Disclaimer: CBS/Alliance owns CSI. I just don't happen to like that they killed off Warrick.
Author's Note: I hope you enjoy this next chapter. Please leave a review - constructive criticism is always welcome.
X X X - C S I - X X X
Besides the logistics of trying to fit everyone into the living area of his home, Grissom had to contend with Sara's and Warrick's debriefing
Besides the impossible logistics of trying to cram everyone into the small living area of the condo, Grissom had to contend with Sara's and Warrick's debriefing. Brass graciously offered to take their statements at the crime lab, which is how the entire group found themselves casually ensconced in Grissom's office rather than an interrogation room at the police department.
Surprisingly, not a lot had been said between the cemetery and the office. Watching with a sad smile on his face, Grissom wondered how it had come to this… to the longing, almost desperate touches between friends, as if each caress gave a sense of reality and relief.
Leaned back in his chair, Grissom's gaze landed on Sara who had pulled a chair within touching distance. For the first time in months, he felt a little of the tension in his neck ease. When she gave him one of her lopsided grins, he nodded at her with a hint of subtle affection that had her smile widening. For a moment, he let himself believe that they were alone and he bored his gaze into her, letting his desire and absolute joy in her flare between them.
He damn near stuttered when he heard a loud purposeful cough, followed by a stifled laugh come from Nick, who sat on one end of the couch.
As Sara's smile grew to crease her cheeks, Grissom watched her give a bold wink and shook his head, wondering why at his age he felt like he'd just gotten caught making out with his girlfriend under the bleachers at school. With a quick boyish grin at Sara, he looked around the room with hooded eyes.
While Nick sat on one end of the couch, Catherine sat on the other. Crowded between them was Warrick, leaning back looking relaxed with a big grin on his face. His arms were extended, and while he drummed his fingers on the top of the couch behind Nick, his other arm was draped over Catherine's shoulder.
Greg sat in the chair nearest the couch, his eyes wandering between the different players of the room. Sitting close together were Ecklie and Brass, and next to them was an empty chair.
"Are you going to tell us what's been going on?" Nick drawled, his face stony with intent, the lazy grin now gone. It was a look Grissom recognized easily. When Nick got that particular expression on his face, the Texan was generally pissed off.
"We have one more player," Grissom mildly stated. No sooner had the words escaped his mouth before the door opened and Al Robbins walked in with his normal limping gait.
"Sorry for being late," Robbins said to Grissom. Glancing around the room he gave a stiff, satisfied nod at the return of Sara and Warrick and took the remaining open seat. Giving Warrick a curious grimace, the coroner asked, "What's it like to come back from the dead? I hear there's a white light at the other end."
Warrick responded by smiling wide, chuckling silently with only a hazy sound of breath passing over his lips and his shoulders shaking with mirth. Pulling his hands from the back of the couch, he leaned forward, glanced at Sara, and awkwardly signed, "Tell Doc I prefer dark."
The lopsided grin Grissom adored was back as she conveyed the message. As he gathered his thoughts, the laughter ringing through the room died down, and silence eventually once again descended.
Quietly, he looked at the players of the 'game' and waited for each to give their assent to tell the whole story – every detail. Turn by turn, they nodded their support… Brass, Ecklie, Robbins; and then Warrick gave a contemplative nod. Turning to Sara, who had taken perhaps the biggest risk besides Warrick, he quietly waited for her lips to quirk a little in an awkward, and in some ways shy, smile and accompanying, "Okay," before starting.
Shutting his eyes briefly, he put the events in order. Opening them slowly, Grissom focused on Nick, who like Warrick, now sat forward in his seat. "Well Nick," Grissom stated, "I think the story starts with you."
"Yeah," Nick replied quietly. "I guess I was the first on-scene." Closing his eyes, Nick's voice came out soft at first, turning desperate within seconds.
X X X - C S I - X X X
Nick stood up from his chair shortly after Warrick took off. He'd watched the waitress head to the back of the restaurant, and around the corner into the kitchen, and so he followed behind her trying to work up the nerve to ask her out. It wasn't the first time he'd noticed the new employee at Frank's slinging food from kitchen to table and making change.
"Hey," he softly said, injecting a little extra southern charm into his voice and charming smile. "I just wanted to tell you that was a mighty fine meal."
"Thank you," she replied with something less than a smile on her face. "I'm glad you liked the food." Then, ignoring every ounce of charm oozing from him, she raised an eyebrow, dropped her face to a more sedate expression, and said, "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work."
Nick raised a fist up to his chest and yanked it away as if pull a knife from his wound, while he chuckled. "Ouch!" he replied. "Tell me you at least have a band-aid to cover the wound," he replied, giving her the first true 'Nick' smile.
Dropping the defensive stance nurtured over time to deflect the passes made by men, her lips turned up and she said, "Look, you're probably a nice guy. I'm just not interested," and left him standing outside the entrance to the kitchen once again as she retreated.
Nick's mind was buzzing pretty loud over the outright rejection mixed with something akin to being dazzled by a woman that wasn't just pretty, but a bit sassy as well – a great combination to him.
He didn't hear the first pop… it just didn't register. The second, though – it came through loud and clear, chilling him to the core as every hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Something was horribly, horribly wrong, and his heart began to pound out of his chest as he rushed from the diner into the dark Vegas night.
"Oh God," he rasped, coming to a halt at the top of the dim alley, lit up only by neon and a couple of backdoor bulbs. "Warrick. WARRICK!" He couldn't feel his feet hit the pavement. All he could hear was his own harsh breathing and blood pounding like a raging river.
Assessing the situation as rapidly as possible and pushing back the choking bile that threatened to erupt his meal from his stomach, Nick tilted Warrick's head back and covered the man's neck with his hand as best he could, while he used his other hand to flip open his cell and dial dispatch.
"This is CSI Nick Stokes. We've got an officer down. Send a bus and contact CSI Supervisor Grissom…"
Grissom arrived within minutes – on the heels of the ambulance – to find Nick's light jacket wrapped around Warrick's neck. When the EMTs tried to get Nick to step away from the car so they could get to Warrick, Nick couldn't even respond. Instead, he was saying, "You'll be okay, man. Come on and fight it. You'll be okay. Fight it, Warrick." It took Grissom laying his hands over Nick's trembling ones before the CSI finally looked up with shell-shocked eyes.
Nick didn't step away until Grissom smiled at him with a confidence he didn't feel, and said, "It's okay, Nicky. Warrick'll be okay, but you've got to let the medics do their job."
Glancing down at his blood soaked hands Nick gave a single choking sob and said, "I can't stop the bleeding."
When Catherine arrived a few minutes later as Warrick was being loaded onto the gurney by a couple of EMTs, she passed by Grissom in a flash, opting to ride in the ambulance to the hospital. Right on her heels was Brass, who'd heard the call for 'Officer Down' and happened to be nearby on another call.
The detective parked at the end of the alley, the light on his dashboard flashing red across the dark pavement and sides of the building. Exiting quickly, he made his way to Grissom with an ambling speed not particularly graceful, but effective nonetheless. Approaching the CSI supervisor, Brass's lips thinned and he simply said, "Warrick," when he recognized the victim's car.
"Yeah," Grissom replied. "Shot at least twice." Absently Grissom glanced in the direction of the ambulance as it flipped on its siren and lights and sped off.
"What do you know?" Brass asked, his voice giving away nothing he might feel.
Nick stood in the middle of the alley, staring at the flashing light on the dashboard of Brass's car. Slowly, he began to pull his senses back with the arrival of the detective, and the burning in his chest receded as he approached Warrick's car from the passenger side. The window was down, and on the front seat laid a gun. Blood coated the driver's door and the headliner. As he reached in to grab the gleaming silver weapon, Grissom roughly pulled his arm back.
"Nick! Don't!" he shouted. "Don't touch anything," he said more gently, placing his hand on the young man's shoulder. When Nick's brown eyes finally met his, Grissom quietly said, "Go to the hospital."
Years of training kicked in, because something in Grissom's voice was… off. The Texan stared into his supervisor's eyes when he asked, "Are you coming?" Nick had seen Grissom angry or irritated before. More than once he'd seen him sad or contemplative. He'd never seen his supervisor's eyes go hard before. A shiver ran down his back when Grissom's face went stone cold.
Stepping back from the scene, Nick walked to the end of the street and quietly asked, "We'll see you soon?" only to receive an abrupt nod from a grim looking Grissom.
X X X – C S I – X X X
"You eventually met up with us at the hospital," Nick murmured. "But not until hours later."
Grissom didn't look Nick in the eyes at first when he replied, "I had something I needed to do."
"I think that would make the next part yours," Catherine stated, raising a brow at Grissom as if to dare him to tell his portion of the tale.
While Grissom's lips may have turned up, it wasn't a smile that formed, but rather an expression of pained contemplation. Looking at Ecklie, he said, "In case I never said it, Conrad… thank you for trusting me, even if I had no proof."
