell. "No. Not for anything."

He made to enter Brass' office, but Russell stopped him with a hand on his elbow.

"Greg, sometimes you've got to be a little spiritual about these things. Maybe you were given the easy way out because somewhere, someone knew that you were needed here. That the lab needed you, your friends needed you, the victims did, their families."

Greg said nothing. Did the lab truly need him? Or was it just him who needed the lab? His friends? His cases? Did he just need it all to keep him going?

In the doorway to Brass' office, he hesitated again. What could he say?

"They don't need you to perform a miracle," Russell said softly behind him. "They don't need you to tell them that their son's still alive, that he never did drugs, or never made any bad choices. They just need to understand why he did what he did. You said the clubbing scene wasn't all bad. Tell them that. Tell them the good."

Greg nodded. He took a deep breath and steeled himself.

"Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Smith," he took in the tears, the confusion, the anger. He tried to imagine his own parents having to sit in a police office and hear this. Oh god. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Greg took a seat next to the Smiths. He took a deep breath, how could he explain to these people how it felt? The soul-splitting music, the soul-uniting drugs? How could he speak of the gentleness of those clubs, those friendships, that no one seemed to understand? How could he explain the clarity of those moments? The beauty that one discovered not only in the things around them, but also in themselves?

He clasped Mrs. Smith's hand in both of his. The earnest in her eyes, her willingness to understand, touched something inside of him.

Was it enough to say to these grieving parents, no, your son wasn't crazy? He wasn't self-destructive. He just cherished beauty, and he found it. No matter how ugly he may have looked when he died in his dorm room: grey, cold and empty, he still found a beauty within himself, that, if no one else, at least he could see.

Could they understand that? Could that console them?

He tightened his grip on Mrs. Smith's hand. His throat constricted.

Was it enough, to leave this room, to track down Nick and say to him: I left it all behind. I gave it all up. I gave up a beauty that I had never felt before. A beauty with such strength that I cannot even begin to explain it to myself, let alone to you. I gave it all up for nothing. And, sometimes, I think that is the worst mistake I have ever made.

But now, and only now, years later, am I beginning to slowly discover that beauty again.

Only now, years later, am I beginning to slowly discover you.