Title: Ghost Of You
By: Misile
A/N: I'm sorry, oh so sorry, about the lateness of this posting. I've actually had the chapter written for a while now, but never found the time to type it. First it just seemed to long to type, then I was babysitting with my cousin overnight and even with two of us those kids wore us out and I got sick. I spent most of my sickness working on this story, so I'm up to chapter five and halfway through chapter six now, with a bit of revising to do here and there but otherwise, it's good. Life got in the way of posting as well- my best friend is visiting and such. My sincerest apologies. Maybe I'll post two chapters next post to make up for the lateness of this one. These chapters look a lot longer in my notebook. I'm all proud of myself for writing such long chapters, and then it's only like, a page on word.
-Sigh-
Chapter Three: Future
You can hear the blood pulsing in your ears, your breath loud in the muffled silence of this waking dream. The world is blurry, smudged like a watercolour with too much water, but slowly coming into focus. It that house, the same house he's been processing for hours now, and with a start he realizes he's looking at the living room, bare walls awash with the fading pastel hues of sunset. There's a man- the victim, alive, no gaping bullet wound torn through the flesh and bone of his content face. He turns away from the sink, a cup of steaming liquid held tentatively in both hands; sets it down on the small table before returning to the sink, digging around in a drawer for silverware. The second figure, huddled near-invisible in the greying shadows of dusk- sees this as his chance, and steps forward, his feet making no sound on the thick living room carpet. The first man-Brian- must have felt his presence, though, because he swings around, and after he does recognition flashes across his face. His shoulders relax, and you want to scream to run, warn him, anything, but you know that you have no effect on this reality, that you're nothing more then an observer. The relief in his eyes disappears the moment the gun is drawn.
Greg?
The rest happens quickly, a blur of motion and harsh words. The dark man, gripping the gun, is aiming it towards Brian's skull, spitting angry words that you struggle to understand through the anger and hate that distort his voice. You can hardly bear to look at Brian's face, a mess of panic and pleading as he protests whatever the taller man is accusing. Whatever he says, it doesn't work because suddenly there's an explosion of fire and smoke and you really do turn away, because watching the event leading up to Brain Caris' death is one thing; watching him die, his blood and brain and bones decorating his kitchen, is another matter entirely. You can look away, because you saw his face, twisted in malice and victory.
"Greg!"
He blinked, and suddenly it wasn't the face of a killer he was looking at, but Grissom's concerned eyes. Greg was about to ask his boss how on earth he of all people ended up in this vision before he realized that he wasn't in his own head anymore. This was reality, and Grissom was still staring at him, searching his face for some sort of information about the episode Greg had. His mouth was moving, but Greg's hearing took a moment to catch up with the rest of him.
"Greg? Greg, are you alright?" Grissom's face was etched with a mixture of worry and question. The younger CSI blinked owlishly, looking pale and shaken; the bruising under his eyes even more pronounced then before, wide doe-eyes finally focusing on Grissom rather then whatever else it was he'd just been seeing.
"Oh, hey Grissom." He smiled crookedly, a half-hearted attempt at alleviating the uncomfortable emotion of the moment. "You've come to help me process this dump?"
"Greg, what just happened?"
No answer. Greg started dusting the countertop, ignoring Grissom by pretending to be focused on the task at hand.
"Was it what happened earlier? With Nick?"
A shrug.
"Would Nick know what just happened?" Grissom already knew the answer.
Greg's shoulder's tensed, because he was starting to realize that maybe Grissom wasn't going to let this go, because he's Grissom, and he's the kind of person that isn't satisfied until he knows absolutely everything.
"Later," he muttered softly, not quite comfortable with the idea of spilling one of his darkest secrets to Grissom in the dead man's filthy bathroom, and even less comfortable with being trapped in the room with Grissom until they finished collecting, undoubtedly uncomfortable, Greg's secret hanging in the air.
"Back at the hotel?"
"…Maybe." The logical part of his mind was telling him to shut up, that though Grissom may have visited a psychic and may be more open-minded then some, telling the truth was not an option here. It was frantically thinking of excuses and lies, but none seemed sufficient enough to keep Grissom at bay. The only acceptable cover story was panic attack, but what kind of CSI has two anxiety attacks on the job, and in one day, no less. As much as he didn't like the idea of giving in and telling Grissom about the most private part of his being, didn't want Grissom to think of him as a raving loon, Greg was slowly becoming resigned to the fact that there might not be a way out of this. A part of him even wanted to tell, get the weight off of his shoulders, let someone other then Nick into his mind. For a second, it didn't seem like such a bad idea.
They finished the bathroom in an uncomfortable silence, Grissom occasionally sending fleeting glances Greg's way, which Greg's tried to ignore, until Greg stood, his back stiff, and announced that he was taking the evidence to Catherine.
"It's nearly a two-hour drive to the lab." He pointed out. "If we give her the evidence now, we can start interviewing while she's gone."
Grissom nodded, handing his evidence off to Greg, who hurried out of the room with a look of what Grissom would have to call relief.
"Hey, Cath!" Greg ginned as he walked up to her, carrying an armload of evidence to be towed back to the lab. Nick's truck was gone, and Greg could only wonder where he'd gone after leaving his evidence with Catherine.
"Hey, Greggo." She glanced up from where she was arranging evidence and tools in the back of her SUV, smiling. "Need some help there?"
"Please." He smiled pleadingly, holding out some of the evidence bags. Catherine obliged, taking some of the overflow off of his hands and placing it carefully in the trunk.
"Thanks. Are you heading back to the lab, soon? I think we're going to do interviews while you're gone."
Catherine nodded. "Just finished up processing the outside. I got a few shoeprints, nothing much. What about suspect swabs? When I get this to the lab, they'll need something to compare it too…"
Greg shrugged. "Right now, we're severely lacking in the suspect zone. Hopefully we'll have something to give you by the time we get back."
Catherine was already climbing into the front seat, shooing Greg away. "Go, go, help Grissom save the world and catch me some bad guys."
"So, who are we interviewing first?" Greg asked, watching out the window as Grissom drove towards the local police station.
"The only person we know of is his ex-wife. The local PD brought her in about half an hour ago. Nick, " Grissom emphasized the name with a pointed look at Greg, " has already offered to do the interviewing, and collect DNA and fingerprint samples. There's nothing more you or I can do right now, at least until we've got another suspect to interviews."
Greg had an uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly where this conversation was going.
-Fin-
A/N: I wrote this chapter at 3:30 AM and revised it the next day. That is dedication. Watch Zodiac or Day After Tomorrow or really anything with Jake Gyllenhaal in it while you await my next chapter. I think I might go watch one of those right now. Or Sixth Sense or Edward Scissorhands.