Author's Note: And the other half of the short chapter. Thanks for all your reviews, they're really encouraging. :o)


Nick turned the corner into the toxicology lab, making the blonde temp look up and smile at him in greeting.

"Got your page," he said. "So, you have the report back on my vic?"

"Sure do," chimed Molly, handing him the chart. "She's clean."

Nick's eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Huh."

"I know, I thought it was off too, considering what Greg found."

Nick looked up. "Greg?"

"Yeah, he, uh, said he was working the case with you?" Molly asked. "Funny how we hadn't met until the other night."

"Yeah, he's been a bit of a recluse lately... What did he say he found?"

"Diazepam," Molly replied. "Easy drug to use to sedate someone."

"She didn't have any Diazepam on her..." muttered Nick. "At least, not in the evidence I catalogued..."

Molly shrugged. "Maybe it was somethin' new. I'm sure he'll let you know."

Nick licked his lips, trying to think. "Yeah, I'm sure he will."

He was distracted by the sounds of Grissom and Catherine walking swiftly down the hall. "... day never ends, does it?" Catherine muttered, piquing Nick's interest, and he poked his head out, calling after them.

"Where are you two off to?"

"Druggie got his ass stabbed in a suburb," Catherine tossed over her shoulder. "Since it's on our shift, it's our concern. And I was looking forward to heading off early tonight." She cast an accusatory glance at Grissom, who didn't let on that he had noticed.

"Where's Greg?" asked their supervisor.

Nick looked around, a tiny blush creeping into his cheeks. He didn't want to admit that the last time he had seen his friend and coworker, the man had a hooker's arms around him. "Er, he should be around here somewhere."

"Aren't you working a case together?" Suspicion began to creep into Grissom's voice.

"Yeah... I'll find him," Nick assured Grissom with a nod, and the two of them were off again.

Nick sighed and leaned against the doorframe, tilting his head back as he closed his eyes. A small hand began to rub his upper arm in an awkward gesture of comfort.

"Somethin' wrong, darlin'?" Molly asked.

Nick rubbed his eyes. "I don't know. I think Greg's fallen into a bad crowd."

"Can't be that bad," said Molly. "Not with friends like you, I mean."

Nick opened his eyes. "When you met him earlier, what were your first impressions?"

"He seemed a bit out of it, but he was friendly enough," said Molly. "We bonded over our dislike of Hodges."

Nick gave out a curt laugh. "Well, you're the enemy of his enemy..."

"Oh!" said Molly, a thought suddenly occurring to her. "He did seem concerned that he was forgettin' things."

"Forgetting things?" Nick made a mental note to ask Greg about that. "Right. OK, thanks. I'm just... I'm gonna go look for him. Thanks for the tox results." He held up the paper and smiled, before dashing off down the hall to the lobby, where he saw Judy putting away some files, but no sign of Greg.

"Hey, Judy, have you seen Greg?"

She gasped. "Oh, yeah!" She silently chastised herself for something. "I was supposed to tell Grissom... He left with that girl. Said he wasn't feeling well."

Nick closed his eyes, disappointment flooding his system. "Thanks..." he said dully, and dragged his feet back into the lab.


He woke up with his face in the carpet. Every muscle was sore again, and his headache was worse than ever. He rolled over with a groan and squinted, light invading his pupils and he hissed in distaste, like a vampire. He painfully sat up, his skin crawling, and looked around.

Light was pouring through the blinds on the windows and it took Greg a moment to realize he was in Camellia's house. This was the second time he'd woken up with a muddled brain because of her. It took a great amount of effort just to look around the living room.

Simply put, the place was trashed. Completely different from when he had first arrived. Greg did not know what Camellia had put into his tea, but it definitely did not help. In fact, he was fairly sure it made everything ten times worse. No one is in sight, and one of the couch pillows had been knifed and there was stuffing everywhere. One the chairs was tipped over, and a light bulb was broken.

And then, he noticed the folded piece of paper propped up on the coffee table. It read, in neat but somewhat shaky handwriting, "Rabbit."

He reached for it and delicately unfolded it, his brain throbbing, now a permanent addition to everything else inside his head. He had a feeling the bugger wouldn't be moving out anytime soon. He tried to focus on the words of the letter.

Sweet Rabbit—

We had to leave pretty quick. Eat whatever you want from the fridge. Took forty bucks from your new wallet (left the walletit's nice, by the way) and left a fresh bottle in its place. Enjoy.

Cam.

Groaning, Greg stretched out his shoulders and got to his feet, curious as to where his new friends had all gone. He ambled into the kitchen, noticing that some stale coffee remained in the maker. Too lazy to reheat it, Greg settled for pouring it over some ice. Unfortunately, it didn't succeed in chasing his headache away, but it did make him feel slightly better. He lightly sipped the coffee and exited the kitchen, looking back out at the trashed living room. He flinched when he noticed a used condom on the floor, a part of him wondering where it came from and another part of him preferring to remain ignorant on the matter.

And then, there was the sound of a key in the door. Greg tensed, taking a step into the living room, clutching his glass of iced coffee. He heard a door open and close, and then the jingling of keys and heels clicking against marble until the familiar Latina New Yorker entered the living room and stopped, noticing Greg was there.

She looked different in the daylight. Her mascara had run and she had a band-aid on her upper arm. Heavy circles were visible beneath her eyes and her hair was much duller than Greg was used to it being, a muddier shade of brown as opposed to the rich sienna he knew. It was somewhat frizzy, static electricity coursing through it, and she looked as if she hadn't changed her clothes since yesterday.

"Rabbit," she greeted. "You're up."

He simply nodded at this statement. "Where'd you guys go?" he asked, leaning against the wall and taking another sip of coffee.

She ran a hand through her hair and sighed. "It's been a long day, cariño," she breathed. "You'll have to be going into work again soon."

In spite of himself, he was concerned. "What happened?"

"Nothing that concerns you," said Camellia with a weak smile. "Sit down. Would you like me to make you some tea?"

"No thanks," Greg said, trying to manage a grim smile himself. "Not like the shit you fed me last night."

"Don't call it shit, it was good," Camellia sighed, falling into a nearby chair and bringing a red, long-nailed hand to her forehead. "Whoo... I am exhausted."

"It was no good," said Greg. "Didn't help me at all."

"You don't want the Valium, do you?" Camellia asked with a raise of her eyebrow.

"I—" But she was right. He didn't. "Well... no, but the hangover from that isn't much better than the withdrawal."

"Believe me, the withdrawal will return," Camellia said sadly, rubbing her eyes. "The tea was just a quick fix. You'll want it again, when the withdrawal gets bad enough."

"I won't," Greg said resolutely.

Camellia brought her hand down from her eyes and looked up at him. "I thought you were through with the Valium? This'll help you quit."

"Then why'd you give me a refill?" Greg asked.

She yawned. "Figured I owed you. You can give it back if you like."

He took a seat near her. "And if I drink this... tea of yours for too long. I'll get addicted to that, too, won't I?"

She shrugged. "We all have our vices, querido. We never get rid of them, we just trade one for the other."

"Where are the others?" Greg asked. "I would have thought this was their second home."

"They'll be back," said Camellia. She looked up at him. "Will you?"

"I don't know..." Greg replied honestly.

"If you don't want the tea, then you don't have to have any more tea," Camellia assured him quickly, leaning forward in her chair and taking his hand in hers. "I don't want you to leave. If you're uncomfortable with anything, cariño, we can fix it... Did you ever smoke that weed I slipped you?"

"No," Greg said.

"It'll help."

"I'm tired of quick fixes..." Greg mumbled, reaching into his pocket and staring at the bottle Camellia had left there. "But I'm scared of what will happen if I just... stop. And tapering does no good for me. I've tried to drop my dosage, and my body flips by just a decrease of five milligrams. And then I just want more. I guess... I have no willpower."

Camellia got out of the chair and onto her knees, shuffling over to Greg, where she cupped his chin in her hands. "If you want to quit, I know you will. You are much stronger than the rest of us. Stronger than you give yourself credit for. Do you know why?"

"No."

"Because you have friends you can rely on," she replied. "We don't."

"What are you talking about?" Greg laughed. "You guys seem pretty tight."

"We came together because each of us had no one else. No one else who would care if we one day ended up dead in the gutter. But you do, cariño. If you got s-sick, for example..." She seemed to stutter there, and Greg didn't understand why. "Or if you were injured, or in trouble, then I have seen the man who would pull you out of it. Who would stay at your side as you recovered, or d-didn't recover, as the case often is."

"Camellia, what's going on?" Greg asked. "You're sending me mixed signals, here. First, you tell me that you want me to stay. Second, you're trying to get me off drugs! What's your deal?"

Her hands were clammy against his cheeks, cold and wet. But she pushed him away and sat back on her knees.

"I don't know..." she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself. "I'm sorry. You're right, do what you want. Take the weed. It will relax you. Come back... maybe next week. We'll all be better by then, and I'll be back to normal. None of this crazy stuff." She tried to smile, but it was false. "Promise."

Still slightly confused, Greg rose to his feet and made for the door.


"Where did she take you?" Nick dared to ask a few days later.

"I'm sorry...?" Greg said, confused.

He looked up from across the layout table. "Camellia. Where did she take you?"

It always seemed to take Nick a few days to work up the courage to ask Greg about these things. He wondered how long this had been bothering Nick, and what else would continue to bother him until he asked about it weeks later. "I don't know... out."

"You were sick, right?" Nick asked, as if Greg's health were up for debate.

"A bit."

"She take you to a doctor?"

"Um... yeah," Greg half-lied. She didn't take him to a doctor, but to be fair, she did help his withdrawal symptoms, if only for a while.

"Hm..." Nick seemed unconvinced as he fiddled with some evidence photos.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Greg probed.

Nick looked up. "Nothing, I'm just wondering what type of doctors a prostitute would know."

Greg didn't exactly understand the anger that bubbled in his stomach at that comment. "Are you trying to imply something about Cam, Nick?"

"You call her Cam?" He suppressed a smile. "I mean, no, I'm not trying to imply anything, Greg."

The tension in the room was palpable. If either one of them had held a knife at that moment, neither one could have been responsible for the outcome. Greg clenched his jaw. "Don't talk about her like that."

"Like what?" Nick asked quickly.

"Just..." Greg held his breath. "Just don't talk about her at all, OK?"

"Are you falling for, Greg?" Nick whispered. "Because she's a—"

"Don't call her a prostitute!" Greg yelled, startling the Texan.

He pursed his lips. "I was going to say 'liar,'" he uttered.

Greg tried to catch his breath. His permanent headache, which had returned only a day after his questionable tea treatment, tapped on his brain, warning him that a fight with Nick was a bad idea. "She's helping me, Nick."

"Yeah, so I saw," Nick said with a scoff.

"Stop talking about things you know nothing about—"

"So tell me about it!" Nick interjected.

Greg shook his head. "Did you find the spatter patterns?"

Nick watched him a moment, his chest rising up and down, before he blinked and moved some photos around on the table. He coughed. "Uh, yeah, I..." He looked up, pushing the photos across the table at Greg, who took them and flipped through them.

"Thanks..." Greg muttered. "I'm gonna see if our weapon could have caused all this damage."

Nick nodded, his lips pursed, as Greg turned to leave. Greg was almost at the door when his colleague called after him. "Greg?"

The younger man paused, his eyes on the floor, but he said nothing.

"Just be careful, OK?"

Greg sighed. "I always am," he replied.