so i wrote this today actually. idk where the idea came from i guess i'm just in that kinda mood. but anyways. the title is latin for "touch me not" and this is a two part story. the next part will be up soon, as soon as i finish writing it :)

DISCLAIMER: i don't own any of the characters.

tell me what you think :)

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Noli Me Tangere Part 1

There's a tiny drip in the corner that's wearing on his nerves. It's slow, loud, and annoying. How long it's been going, he doesn't know. If he could get up and stop the drip then he would. But handcuffs tend to keep a person in place whether they like it or not.

He groans as the drip seems to grow louder. His head is already pounding with a headache and he can feel a lump just on the underside of his left ear. Probably from where he got struck down. Something splits when he turns to find the source of the dripping. Dried blood he figures; he did get hit pretty hard.

He jerks his wrists, the metal of his own handcuffs clinking against the pipes he's hooked to. That's the….tenth time he's tried to break the pipes but they're staying solid and not moving. He doesn't even think there's a dent.

"Ugh!" he huffs and tries one more time out of frustration. He can't believe he got himself into this situation. It was just a simple B&E, nothing to it. Not for him, though. He's always getting into things like this. Something that's routine and easy turns into something dangerous and hard for him. Always has, probably always will.

A door creaks somewhere to his right. He jerks his head around to try and get a good look but he sees nothing but the sliver of moonlight shining through a broken window a few feet away. He strains to listen and hears heavy footsteps, heavy breathing, and something heavy dragging across the filthy floor. His heartbeat quickens at the idea of what could be dragging across the floor.

"Here's ya some company," a voice rasps and whatever was being dragged is thrown onto the floor next to him. He flinches when the scent of decaying flesh attacks his nose.

"Who are you and what do you want?" He tries for forceful, angry, but it comes out weak and pathetic.

"We'll not go there. After all, I am the one calling the shots here. So ya better shut up." A cough follows then the heavy footsteps are leaving. He lets out a breath he wasn't aware of holding.

That's when the tears start.

***

"Has anybody seen Greg?"

Nick glances up to see Riley standing at the door to the break room. He shakes his head before throwing away his Styrofoam cup and heading for the door. She steps out of the way to let him pass, then follows him down the hallway.

"I was just curious because he had a B&E yesterday afternoon then he was off but he hasn't called in sick or anything. I'm worried." She rambles on while Nick flips through a folder handed to him by a lab tech.

"Riley, I'm sure he's fine. He's probably still sleeping. Give him another hour. Then you can start worrying." Nick chuckles, pats her shoulder, and leaves her standing dumbfounded in the hallway.

She turns on her heel, a nagging feeling tugging at the back of her mind. Something's not right and she knows it.

***

This time when he wakes from unconsciousness his clothes are covered in blood, and sweat and tears are mingling on his cheeks and neck. He groans, head falling back against the pipe. His head is pounding and the dripping is louder, more annoying.

"Finally awake I see."

Greg forces his eyes open and they blearily focus on the male figure leaning against the wall across the room. The knife in his hand is glistening with fresh blood, the tip dripping with the stuff. Greg can detect a faint coppery scent and it makes his stomach churn. He forces the bile down, afraid it'll hurt too much to vomit now.

Instead he focuses on the shaft of moonlight. It's bright and glowing on a puddle on the floor. He can see the reflection of the room and wishes he had listened when he was told to wait for backup when he found the trail of blood.

Something so simple had gotten him handcuffed and bleeding. A simple breaking and entering at a gas station in the middle of nowhere. One injured store owner, trash littering the place, and an unseen trail of blood; unseen by normal eyes. But his eyes are trained to find the evidence. And he found the dark red drops almost instantaneously when he walked out the back door of the storage room. They were leading away from the place. Along with blood drops were drag marks, like someone had been dragged away by the armpits. He figured if he followed the drops they would lead him to more evidence; possibly even a body. But he wasn't expecting to be taken from behind.

He remembers a heavy object coming down on his head and he remembers someone taking his handcuffs from him. He remembers being dragged across the desert sand, his eyes unfocused and his blood pounding out the beat to the tango in his skull. He remembers being dropped to a floor, where he was cuffed to a pipe of some sorts and left for whatever the sick person had in mind.

That was yesterday. It's been over twenty-four hours since he's been gone and he's not even sure anymore if anyone's noticed that he's not at work because he's been kidnapped, not sleeping in.

"They won't find you. You're in an abandoned shack in the middle of the desert. If they even decide to come looking for you, it'll take them days. You'll be dead by then. You'll be left out for the vultures and the coyotes."

Greg groans when a particularly painful twinge in his side makes him want to puke. He can feel the blood soaking through his shirt, seeping down his side. He wants to look but at the same time he's grateful for the lack of light where he's at. "Why me? What did I do?"

"You interrupted!" Suddenly the man is right in Greg's face, the knife held high at his side. "I was coming back to take care of the owner and get the rest of the money, but you CSI's gotta take over everything! It was all planned. Take the small stores first, then move on to the bigger ones. This was our last small store. We were gonna move closer to the city next. But now I have a problem to take care of."

"Who's we?" Greg wonders. He wants to get the guy's attention off the knife and onto him.

Grey eyes crinkle around the corners with humorless laughter. The knife clatters to the ground and Greg gasps when a hand wraps around his throat. He struggles, kicking out but missing the target. "You don't need to know that."

"Mavis, let the poor boy go."

This voice isn't raspy and low like the guy's. It's soft and motherly like but with a tinge of something dark behind it. She whacks the guy with a stick and he yelps, letting go of Greg at the same time.

Greg breathes in deeply. "They'll find me. Then they'll get you sick bi-"

His words are cut off with a sharp slap to the face. "Now, now hun. No need for that language." The woman is smiling and patting his cheek. He closes his eyes against the sting in his cheek and she backs off. "Mavis, I thought you were gonna take care of him?"

"Mary, shut up. I've got this. You just go back to the truck," he snaps. Mary scoffs but shuffles out anyway.

Greg wants to laugh at the Beverly Hills vibe to this, except for the part where he's cuffed and injured and in the middle of the desert. His side twinges painfully and he cries out. Mavis crouches in front of him, grinning devilishly. Greg sees the knife is back in the guy's hand and his widen in panic.

"Just let me go. I won't tell anyone. I promise!" He pleads and begs but it's not use. Mavis just laughs and draws the edge of the knife across Greg's neck, right at the pulse point. A thin line of blood seeps out of the cut. Greg hisses at the sting and jerks at his bindings another time. His pulse races, though, when the metal of the blade touches down on the hollow of his throat, below the Adam's apple.

"Please, let me go."

Mavis laughs as Greg screams again.

***

Riley's pacing back and forth, cell to her ear. It's ringing and has been for the past minute. She can't get anyone to believe her when she tells them something is wrong.

"Riley, calm down." Nick takes the phone from her trembling hands and ends the call. She takes to biting her nails and continues to pace.

"I'm telling you something's up with Greg. He won't answer his cell or landline and no one has heard from him since he left here to go to the crime scene yesterday afternoon. What if something bad has happened?"

Nick grabs her by the shoulders to stop her from moving around so much. "Look, if it makes you feel better we'll take the Denali and go out there. Huh?"

Riley sighs and lets Nick lead her out of the room. He chuckles at her anxiousness but he can't help but worry also. He's had this nagging feeling that something is up with Greg. Usually someone would've heard from him by now.

He can only hope everything's fine.

***

Another scream and another cut.

By now Greg's shirt is completely gone, torn to shreds from the knife. He's barely hanging on and the pain is driving him insane.

"Too much screaming. Need to do something about that." Mavis takes the knife and slices through the belt at Greg's waist. Greg flinches, and the belt is suddenly shoved into his mouth and tied around his head.

Greg closes his eyes, waits for the next cut to happen. When it doesn't happen he silently sighs in relief. But then Mary's voice cuts through the second of silence.

"Mavis, hurry up will ya?! It's gonna be daylight soon and we don't want nobody seeing us here with that boy."

"Mary, shut up! I'll be there in a minute." Mavis flashes angry eyes at Mary, then turns back to Greg. He smirks, raises the knife, and brings it down.

Greg pulls taut against the handcuffs, screams as hard as he can against the belt in his mouth. Tears pool at the corners of his eyes at the pain of the knife embedded into his right shoulder. Every muscle in his body tenses and he can feel every nerve ending catch on fire.

Mavis pats Greg on the cheek, then follows Mary out the door, leaving Greg for dead. He doesn't even take a glance back. The door slams shut and, faintly, Greg can hear a truck engine start.

He feels the blood seeping down his arm, hears it dripping onto the floor. What did he do to deserve this? The explosion, the beating, now being kidnapped and left for dead. He was just doing his job. Something simple turned these past few hours of his life into a living hell and he can't take it back. He knew he should've listened when he was told to wait for backup. They told him that the guy could still be out there; they told him loud and clear. He just didn't listen.

Now he's sagged against a pipe, sitting on a dirty floor with blood seeping from cuts and other wounds. The belt in his mouth keeps him from screaming, but he doesn't think he can anymore; his voice is too hoarse, his throat too sore.

With one final gust of air he lets out a scream that he hopes someone will hear.