Eggshells and Ivory
Summary: Post-For Gedda. Nick can't remember what color he painted his walls and it's driving him crazy. Nick/Greg friendship.
And in these days
When darkness falls early
And people rush home
To the ones they love
You better take a fool's advice
And take care of your own
Because one day they're here;
The next day they're gone
– Don Henley, "New York Minute"
The wall was eggshell. Or maybe it was ivory. He recalled choosing one of the two colors to paint it. When he'd first bought the house, the walls had been a hideous vomit green. He had decided to paint it with a primer and then go over it with a nicer color. He had never gotten around to the second stage. And so here he was, staring at eggshell or ivory colored walls, the pattern within the grains of the paint holding his interest so he wouldn't have to think. The Eagles were crooning in the background, reminding him to "Take it Easy," but of course, he wasn't listening. Once in a while, a lyric or two floated into his head, but it tumbled out just as quickly.
Nick had been flirting with that redheaded waitress, and invited her to sit down at the table. She told him about growing up in Winslow, Arizona on a farm, and how she always loved the big city. He had sat with her for what must have been an hour. He should have been quicker…
Ivory. Eggshell. He couldn't figure it out. He couldn't remember what separated the two. They might as well have been the exact same color. In his memory, they were the same in every way, but he had chosen one over the other. He knew it was either eggshell or ivory, but the fact that he didn't remember made the whole thing rather ridiculous. And after all that time he had agonized over which white to choose, he couldn't fucking remember.
Looking at his watch, he had noticed that it was late. He snatched up his jacket and she slipped him her number. Her name was Charlotte. And he tasted the name on his lips several times as he pulled his jacket on, exiting the diner. Charlotte. Charlotte. Char— Where had he parked his car?
He felt like it was something he should remember. A man paints his house, he remembers the color he chose. Maybe it was because he had left the project unfinished. It's not really your house until you paint it the color you want, and he never did. Therefore, could he really say that he owned it? Could he really say that he knew everything about it? Or was it only a place he pretended to know, a place he pretended he could feel safe in?
The parking lot, behind the diner. Through the alley. He ambled over there amiably, twirling his keys around his finger. Charlotte. Everything had fallen into place. Everything would be OK. He had even received an e-mail from Sara that day, out of the blue. It wasn't much more than a basic "hello," but it was nice to know she was still alive. He hadn't told her about Warrick. But it didn't matter anyway, because Warrick got off. And everything was going to be OK. Charlotte. Sara. Warrick. Everyone was going to be OK.
He concluded that it was eggshell. It kind of looked like eggs. He lived in a house of eggshell walls. If the Big Bad Wolf came, he would huff, and he would puff, and he would blow the house down. And it would all come crumbling down on top of him, and he would be exposed. He would be lost amongst the eggshell rubble, trying in vain to fix the broken eggshells, to rebuild his walls, but even if he succeeded, the house would never be the same again.
He saw a car parked in the alley. In the dark, he couldn't determine much more than that, but an eerie wind tickled the back of his neck. He shrugged off the odd feeling and began to think of a pretty little place outside of the city with horses that he could take Charlotte too. Maybe it would remind her of home. Maybe… Wait, isn't that Warrick's car?
Better if it was ivory. Ivory is strong, sturdy, and wouldn't fall down. He lived in a house of bone walls. He had killed elephants just to get the right color on his walls. The color of death, strong and repugnant. So strong that sometimes he couldn't find a way out. Maybe it was more of a prison, the walls constricting, unmoving, and unforgiving. And he would beat on the walls and yell like a caged ape, wondering if he would ever be able to see what lay beyond its walls.
"Yo, 'Rick!" he called, wondering only for a minute why his friend had stayed in his car for over an hour. Nick concluded that he had been so exhausted from the day's events that maybe he had just fallen asleep. "Wake up, man! You won't believe it, that waitress gave me her number…" His window was shattered. Nick didn't understand. He switched gears, his casual pace picking up speed until he reached the car and all of his walls came crashing down.
Yup. It must be eggshell.
There was a knock at his door. He ignored it. He began making constellations out of the bubbles that had been trapped in the paint. But every image he came up with always resembled Warrick's face.
BANG! BANG!
In actuality, the knocks weren't that loud, but he imagined those were the last sounds that Warrick had heard. Two shots. That's all it took.
BANG! BANG!
He closed his eyes and willed the caller to go away. The knocks reverberated in his skull like bongo drums. His phone began to ring. And all of a sudden, it was all more noise than he could handle.
He rose quickly, furiously, and seized his phone off of the table, gritting his teeth as he answered the door to see Greg's profile as he held the phone to his ear. He was wearing a dark blue suit, and his hair was gelled. His old friend turned to see Nick with bright eyes and a grin as he hung up the phone, and the object in Nick's hand was finally silenced. Greg's expression turned to one of confusion at the sight of Nick's fiery eyes. But he didn't ask.
Instead, he presented Nick with a hardcover book.
"It's signed," he said excitedly.
Nick looked down at it in disinterest, then up at Greg and said nothing. "What is it?" he grumbled impatiently, his voice gruff and clipped.
Now Greg was very confused as he stumbled over his words. "It's uh… It's my book. Freshly printed."
Nick looked down at the book again and saw "Greg Sanders" in embossed bronze lettering at the bottom of the cover. At the moment, it meant nothing to him. "Oh," he simply said. "Thanks." And he tried to close the door.
Greg's palm flew up and landed on the wooden panel, refusing to let Nick alone. "Is there something wrong? I would have thought you'd have been glad to see me. I've been gone for like, two weeks."
Nick shook his head and tried to close the door again. "Leave me alone, Greg."
Greg stuck his foot in the door. "What's going on?" he demanded, trying to look Nick in the eye.
Now, Nick wasn't just annoyed, he was enraged. "What the hell is the matter with you, man? Did you really get over it so fast? Is your stupid book the only thing you can think about?"
Greg looked horrified, as if he knew he had done something wrong, but he couldn't figure out what it was. "What are you talking about? Get over what?"
Nick's rage dissolved into bafflement. "What do you mean 'Get over what?'?!" he exclaimed. "Get over what?!"
Greg was genuinely at a loss as he shook his head, his eyes wide in bewilderment. "Did I say something wrong?"
Nick blinked at him, and his eyes narrowed, examining him for a long time. "Warrick."
"I'm Greg."
"No," Nick said, closing his eyes and shaking his head. His head stopped moving and he slowly opened his eyes and looked at Greg. "Warrick is dead."
Greg blinked a few times. He didn't seem to understand. "No, Warrick's not dead," he said. "I… we just had dinner with him two weeks ago, he's not dead."
A dead weight plummeted into Nick's stomach. "You… you didn't… Grissom didn't call you?"
Greg, his mouth partially open, slowly shook his head and offered his palms to Nick. "I've been in meetings all week, I… I haven't had a chance to call anyone, or take any calls and… Warrick's… What happened?"
Nick stepped back and threw the door open, beckoning Greg inside. The younger CSI followed Nick into the hall, and then into the living room, where Nick gestured at the walls and turned to his friend, looking absolutely lost, like a child in the woods.
"It's the walls," he said. "I can't figure out if they're ivory or eggshell."
Greg was thrown by this topic change. "Nick…?"
The Texan clutched at his hair and turned to look at the walls again. "I mean… I think it's ivory, because it kinda looks like the color of bones. But then, maybe it's eggshell, because it's all crumbly and sharp and… And I can't remember, Greg," he said at last, spinning to see his friend again. His hands slid down his face, onto his cheeks, and then over to cup his mouth. "I… I just can't remember."
Greg reached out and hit the stop button on Nick's stereo. "Sorry, but I hate the Eagles," he said.
For some reason that remained a mystery to Nick, he laughed. He laughed, and then he fell backwards into an armchair. He gestured at the walls.
"So what color is it, Greg?" he asked. "I've been trying to figure it out for days."
Greg's eyes roamed around the room, and his tongue shot out to lick his lips. "It's… it's just white, isn't it?"
"No!" Nick growled angrily. "There are shades, Greg, there are swatches, you can't just call it white because there are all sorts of white! They just… all happen to… look the same…" He sighed and sank lower into his chair. "It can't be white. It's either eggshell, or it's ivory."
Greg shifted on the spot, looking uncomfortable in Nick's home. But he took a step towards Nick in his chair then hesitated, and rolled back onto his other foot. He took a deep breath and held it a moment. "Is Warrick really dead?"
"That's not the question," Nick said, absently. "The question is ivory or eggshell. That's the question. That's what matters."
"Does it?" Greg broke in. "Does it matter what color your walls are? Nick—" He took another step closer, but Nick held up a hand to stop him.
"No! You obviously don't understand the effort that goes in to choosing just the right color for your walls. I painted these myself, you know. They're my walls. Mine. And now, I can't remember what color I painted them…"
He lost himself in his memories. Eggshells and Ivory. Smooth, cold ivory, or soft, brittle eggshell? He remembered standing in front of the wall in his old raggedy white T-shirt and jeans that he wore when he washed his car. He remembered dipping his roller brush into a bucket, and he tried to recall its label. He remembered that it had been raining outside that day, and that he had started at 3:13 PM. He remembered all of that, but he couldn't remember the color.
It was about five minutes before he remembered Greg was still in the room, and that the younger CSI hadn't said anything at all. He looked up at his friend, whose gaze had wandered over to the right corners of his eyes. Slowly, his arms slid across his stomach and wrapped around himself.
"That wasn't fair," he said at last.
"I know," Nick agreed, shaking his head. "I mean, why the hell do they have to have so many different shades of white anyway? Call something 'amethyst shadow' and it's still fucking purple. It's just one big scam."
Greg didn't move. "You weren't being fair," he clarified, shaking his head. "That wasn't… you shouldn't have…" And then, he seemed to break out of his trance as he grabbed a nearby pillow and threw it at Nick with all his might, missing and knocking over a lamp instead. "Dammit Nick! I was having such a good day and then you came and you… and now you're going on about paint colors and I'm sitting here just… I'm flabbergasted. And I don't use that word much, because I think it sounds silly, but really, I am, because… Because I can't believe nobody told me about this. Or— Or I can't believe that I was so obsessed with pushing up the publishing date and dealing with cover art and talking to other forensics authors who did the little review blurbs on the back that I didn't just pick up my phone and check my missed calls, my messages, my e-mail, my God, I…" His voice was shaking. "When… How… Why—"
Nick replied, in a very matter-of-fact tone, as if it were any other dead body. "The night you left, two gunshot wounds to the head and throat, in his car, because…" Nick faltered. "Be… Because…" His throat tied itself into a knot. "I… I don't know what… what to do," he managed to get out, and then he looked up at Greg who was watching him with wide brown eyes.
He broke the silence by moving to sit in the armchair across from Nick, where he rested his forearms on his thighs and leaned on them, bringing his fingers together thoughtfully. "They're ivory," Greg said, resolutely.
Nick blinked. "I killed elephants for my wall color."
"Then they're eggshell," Greg decided.
"I don't want some wolf to blow my house down because it's made of eggshells."
"You're impossible," Greg said at last. "Nick… If you don't like your wall color, change it."
"I don't have the time—"
"What have you been doing for the past two weeks?" Greg inquired.
Nick paused, then sighed. "Staring… Staring at my walls."
Greg cocked an eyebrow. "What's your favorite color?"
Nick was caught off guard by the question. "I… I never thought about it." He thought of Warrick. "Blue," he said suddenly, as if he had known it all along. He looked up at his walls. "I could paint them… blue."
"That's a nice, solid color," Greg said approvingly.
Nick frowned. "Only problem is, what shade of blue? I mean, do I choose ocean blue, or winter lake, or sapphire sparkle, or southern sky—"
"How about just… blue?" Greg proposed. "And that way, you won't forget what color it is."
Slowly, Nick smiled. "Will you help me paint it?" he asked.
Greg hesitated, than nodded, and Nick was seeing him for the first time in two weeks. He blinked.
"Look at you, all professional and grown-up…" he muttered, leaning back in his chair.
Greg sniffed and nodded, wiping his eyes on his forearm, although Nick hadn't noticed if he had been crying. Only the color of his tie.
"Your tie is blue," he said.
Again, Greg nodded. "We can use it to compare it to all the paint swatches," he replied with a sad smile. He held his breath a moment. "Nick…" But he shut his mouth quickly, one of his hands coming up to cover it as if he had a contagious disease. He closed his eyes tightly, and Nick thought he was going to sneeze, when a strange sound escaped from behind his fingers. Greg bowed his head, as if he was embarrassed, but Nick couldn't figure out what was wrong with him.
"Are you OK?" he asked. "You look like you're gonna throw up."
Greg held up his hand and waved Nick's concerns away. "I'm fine," he choked.
And it was then that Nick recognized exactly what was wrong. His tone changed, becoming softer, more empathic. "It's OK to be upset…" he whispered.
He saw Greg's back spasm in a sob or a laugh, he couldn't tell, and then the younger CSI straightened up and looked at Nick with red eyes and a smile. "Yeah, well, it's just… he was your best friend and… well, as far as I was concerned, he didn't really… I mean, we weren't… but my God, I just…" He swallowed and shook his head. "I'll be OK." But regardless of his words, he still bent his head down and rested it in his hands.
Nick got up from his chair and knelt down next to Greg. He looked down at the floor and then up at Greg's hunched form. "I'm sorry," he told him. "For springing it on you like that. You're right, it wasn't fair. But I was just so… angry. And I took it out on you. You didn't deserve that."
Greg looked up at Nick and rolled his eyes. "It's OK," he said. "You're the one who's gone crazy over paint colors. I think you got the worse end of the stick."
"Drive with me over to the Home Depot to pick up some paint?" Nick suggested hopefully. "I mean… what else did you have planned today?"
Greg smiled and nodded slowly. "Only if I can come here and help you paint over these hideous white walls."
"They're not—"
"I know, I know," Greg said quickly. "They're eggshell. Or ivory. You don't remember, whatever. Just choose a new color and move on."
Nick rose to his feet and so did Greg. "I can do that," he said.
"I'm glad you're capable of accepting change," Greg replied with a smirk.
"And I'm glad you're here," Nick replied, weakening Greg's smile.
The latter, his cheeks tinged red, nodded his head at the door. "Come on," he said. "We have a lot of work to do."