Homecomings
By: clio21000
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my money.
Summary: The six members of the team come home, each in different ways and to different welcomes. Post-GD, post-BIM; GSR, CW, NG.
Catherine dropped her glasses on the tabletop and passed a hand over her eyes. The stupid things made her feel so old, though not as old as squinting at the computer screen would have. A chuckle in the hall made her glance up, and she watched as Nick and Warrick passed by the windows of her office.
"Seriously man, let me take you out. You cheated us out of having a bachelor's party – let me at least buy you a couple of beers." Nick's voice was jovial, but there was no hiding an undercurrent of tension. Tension because Warrick was trying to wiggle out of having drinks with him? Or because he had gotten married without telling anyone in what was supposed to be his adopted family? "We can take Greggo along. Maybe Sar, and ask Gris and Brass and Cat."
You sound desperate, Nicky, Catherine thought, shaking her head a bit. Unbidden, a snippet of an old conversation came back to her. She'd told Grissom once upon a time that the nightshift was building a family around him, but perhaps that was wrong. Grissom had never noticed the bonds being formed between the members of his team, and neither had he noticed their little family ripping itself apart in the last year. In reality, it might have been more accurate to say that the nightshift was building a family around Nicky; he looked up to Grissom and Catherine as if they were parents, made himself into a brother-figure for Greg, and Sara, and Warrick. It must be tearing him up inside to see his family fragmenting.
Warrick, to his credit, merely chuckled. "Gee, anyone else?"
Nick laughed a bit, too. "Doc Robbins. David. Archie. Hodges. Bobby, Jacqui, Ronnie. Vega, O'Reilly, Vartann. Hell, Ecklie, Sofia, that new DNA tech, and Judy the receptionist for all I care."
They were nearly out of earshot, and Catherine strained to hear the end of the conversation. At least her ears were standing up to age better than her eyes were.
"All right," Warrick agreed. "Just a couple of drinks, though. Not too long. No strippers, and no inviting everyone on payroll."
"Sure," Nick agreed amiably. "Who?"
"Just the guys," Warrick said.
"Right. You, me, Greg, and Sara." They began to toss around ideas for a bar to go to, and their voices faded away.
It stung. Catherine didn't want to admit it, but it was true. Sara was counted as one of the guys, but she wasn't? What qualifications did Sara have that she didn't? Maybe it's her drinking experience, a nasty little voice in Catherine's head sniped. She allowed herself a short revel in the fact that while she had done a lot of dumb stuff over the years, at least she'd never gotten a DUI, then squelched the snide thoughts.
They simply didn't want her along, she admitted. Just like Warrick hadn't wanted her.
Sighing, she stood, fumbled for the power button on her computer without taking the time to go through the appropriate shut down commands, grabbed her keys. She yanked the ID badge off her suit jacket lapel before she even made it through the door to the locker room. Her purse over her shoulder, she was on her way out to her Denali not thirty seconds later.
The house was still quiet when she let herself in, and for a moment she panicked. Her mother should have had Lindsey up and on her way out the door for school by now. If Catherine left work at 8:00 like she was supposed to, she usually was in time to kiss Lindsey as she ran for her grandmother's minivan. Of course, she rarely left work when she was supposed to, so she rarely got to kiss Lindsey good-bye in the mornings. That left their afternoons – assuming Lindsey had no after school activities to attend or friends to go out with or homework to attend to, which was also rare – for mother and daughter to see each other and catch up.
After a few seconds of panic, Catherine remembered – it was Saturday. She dropped her purse and keys on the floor by the door, headed straight for the liquor cabinet, and made herself a screwdriver so stiff it could have stood on its own without the glass. She shed her suit jacket and made her way to Lindsey's room, drink in hand.
Then she just stood, watching Lindsey breathe slowly and evenly. Her body was long and lithe under the sheet - when had Lindsey gotten so tall? She got poise and grace from her mother, natural athletic ability from her father, and now it looked like she was going to be tall – she was going to be a killer long-distance runner, or maybe a basketball player. Catherine wondered idly if Lindsey might like to sign up for some teams for winter sports at school. She smiled to herself. If nothing else, Linds would give Warrick a run for his money next time he came over to hang out with them and challenged her to driveway basketball.
Tears threatened. Oh yeah – Warrick was unlikely to be coming over to hang out with the two of them again anytime soon. Maybe he wouldn't ever again. The idea was terrifying. More than anything else, she'd wanted to just ask him one question all night. It burned inside her now, eating at her. In one quick gulp, she downed the rest of her morning cocktail, hoping to drown the question. Then she set the glass on the floor, shimmied out of her polyester dress slacks, and slid into the tiny twin bed with Lindsey. Lindsey curled into her automatically, sleepily blinking. "Mom?" she breathed.
Catherine kissed the top of her daughter's cornsilk hair. "Yeah, baby. It's me."
"You okay?"
Catherine suppressed a shudder. "Mm-hm. Yup, just got a little lonely and needed to see my girl."
Lindsey patted her shoulder gently, her eyes already closed again. The bed was warm, and Catherine let her own eyes drift closed as she sank into that warmth, where she didn't have to think or feel or mourn opportunities lost.
- - -
Sara clinked the bottom of her beer bottle against the boys' and tried to smile.
"To the first among us – and probably the only – to bite the bullet and take the plunge," Greg said.
"Hey," Warrick protested, though Sara got the impression the protest was just for show. "You guys'll get your turns too, I'm sure."
Nick and Greg glanced at each other, then at Sara, with the tiniest of smiles on their faces. She resisted rolling her eyes and tried to think of a safe topic – one that wouldn't make her think too much about everything her life was lacking.
"No, I'm serious," Warrick continued. "Here's what you just gotta do. Greggo: Stop lusting after Sara. She's not into you, so you're probably just wasting time. Find someone else to lust after. You've got your youth still – use it!"
Sara raised her eyebrows. "Nicky, exactly how many beers did he have before Greg and I got here?" she whispered.
Nick bit his lip. "Four or five. Six?"
"Nick!" She tried to remember how many he'd had since she'd arrived; he had to be pushing nine or ten beers.
He had the grace to look ashamed. "I know. I tried to slow him down, but he got one or two in him and was suddenly all gung ho to get trashed." He lowered his voice even more. "I don't think he's as happy about this whole marriage thing as he's playing like he is."
"Nicky! Stop whispering with Sara – she's not going to go for you either – and listen up to my advice: Pimping don't do no good."
Greg snorted back laughter, and Sara nearly joined him. Nick looked vaguely horrified.
"Uh, you want to clarify that, bro?" Nick said.
"Close the revolving door. Stop with the new girl each week routine – I've been there, trust me, it doesn't work." Warrick took a slug of his beer. "Find a nice girl and let her on in." He sipped again. "Then, what the hell, marry her!"
"Oh boy," Sara sighed. "How are we going to get him home?"
Nick glanced at Greg, then offered, "His condo's not too far out of my way. I can swing by on my way home."
She nodded. "Thanks." She pretended to stretch, yawned. "Wow, I sure am beat. Aren't you guys? I think it's time to head home."
"Sit down, girl," Warrick said commandingly, pointing a finger at her. She decided not to point out that she hadn't yet stood, and merely raised a brow at him. "I haven't told you what you need to do yet," he said.
She remained as she was, one brow raised.
"You, Sara Sidle," he intoned, "Need to get over it." He paused to finish the last dregs of the bottle he'd been working on. "You know, I didn't like you when you first got here. I thought you were out to crucify me."
She flushed. She had been out to crucify him, and merely out of jealousy. He was Grissom's favorite, a position she'd always thought she'd held, and she was sure that he was abusing Grissom's faith in him. It had worn off when she'd gotten to know him better.
Of course, the fact that after a few months she'd established a much higher solve rate than his hadn't hurt either.
"Then I got to know you," Warrick continued, echoing her thoughts. "And damn if I didn't end up liking you."
She smiled slightly. She'd ended up liking him, too. With Catherine, there was always conflict, would always be conflict. Nick and Greg had accepted her unquestioningly from the beginning, and Grissom, of course, was a completely different matter altogether. But with Warrick, she knew she had earned every inch of respect he gave her.
"You were so alive, so bubbly, so full of laughter and life," he said wonderingly. "Where'd it all go?" She dropped the smile, dropped her eyes. "I don't know what or who happened, but you need to forget it. I miss you, Sara."
The mood at the small bar table was suddenly thick with tension and sorrow. Warrick gazed at her with a remarkably clear gaze, considering how drunk he was. Greg looked sorrowful and regretful, Nick as though he were fuming.
Figures, Sara thought. He knew. He knew what her life had been, what had driven her to crime scene work, even what had happened to her since coming to Vegas. It just figured that he'd get all riled up about it – Nicky always wanted to be someone's knight in armor.
She stood. "Well, Dr. Brown, thank you for that touching analysis. This concludes today's session, which makes it half past time to get you the hell home."
Nick stood too, pushing his anger down visibly. "Yeah, man. I bet that wife of yours is eager to see you."
"Tina," Warrick said firmly. He paused, considering, then nodded. "Yup, I'm almost positive her name's Tina."
"All right, Tina's eager to see you. So let's get you to her."
Greg and Sara helped guide Warrick into Nick's truck, then turned for their own vehicles, parked side by side across the lot. Greg walked Sara to hers, smiled at her, then turned for his own car.
"Hey Greg?" she said, and grabbed his arm lightly. He turned back, looking at her with wide, serious eyes. Such nice eyes, she thought, big and brown and kind, and not for the first time, she wished that she could have fallen in love with him.
"You know I love you, right?" she asked softly. "Contrary to all Madame Warrick's fortune telling in there?"
He smiled again, a little sadly, then reached over to hug her. She buried her face in his shoulder comfortably for a minute – sometimes she forgot, especially on days when she wore thick-soled or -heeled shoes, that he was actually a couple of inches taller than her – then took a deep breath and pulled away, turning to her car.
The ride back to her apartment was short, but still felt like it took too long. She didn't like being alone; it left too much time to think. Perhaps that was part of the reason she never minded working so much overtime; if she was in the lab, she was surrounded by people and noise and could just focus on the cases, the evidence.
Sometimes she could even forget him for minutes at a time.
She parked her Denali in the back lot of her apartment building. As she grabbed her mail, and made her way up to the second floor, she spent a few moments calculating how early she could come into work without maxing out on overtime too soon. She hung her purse and her keys carefully on the hooks by the door, kicked off her shoes, then took them back to her bedroom and set them on the floor of her closet. Heel to toe, she lined them up with the other rows of similar black shoes. She changed out of her work clothes immediately – they were starting to stick to her, and smelled unpleasantly of the bar she'd come from – pulling on loose pajama pants and a tank top. She shivered a little, and added a sweater jacket to her ensemble. Then she began to prepare for the night – or day, rather.
She flipped on the TV, choosing a documentary about Nevadan wildlife, and smiled a bit, thinking that if she learned anything about birds, she'd share it with Nicky. If she learned anything about insects, of course, she'd think about Grissom, and brood, and imagine sharing it with him, but never actually say anything.
She booted up her computer next and, blessing wireless Internet, settled on the couch with the laptop balanced on her knees. She shuffled through several e-mails from friends back home in California, wishing she had something more than death and loneliness and aching longing for a man who didn't love her to use in replying to their cheerful missives about babies and weddings and new recipes and carpools. Browsing the Internet for a while, she discovered that her favorite author had released a new novel, and ordered it immediately. She cocked her head to the side, considering. Should she spring for overnight shipping? What the hell – the book would get to her by noon tomorrow, which meant she could add it to her ever-changing pile of books that she kept on her nightstand to occupy herself while she was lying in bed and not sleeping. And it wasn't like she had anything else to spend her money on.
The documentary ended, and Sara flipped the TV off and her stereo system on. Bruce Springsteen's rough voice sang regretfully about glory days, and she laughed shortly, mirthlessly. "I think they're over, Boss." She glanced at the clock, then cranked the volume a bit. At a little past noon, there was no one in the building but her, no one to complain if she played her music too loudly. Belatedly she remembered it was Saturday, and turned the volume back down again.
At nearly 2:00, she reached for the phone and ordered cheese ravioli with vegetable marinara sauce from the delivery pasta shop a mile down her street. At 4:00 she washed her dishes and scoured the kitchen sink, then swept the kitchen floor. The bathroom followed at 4:30, and she attacked the living room with a duster at 5:00. When she had changed the sheets on her bed and sorted out a load of laundry to run to the laundromat tomorrow, she returned to her laptop. She checked her e-mail again, then read the online version of the day's headlines from the Times, the Post, and the local Vegas paper. In another lifetime, she would have followed that with doing the day's crossword puzzle, but crosswords made her think too much about a certain person she was trying not to think about, so instead, she headed for her bedroom, carrying her laptop with her. That way if she got bored with reading, she could always play a few dozen rounds of online games.
She settled into her bed and selected the top book from her bedside pile, prepared to lose herself in the story. Some time later, a thought made her pause and worry and she got up again to re-check the deadbolt and the chain on the door. When she returned to her cocoon in the blankets, she glanced at her alarm clock. 6:30. In four hours she could legitimately get up and begin to shower and dress to be at work by shift start at midnight. Pursing her lips, she calculated – if she arrived at the lab at 10:00, that would only be two hours of overtime, and only two and a half hours that she'd have to try to sleep.
She nodded, agreeing mentally to her plan, set her book to the side, and closed her eyes. The alertness in every limb, every muscle made her sigh and curse the other reason she didn't mind pulling so much overtime – insomnia was a bitch.
- - -
Greg watched Sara pull out of the bar lot, smiling a little. He knew that Sara meant her declaration of love in the most fraternal, non-romantic way possible, and it warmed him immensely. She was so sad these last months – last few years, really. He hadn't really understood it until he began to work in the field regularly and felt his humor, his liveliness, slowly draining away. Some days, when it had been a kid or a decomp or a particularly bloody scene, he forgot who he was. He couldn't even begin to remember the kid who had danced down the halls in a showgirl's headdress, who had played name-the-chemical-compound, who had flirted with Sara and Catherine and well, okay, everyone.
So he understood why Sara's attitude became more and more defeated every day, why her smile was so rare he could barely remember it and why she never sang in the lab anymore. But she didn't lose her edge, just stayed incredibly sharp and intelligent and perceptive, and the more he worked with her, the more he could admire her for that. They'd both gone to incredibly prestigious schools, both were more educated than anyone else on staff except Grissom, and since he'd guiltily hacked into her personnel file and peeked at her application, he knew that her GPA in college had been as high as his – down to a thousandth of a percent. He felt comfortable saying that he knew that he, Sara, and Grissom were easily the three most intelligent people in the building, book smarts-wise. He'd seen Sara and Grissom's solve rates, too, so he knew that the two of them weren't simply book smart, either. He hoped some day he'd earn a place next to them and could consider himself one of the three best CSIs in the building, as well.
Greg shifted his Jetta into high-gear, impatient to be home. He was getting melancholy – thinking about Sara often did that to him – and he really didn't want to brood this morning. Fiddling with the radio, he found his favorite punk station playing "London Calling," and began to sing along with the Clash.
Before he made it home, though, his thoughts had returned to Sara. She had begun to confide in him more and more since she had begun mentoring him, and it made his heart swell a bit. It had started with a hate crime case they had worked together five or six months ago. Three young men had been stabbed to death outside one of the less savory gay clubs off the Strip. As he stood watching Sara do a preliminary examination of the scene and Brass interview a witness, a voice had called out from the crowd gathered around on the other side of the yellow crime scene tape.
"Hey, fag."
Greg had ignored it on principle at first. But when the voice continued –
"Yeah, I'm talking to you, faggot."
He couldn't help it. He let his head swivel and stared at the man staring straight back at him.
"Faggot," the guy mouthed, then grinned evilly.
Greg turned his head away, trying not to flush. There was a sudden commotion behind him, and he felt something rip into his shoulder. The strange man was screaming in his ear about faggots and killing the damned and the wrath of God, and all Greg could feel was fire in his shoulder and what must have been the blade of a knife cold against the side of his neck. Then the weight of the man's body on his back was gone and Sara was on the ground next to him, putting pressure on his bleeding shoulder and screaming at the cops who were supposed to be watching the crowd and – my God – crying.
The paramedics patched him up, and while they were waiting to drive to the hospital to get him stitches, Sara had come to sit next to him on the gurney in the back of the otherwise empty ambulance.
"You okay?"
He nodded.
"Brass feels pretty confident that we have a suspect," Sara said. Her tone was joking but her eyes were serious, and he couldn't manage a smile.
"Sara," he whispered. "That guy – I don't know how he knew me, why he attacked me."
She looked at him calmly. "Okay."
The lie rankled, and he sighed. "Yes, I do. Sara…" his voice dropped off to a whisper again. "I'm gay."
She put one hand to his cheek. "I know, Greggo." She brushed the strands of hair off his sweaty, grimy forehead, then stood. "I'm going to stay and process, but I'll call someone to meet you at the hospital, okay?"
He stared at her. "That's it?
Now she did smile, and answered, "Why don't we go out for coffee or something tomorrow or the next day. We'll talk."
She left him sitting alone in the ambulance, wondering if she really knew or if she was just saying it to comfort him. But when he got to the hospital and saw who she had called to meet him, he was sure she did, and a real smile warmed his face despite the pain in his shoulder.
He'd gone out with her for coffee the next day, and told her about his childhood, and coming out to his parents, and how hard it was to stay in the closet with his friends. She'd opened up a bit too, and talked about her childhood and living in foster care and the disappointment that had been her life in Vegas. He knew that he still didn't know quite as much about her as Nicky did, but they'd become close. Where Nicky tried to be her big brother – though he usually seemed more like her twin – Greg slipped easily into the role of little brother.
He wondered what he could do to cheer her up a bit – even cheer himself up a bit – as he let himself into the house and puttered around with little chores, feeding the fish, sorting the mail, checking his e-mail, watering the plants. When the little house was all taken care of, he slipped out of all his clothes but his boxers and slid between the sheets. The cool blue light from the bedroom aquarium was soothing and he relaxed, let his tension and worry about Sara – and himself – go, and drifted off to sleep.
- - -
Nick sighed as he let himself into his house. Warrick had neglected to mention that in addition to a new wife he had a new house, and Nick had been in the parking lot of Warrick's old condo before he'd spoken up. The new house was on the other side of town – it would have been far easier for Sara to drop Warrick off, it turned out – which meant that he had to fight Strip traffic going and coming back. His muscles ached, and while he knew he should eat something, or work out, or at least check his e-mail, all he wanted to do was go to bed and forget about Warrick's hurried marriage, and the hurt look that had taken up residence in Catherine's eyes, and Sara's never-ending depression, and the way Greg was slowly becoming more and more serious, and the fact that Grissom didn't seem to notice any of it. So he shed his clothes, dumped everything down the laundry chute, and walked into the bedroom in nothing but his boxer briefs.
The sheets were cool when he slid between them, and he automatically spooned up against the body warming the other half of the bed. He kissed the smooth skin on the back of his lover's neck, ran his fingertips through soft hair, and draped his arm over a slim hip.
"What took so long?" Greg asked, rolling over to press his lips to Nick's.
"War forgot to tell me he moved until I got to his old condo," Nick said, rolling his eyes. "I didn't mean to wake you, babe."
Greg wiggled a bit, rolling their hips together. "You sure about that?" He pushed Nick onto his back and began to slowly kiss his way down his body.
Nick moaned softly. This had become a routine for them. Greg would slowly, precisely, kiss every scar the fire ants had left on his body, making love to each one thoroughly. When he was done, Nick would make him roll on to his stomach so that he could return the favor, slowly kissing each scar that wove across skin scored from the lab explosion.
It was an intense, incredible reminder of how many times they had each almost lost the other. The first had been when Nigel Crane had pushed him out a second-story window. He and Greg had only just started going out then, and he tried not to let the memories of their first kiss, their first frantic make-out session, their first gentle lovemaking, be sullied by the fact that Crane may have been watching.
The second time was when the lab had blown up, and Nick had rushed into the hall from Archie's AV lab to see the two people he needed most in Vegas lying motionless in the glass. He was slightly ashamed to say that he didn't even consider going to Sara's side. They were close as brother and sister; she was the only person he'd told about his babysitter, with the exception of the confession Catherine had dragged from him, of course. He was almost positive he was the only person she had ever told about the things her father had done to her, to her mother. They were survivors, held together by a bond that no one should have had, and yet all he could do was glance at her as he rushed straight to Greg.
Greg had moved in with him after the explosion. It was a good cover story, since neither of them was willing to risk being open about their relationship. So they just said that Greg needed help with changing bandages and the like, and that Nick still didn't feel comfortable living alone after his incident with the stalker. It was perfectly logical, even garnered them some sympathy, and if anyone wondered why it had been three years and Greg still hadn't moved out, no one asked. Sometimes Nick caught Sara watching him, watching Greg, watching him and Greg together, and he thought she knew, but neither of them mentioned it.
The third time was when Greg had been attacked at the crime scene near the gay club. That was when it became perfectly clear to them both that Sara did indeed know. Sara had packed Greg into the ambulance and stayed to process her crime scene, but Greg said she promised him she'd call someone else from the lab to meet him at the hospital.
She called Nick.
He remembered the calm understanding and reassurance in her voice. Greg was fine, she repeated, several times. He just needed a hand to hold and someone to take him home.
He'd bristled a little when she said "a hand to hold." "What are you saying, Sara?" he'd demanded. He'd been in his car already on the way to the hospital, and his hands clenched on the wheel.
"Don't be an idiot, Nicky," she said. The exasperation hung heavy in her voice and he could imagine her rolling her eyes in disdain. "Just go take care of him, okay? He needs you. And I know you need him."
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding – maybe he'd been holding it since he and Greg had begun their secret relationship. He had been worried about people from work knowing, but somehow it felt right to have Sara know. "How long have you known?" he asked softly.
"Since…oh, that case with the librarian. No, she restored books. It was at the Historical Society or something. She poisoned herself on accident, chewed on pens, I think."
Nick furrowed his brow. "Uh, Sar, we weren't even dating at that point."
She blew out a short breath of air and he held his cell phone away from his ear as it crackled like static. "I know that. But you were going to."
"Sar, you want to explain how you knew Greg and I were going to date before he even found out I was gay? And vice versa?" He glanced over his shoulder and switched lanes, wondering how much trouble he'd get in if he used his lights and siren to get to the hospital faster.
"You were in his lab. He was testing the poison the girl was using, and you were waiting for your results. I stood and watched for ten minutes – it was incredible. He was bouncing around and flirting, drawing on his erase-board, teasing you, saying he slept with Catherine, bragging about his degrees. You were just watching him, calmly, intently. Then he identified the poison as a bio-toxin and you freaked out. He was right there, going through symptoms with you, calming you down. He touched your shoulder, and you stared at him for a while. A long while."
"It felt like hours," Nick murmured. Then he shook himself a bit. "Geez, Sar, that's a lot to remember from what? Four years ago?"
Her voice was soft. "It was beautiful. You guys looked at each other the way I always wanted Gr- " She stopped, swallowed. "So you started going out, when? Around the time of the bus case?"
Shocked again, Nick shook his head in amazement. "Yeah. I won't even ask how you could tell." He let the case slowly come back to him. "He was so eager to be out of the lab, so willing to help somehow. Then that bus driver started, well, dying right in front of us and he froze. He was so down on himself afterwards. I talked him out of it, had him over for pizza and beer and video games a few days later to cheer him up." Memories washed over him. Greg saying he should get going. Walking him to the door. Pressing his back up against said door and kissing him like there was no tomorrow, and then Greg's legs wrapped around his waist and his mouth and tongue tasting everything and those clever, long-boned fingers everywhere. Nick cleared his throat. "Uh, and things progressed from there."
"I bet they did," Sara had said dryly.
Greg's wound from the attack hadn't been deep, and Nick teased gently that all the maniac had done was give him another scar to kiss and love on the rugged expanse of Greg's back. Neither of them talked about the motivation for the man's attack. It simply affirmed their decision to keep their relationship a secret.
And then it happened. Buried, bitten, almost blown up. The last time they were nearly separated was a doozy. Even as Greg kissed each scar now, Nick still flashed back to that time. Darkness. Terror clouding the air in the box. Millions of little legs, crawling all over him, feasting on his flesh. By the time he was rescued, he was so delirious he could barely tell what was going on anymore. He remembered the hospital, being swollen and blistered all over and nearly mad with the pain and dehydration. He remembered his parents hovering, and crowds of doctors and nurses, and trying to tear the IV lines out of himself because he just wanted to leave, to go outside and see the sky and then home to curl up with Greg and never leave again.
Then there was Greg, speaking calmly, slowly, stroking cool hands over his cheeks and through his hair. He laced their fingers together and Nick let the nurses re-insert his IV lines again. Greg spoke soothingly about how soon he'd be home, and that he'd stay right next to Nick the entire time until he could leave, and Nick let the doctors get close to him again. When Nick shook with nightmares, Greg slid his slim body onto the bed next to him and let Nick nestle into his arms.
Nick chuckled softly, and Greg looked up, smiling, from where he was kissing the last of the scars around Nick's ankles. "I was just remembering," Nick said, "When I was in the hospital and you crawled into bed with me. I'd just had a hell of a nightmare and then you were there and I remember thinking 'I don't care if we never have sex again as long as Greg will hold me like this.' "
Greg moved his mouth in a hot trail back up Nick's thigh. "Does that mean you want me to stop?" he asked breathily. His mouth moved a little further north.
Nick arched and moaned. "Well, I was on a lot of medications." He gasped. "I don't think I can be held accountable for what I thought then, G."
Afterwards, as they lay with bodies cooling stickily together, Greg turned so he was facing Nick and curled up against his chest, tucking his head under his chin. Nick smiled. Greg was actually taller than him by two inches, but he always nestled into Nick's body like a child. Greg slid a leg between Nick's calves, and Nick amended his thought. Okay, maybe not exactly like a child. He kissed the top of Greg's head.
"Love you," Greg murmured.
"I love you, too, G," Nick sighed, letting himself drop off to what he hoped would be a dreamless sleep.
- - -
Warrick stumbled into his bedroom, swerving around still-unpacked moving boxes, trying not to laugh out loud; he doubted his sleeping wife would appreciate it. But everything just seemed so damned funny tonight. He remembered his advice to his coworkers and nearly let a chuckle out. Sara'd looked like a deer standing in front of a semi when he'd told her to just get over it. Imagining her face again, he found that he couldn't keep the giggles in and escaped to the other room. Laughing and riding the buzz was better than thinking about all the raised eyebrows and surprised looks at work, and Catherine watching him all day with one question burning in her beautiful, almond-shaped eyes. She might as well have been screaming it at him: "Do you love her?"
He bypassed the living room entirely, heading for the patio door. It was a beautiful morning in Vegas, the type he rarely saw because he was usually asleep by now. He stepped out into the hot, heavy air and determinedly turned his thoughts back to his fun that morning with his friends.
Perhaps Sara hadn't appreciated it, he mused, but he'd given her good advice. He'd played it off like he didn't know what or who had made her so depressed, but he knew. Grissom was an ass. He was Warrick's mentor and had gone to bat for Warrick more times than he cared to count, and had earned Warrick's respect years ago. But the man was an ass. Here was Sara, young and brilliant and pretty damn good looking, and she was absolutely head over heels in love with Gris. She acted like he hung the moon. Warrick snorted and cackled a bit at the image that brought to mind of Grissom up a ladder, the moon in his outstretched arms, and Sara standing below watching him adoringly.
But the man wouldn't do a thing about it, and Sara was driving herself deeper and deeper into depression because of it. She was either going to burn out, and go out in a big, noisy, call a padded wagon type-way, or she was just going to slip away one day and disappear. She'd find a new job, and leave, and, Warrick was pretty sure, spend the rest of her life keeping herself from looking back. Suddenly feeling slightly melancholy, he leaned back on the glass of the patio door and wished he hadn't quit smoking all those years ago. He always ended up craving a smoke when he went out drinking; he wondered idly if Sara or Greg would have been able to bum him a cig if he'd thought to ask for before leaving the bar. Smoking on the night shift was an odd phenomena. He was pretty sure Nicky and Grissom had never smoked. Nicky was just too damn health-conscious, and Gris was the type who would never have given in to such a human habit. Warrick had quit years ago, choosing in gambling an addiction that could earn him money instead of just costing him like smoking did. In an attempt to keep her youth and health and ditch all the bad habits that Eddie had gotten her into, Catherine had only quit three or four years ago, right about the time Holly'd been killed. He quickly counted the years since that had happened and blew out a surprised breath. It had been six years ago already.
Then there was Sara and Greg. They both said they'd quit, that they didn't smoke anymore. But he'd smelled tobacco on them more than once after a hard case. He'd seen into Sara's purse once when it was sitting on the bench in the locker room, and he hadn't been surprised to see a pack of cigarettes in it. The packaging was pretty beaten, so he figured she just hung onto them for emergencies. It was probably the same reason Greg had a pack tucked away in the back on the top shelf of his locker, behind his toothbrush and razor and comb and way too many hair products.
Warrick sighed. It had been a long night, and he was officially on the down slope of his buzz. He stretched, joints popping, and sighed. At least he had someone to crawl into bed with now. He'd just go slip into bed and fit himself up against Catherine, feel her snuggle back against him, maybe breathe in the smell of her herbal shampoo from that long, silky blonde hair.
He was halfway across the living room before he remembered he had married Tina.
- - -
Grissom sipped his coffee slowly, considering. He'd been considering for a while now – several hours, actually, since he had passed the layout room earlier during that shift. Catherine and Warrick had been inside, and Warrick had been cautiously asking if Catherine was okay with his sudden marriage. Grissom had paused just out of sight of the door, waiting to hear Catherine's answer. It had been halfhearted. Sure, she'd said.
Warrick had pressed it – Grissom had to give him credit for that – and asked again. "Cause it doesn't feel like you're cool with it," he'd clarified.
Catherine had sighed. "Warrick," she said softly, then blew out a breath. "The best part of a fantasy is the possibility that it might someday come true. And when that possibility's gone," she paused again. "It kinda sucks."
Outside the room, Grissom stiffened, then made his way to his office, considering what Catherine had said.
First he considered women in general. Then he thought about the women he worked with in particular. There weren't many women who were CSIs in the LVPD. On the graveyard shift, there was Sara and Catherine; on days, there had been Sofia before Ecklie'd begun playing his little power games. Now that she'd moved up to being a detective, the day shift had joined the swing shift in being purely testosterone-run.
Grissom sat back in the soft leather chair in his office, still considering. After nearly a year of observation, he had concluded that Sofia seemed to do whatever was necessary to ingratiate herself with whomever she was talking to. It seemed to be her goal to show others that she had something in common with them, that she had walked in their shoes. For instance, she'd once chatted with him about his tarantula. Perhaps chatted was the wrong word; she had practically cooed over it, making sure to tell him about her deep fascination with arachnids and insect life, angling to get him to let her sit in on his next insect timeline progression and help him with the measurements, asking where he'd received his degree in etymology. Not two days later, however, Grissom had heard her calling a harmless little daddy longlegs in the break room a biting, vicious little monster. He very much doubted that Sofia's "deep fascination" lasted once she was out of his presence.
And it wasn't Grissom alone who had this effect on Sofia. He was sure that if he had overheard Sofia talking to Greg, it would have been about DNA; with Catherine, it would have been about all questions about Lindsey. Of course, Catherine, on the other hand, made it clear that she never changed herself to suit anyone. This would have been a good trait, if it weren't for the fact that Catherine was always unabashedly vocal about herself, her troubles, and her opinions. He'd listened to her talk to Sofia once, when the two women had first met, and he was sure that despite the fact Sofia probably rarely if ever saw Catherine again, she was fully aware that Catherine had been a stripper in her former life, was a single mother, had had endless trouble with her ex-husband, and still blamed the lab in general and Sara Sidle in particular for not discovering the killer who had caused his untimely death. He sighed a bit. Catherine was one of his oldest friends, and he trusted her a great deal. But he was beginning to realize that for a long time, people around the lab had grumbled that Catherine Willows could do anything and get away with it, whether it was ignore her supervisor's orders, use the DNA lab for her own purposes, or blow up the lab. Her most recent gaffe, fraternizing with a suspect, worried him. It wasn't like Catherine to be quite so foolish. He wondered idly if this trouble would stick, or if it would just end up sliding off again, leaving Catherine unscathed. He hadn't yet decided which he was hoping would happen.
And then he considered Sara.
Sara Sidle was an entirely different type of person than the other two women. While Sofia and Catherine were both willing to play the political game, albeit from different angles, both willing to give a little to advance their careers, Sara wouldn't. She simply and stubbornly refused to let cases turn into anything but a scientific investigation. And yet, she seemed aware of the emotional needs of her victims and their families. She worked tirelessly for the one thing she seemed to believe in, that seemed to hold more power with her than politics ever could: justice. Her insomnia was famous around the lab – she was often in the lab into dayshift hours, working some case or another that had gripped her. The fact was that the nightshift lab techs were fiercely devoted to Sara and her drive for justice - most of the men were half in love with her, as well – but the other techs, the support staff, even some of the cops and other CSIs were a little intimidated by her. Catherine certainly was. Although Sofia easily had the best by-the-book smarts of most of the men and women he'd worked with over the years, Sara was brilliant, easily smarter than Sofia. Where Catherine's formal education had been a long way from Harvard, everyone knew that Catherine prided herself on her instinct. But he'd heard the whispers around the lab that claimed that Sara's instincts were nearly preternatural; hell, he didn't need the rumors – he'd seen them in action himself.
He closed his eyes, slowly letting memories roll back to him.
Sara in the front row of his forensics seminar, studying him seriously and taking copious notes in her own version of shorthand.
Sara grinning at him from the edge of his crime scene, his test dummies lying by his feet. "It's me," she'd chirped, and that smile seemed to go on forever. He'd wanted to slide his tongue into the groove that the gap between her two front teeth made for as long as he'd known her.
Sara showing up to take notes for him before he'd even realized that he needed her, standing next to him in the Collins' bedroom and breathing slowly in tune with him while the spirit of the dead woman still seemed to hang in the air. Sara answering his questions before he could even ask them.
Sara grinning at him from the door of an airplane bathroom as she admitted she was a member of the Mile High Club. Tucking a blanket around him as he sat in a parking lot and watched a pig decompose. Wiping chalk off his face.
The smile in Sara's eyes the day after he sent her the plant. Sara's mouth gaping as he let slip into conversation that he'd cared about beauty since he'd met her.
Sara's eyes filled with tears as she let herself bleed inside for Kay Sheldon, again for Pam Adler, again and again. Sara cradling her bleeding hand in her lap after the lab explosion, those same eyes glazed and dull.
His hands on Sara's wrists, "pinning" her to a bloody sheet. Her eyes glazed again, this time with desire, and the tip of her tongue darting out to moisten her lips. The warmth from her body rolling off her and spilling on to him in waves until he was sure he must be panting with the heat.
Sara's double, dead on the floor of her shower.
Sara sitting with her head in her hands in the lobby of the police station, embarrassed and ashamed to have been pulled over for a DUI.
Sara describing her past, detailing the horrors of her childhood for him, as she sat curled impossibly small on the chair in her apartment.
Sara's terrified eyes meeting his as a maniac held a pottery shard to her neck and he begged the guard, the nurse, someone, anyone to open the door.
He clenched his eyes tightly, willing the terrifying memories away, and he slowly let himself escape into the fantasy world he'd built in the years since he'd met Sara.
Here, in this world, in his world, Sara smiled that beautiful gap-toothed grin at him as he arrive home, shared dinner with him, curled on the couch with him to watch Discovery Channel and read forensics journals. They cooked and cleaned and checked the mail together.
Sara sang again, a selection of 80s pop hits and classic rock as she worked and drove and tapped away at her laptop, and he felt privileged to be the only one who go to hear her sing in the shower.
Sara met his mother. Sara gripped his hand as they stared in wonder at the baby balanced against her breast.
Sara curled into his chest at night, her long limbs wrapped around him, her hair soft and sweet-smelling under his chin, her breath warm on his chest as she breathed out a soft "I love you," before slipping into sleep.
The best part of a fantasy is the possibility that it might someday come true. And when that possibility's gone…it kinda sucks. Catherine's voice echoed in his ear.
He reached for the phone.
FIN