Disclaimer: I don't own CSI or the characters, and I never will.
Rated for violence, slash, language, and For Gedda spoilers.
Author's Note: Second last chapter! As always, chapter title comes from the song quoted below. Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter! Happy reading :)
THE SKY AT NIGHT
Chapter ten:
New Meaning
'I've been up at this all night long; I've been drowning in my sleep; I've prayed for your safe place, and it's time for us to leave; time is running on empty and the gas is running out; I've decided that tonight is the night that I set love aside; full speed ahead, this seems to be the place, I've seen this once before; planned perfection sought in my dreams, hoping this would take you home; around this turn where the cross will cast your shadow, the people will all gather to remember such a day where the flames grew as high as trees, and the world stopped for you and me; my knuckles have turned to white; there's no turning back tonight, so hold on tight; kiss me one last time, and shut your eyes; endless nights of dreaming of life and the days we should have spent here; glass shatters and comes to a halt; I thought we'd be there by now; I thought it would so much quicker than this; pain has never been so brilliant; I made sure you were buckled in.' – Underoath, "It's Dangerous Business Walking Out Your Front Door"
"How about Charlie's, Sanders?" McKeen asked in a conversational tone as they pulled out of the crime lab parking lot. Greg felt sick. "I hear they've got good burgers."
"Sure," he responded weakly. Why was McKeen making such a big deal out of this? Why didn't he just bring Greg to the back of the building and shoot him there, like he did with Malcolm? Why feed him first? He felt like a lamb before the slaughter, getting fattened up so that once he was killed, there would be enough of him to go around. He rested his head against the window and closed his eyes, allowing the bumps in the road to jolt his head against the cool glass, keeping his mind clear of unwelcome thoughts.
Ten minutes later they arrived at the restaurant. McKeen was first out of the car, with Greg following behind slowly, having to hold himself up by the car door in case his knees suddenly buckled underneath him. The under sheriff only grinned at him and guided him towards the front entrance by placing on hand on Greg's shoulder, simultaneously keeping him from running away. As if he had the strength.
Charlie's was a nice place, when one came there to eat a meal that wouldn't be their last. The team had eaten there once or twice, when Greg mentioned the food was good.
"They even have Veggie burgers, Sara," he'd said with a grin.
They were right outside the door now. There was a large, neon red Open sign on it, and Greg would have paid big bucks just for them to switch off the light and lock the doors. McKeen let go of his shoulder as they entered the restaurant, but Greg still couldn't find it in himself to wheel around and flee. It was as though the under sheriff had tied a rope around his wrist and was keeping him in a five meter circle.
"Let's go near the back," McKeen said, and Greg followed obediently. The place was packed with people. He hoped that someone would realize what was happening and call the cops.
Greg was seated against the wall, facing the glass walls at the front of the restaurant, while McKeen sat in front of him. A waitress—the same one that had served the team once, a while ago—suddenly appeared in front of them with a notepad, pen, and a wide smile.
"Hello," she greeted cheerfully, staring at the under sheriff. He nodded in return, while Greg didn't move or say anything. "Can I get you something to start? Some coffee or tea, perhaps?"
"Coffee, please," McKeen said politely, then glanced at Greg.
"Hey, you work for the crime lab, don't you?" the waitress said, recognizing Greg. He tried to grin at her and nodded. "Sanders, isn't it?"
"You remember my name?" he asked in shock.
She shrugged with her left shoulder and winked. "I always remember the cute ones."
"I'll just have some coffee," he said, avoiding her gaze. She smiled again and left to grab the coffee pot. Neither Greg nor McKeen spoke during the time she was absent. She returned a minute later and filled their cups, also dropping menus in front of them.
"I'll come back in a few," she said cheerfully, and then went to tend to another table.
Greg didn't open his menu.
"So," McKeen said conversationally, "what will you be having, Greg?"
He didn't answer; just stared at the table in front of him. It was shiny and beige. At least they had managed to grab a clean table. Immediately after thinking it, Greg scolded himself for his trivial thoughts. He was going to die tonight; he should at least be putting his mind to good use, like figuring out how he wouldn't end up dead in some alley or dumpster.
"The sirloin steak sounds nice," McKeen continued. He flipped his menu closed and stared at Greg. "What about you?"
"I'm not hungry."
"You should eat. When was the last time you had something, eh? This morning?"
"Sure."
"Today's been a rough day, I'm sure. Eat something."
At least he couldn't be poisoned; McKeen wouldn't go as far as paying the chef to slip something into his food, surely. And their coffee had come from the same pot, so unless the under sheriff was planning on killing himself as well, Greg was safe at the moment.
"No, I'm fine. I'm feeling a bit sick right now."
McKeen hummed and took a sip of his coffee. Greg decided to try to get out of there.
"I'll be right back. Washroom." He began to stand up.
"Sit down, Sanders," McKeen ordered in a cold, firm voice, not looking up from his menu. He was gazing at the front cover, which showed a layout of random plates of food, from rice and chicken to soup and other meats. Greg sat down shakily.
"Why are we here?" he asked in a weak, quiet voice. He almost sounded pleading. At any other time he would have hated himself for sounding so pathetic, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
"To eat. Why else?"
"Cut the crap, McKeen!" He glanced around at all the other people eating their suppers. Families, teenagers, couples… They were all here to enjoy a fine meal, while Greg was here because the man who was planning on killing him had a sick sense of fun and an appetite. "Why did you bring me here?"
The under sheriff stared at him hard. "Don't talk, Sanders. Just sit there and look like you're having a fun time."
"Why?" he asked in a frustrated voice. "Why don't you just drag me out behind the building and fucking shoot me already?!"
"Sanders. Shut. Up."
A man to their left was staring at them curiously, a slightly guarded expression in his eyes. His coffee mug was frozen halfway to his mouth. Greg glanced at him, not aware of what expression was on his own face, and the man slowly took a sip and glanced back down at his newspaper.
Trembling slightly, Greg leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, trying to breathe calmly. Sara had to have figured out that something was wrong. Greg wasn't allowed to leave the interrogation room until Brass told him so, and they hadn't finished talking with him. She had to have told someone that he was missing with the under sheriff.
The waitress appeared again. Greg opened his eyes and stared at her with glazed eyes. Was she the last person that was going to talk to him? Smile at him? Would she recognize his face and name in the paper the next morning, when the article screamed that another CSI had been killed?
"Have you decided what you want to order?" she asked in a cheerful voice. If only she knew who she was serving, Greg thought.
"Actually," McKeen said apologetically, glancing down at his watch. "We've got to run. Unexpected business, I'm sure you understand."
"Oh, sure," she answered. McKeen paid for their coffees and left her a large tip which left her smiling widely. "Bye," she called after them, and Greg somehow managed a small wave.
He would make a run for it as soon as they exited the restaurant. He decided it as they made their way between the tables filled with cheerful people who didn't know that they were letting a murderer and a soon-to-be victim exit the building. They weren't going to save him, so he might as well try to save himself. It would be best to run when they were on the street, since there were so many people walking about and McKeen wouldn't be able to shoot him without being caught.
It didn't stop him, of course, from pushing the gun into his lower back and standing close behind him.
"Turn right," the under sheriff hissed into his ear. "Keep going until I tell you to stop."
"They'll see you," Greg breathed as he made his way down the street.
"Not if you don't look suspicious," McKeen said. "Turn right here."
He did so. "Why did we leave the diner?"
"We're meeting somebody."
They walked for what seemed like forever, but was only around ten minutes. Greg blinked and tried to will down the panic forming in his mind. They were in a back alley, somewhere in a crappy neighbourhood, with shadows in every corner and no place to run. The alley was a dead end. Tears welled in his eyes as the under sheriff stopped walking, and Greg took several more steps before turning around and facing McKeen.
"So, what?" he asked in a hoarse, angry voice. The fury surprised him, but at least he wasn't going down begging for his life. "You're just going to kill me? Shoot me, like you shot Warrick and Malcolm?"
The under sheriff chuckled. An SUV pulled up at the open end of the alley, blocking off Greg's means of escape. For a split second hope rushed to his senses and he thought, It's Brass, but he didn't recognize the man sitting in the front seat and he was smirking as he lowered the passenger side window. He was obviously McKeen's ticket out of this place. Murder was messy, and there would be the possibility of somebody seeing him and Greg enter the alley, but only McKeen exit it.
Oh, my God, he thought in fractured awe. He was really going to die here. He was going to be murdered because he wanted his friends' deaths to be justified.
"You just couldn't leave it be, could you, Sanders?" McKeen said, shaking his head. "You had to go stick your nose where it didn't belong, try to bring me down for Brown's murder."
"He didn't deserve to die!" he yelled. "He didn't do anything!"
"He would have found out about me," McKeen said simply. His gun was down at his side, pointed at the cracked concrete he stood upon. "It was only a matter of time."
"So you tried to make it seem like he killed himself?! You're a fucking idiot, McKeen, if you thought everyone would just lie down and take it!"
"Only you and Niles were stupid enough to challenge me," he hissed. "It took you a while, but you figured it out, didn't you?"
"Yeah, we did," Greg said smugly, even though his heart was beating so rapidly that his chest hurt and he was sure his ribs were bruised. "We know it was you, and now so does the lab. You're fucked, McKeen. You can't kill everybody in law enforcement to save your ass."
"No, you're right, I can't." The casual way that he said it caused chills to creep down Greg's spine. "But I killed Niles. And I'm going to kill you. You screwed around where you shouldn't have, Sanders. This is your fault."
"Why did you only kill Malcolm, though? Why not me too? You could have gotten rid of us both, and instead you only killed him."
"I didn't know you were in on it," McKeen said bitterly. "When Conrad mentioned that Niles was processing prints from Brown's case, he never mentioned you. But I heard you, in the interrogating room, with Brass and Stokes. Stokes didn't even see me slip in to the viewing room when he left. If I had known you were in on it earlier, believe me, you would have died with Niles, and no one else would know it was me that killed Brown."
"But you didn't," Greg said quietly. "And now you're fucked."
"Do you really think that I'm not prepared for what's coming? I'm the under sheriff, Sanders, not some lowly homeless person. I've got connections—I've got escape routes so complex you couldn't even dream of following me through them. You, on the other hand…" He raised his gun and pointed it at Greg's head. "You've got nothing. How about it, Sanders? Your case files saying that you committed suicide in a back alley?"
"They'll know it was you."
"Like I said." He grinned victoriously and cocked the gun. "I've got a way out. You don't."
Greg closed his eyes and inhaled. This was his last breath. The air tasted stale and thick with the grime and dirt gathered on the walls surrounding him and the smoke in the sky. His lungs expanded, praying that this wouldn't be the last time they functioned; his heart gave a painful thump, as though reminding the rest of his body not to collapse and waste away. He still had blood pumping through his veins and arteries, still had thoughts collecting and jumbling in his head, still had oxygen and carbon dioxide surfing through his muscles, still had life inside him.
He slowly opened his eyes, his vision blurry from tears he would never let fall.
This can't be it, he thought. A gunshot filled the air and the moon glared down at him, the stars burst into flames.
This can't be the end.
"What've you got for me, Greg-o?"
Looking up, Greg tried to hide his nervousness by grinning and not keeping eye contact for too long. He straightened up and waved towards the microscope he had leaned down to inspect. Nick walked forward and peered through the lenses.
"Your girl had Idiopathic Edema."
"Which is?" Nick glanced up at him and raised an eyebrow.
"A rare disorder that causes swelling to the face, hands and feet."
Nick nodded to himself and stood straight. "Explains why her hand was swollen. What about that hair I gave you?"
Greg swung around the table and picked up a sheet of paper. Glancing it over, he handed it to Nick.
"Male, came back unknown," he explained. He noticed that Nick was wearing a tight shirt, and swallowed, averting his gaze and instead staring through the glass walls, watching people hurry down the hall. "His hair was dyed, too."
"Oh, yeah?" Nick frowned.
Greg nodded and flicked his eyes over to the other man for a second. "Yup. Blondie isn't really a blondie."
Nick smiled at him and Greg's heart somersaulted. "Thanks, man."
Greg nodded jerkily. "No problem."
Just as Nick was about to step back into the hall, he turned around and leaned against the doorway. Greg tried not to squirm under his gaze.
"Hey, me and Warrick are going out for breakfast after shift. You wanna come?"
Greg stepped backwards and leaned against the side of the table, so as to not suddenly fall to the floor because of melted bones.
"Uh…" He cleared his throat when his voice came out slightly higher than usual. "Yeah, sure, if it's all right with Warrick."
Nick shrugged and smirked. "He's paying."
"Great," Greg said with a smile. Nick waved and went on his way, and Greg breathed out through his mouth in an attempt to calm his frantically beating heart. His nerves were standing straight on end. He was both relieved and disappointed that Warrick would be coming along.
He glanced up, and upon seeing Hodges watching him through narrowed eyes as though he were in deep thought, Greg raised an eyebrow at him and picked up another bag of evidence to process.
"Hey Greg, wait up!"
Shit. It was Nick. Inhaling sharply and stopping, Greg turned around and saw Nick jogging down the hall. Once he caught up to Greg, he smiled in welcome. Greg tried to find his voice.
"You're back at work?" His voice was weak, but at least it was there.
Nick nodded. "Yeah, I was going crazy at home so I called Griss."
Greg painfully stretched his lips into something that represented a grin. "Good to have you back."
"Thanks," Nick said lightly. "Hey, I've been meaning to ask you… Are you okay?"
Greg frowned. "I think this is supposed to be happening the other way around, isn't it?"
"I'm fine," Nick said absently. "It's just, when you visited me the other night, you were kind of…" He shrugged. Greg's stomach turned to stone and he fought the urge to gag. "Acting weird, I guess…"
"Oh, um, yeah, I'm okay," Greg said, beginning to panic. "Listen, I got to go. It's great having you back."
"Wait, Greg—"
But he didn't stop, just kept walking.
"Ever wonder how you're going to die?"
Nick coughed into his drink in surprise, and Greg raised an eyebrow.
"Way to go the depressing route, Sara," he said lightly. "Talk about a conversation opener."
Nick chuckled as well, the sound sending tingles down Greg's arms. He tried not to think about the fact that he was sitting beside Nick, and that as his body shook from laughing, Nick's shoulders sometimes touched his in fleeting seconds that kept Greg's nerves on edge. His grin suddenly became nervous.
"I was just wondering," Sara said, slightly on the defensive. "I mean, we all think about it at some time."
"Well," Greg said, staring down at his coffee as he stirred it slowly. "Every morning when I wake up, I pull out a notebook from my bedside drawer and write the date, so that in case I die you guys will know exactly what day it was, in case I go missing or something."
They were silent. He glanced up through his lashes, first at Sara, then at Nick. Sara had gone still and she seemed to be thrown off balance by his sudden confession, but her reaction was nothing compared to Nick's—his mouth opened and closed repeatedly, giving a fantastic imitation of a goldfish, and his eyes were so wide Greg was surprised they hadn't popped out of their sockets. The three of them were silent for a good minute before he decided to put them out of their misery.
"That was a joke," he said, taking a sip of his coffee. Sara rolled her eyes and Nick relaxed, but he still had a wary glint in his eyes, as though he were certain that Greg did indeed write down the dates in a notebook and was just trying to cover up with the joke. "Well you don't have to laugh," he said, slightly frustrated. "I was just trying to lighten the mood."
Sara chuckled and took a bite of her pasta. "It was funny, Greg," she said, and he simply raised an eyebrow at her and muttered an 'Uh huh?' "Nick, calm down."
"I am calm."
"You look like you want to scratch your eyes out."
"Well, it was a bit of a…surprise, okay?"
"I said it was a joke!" Greg exclaimed.
"Yeah, but still…"
"Oh, come on," Greg said, beginning to feel irritated. "You don't think I'm that paranoid, do you? I mean, it's not like I'm going to die tomorrow. Or today, for that matter."
There was no pain. No searing agony, no violating penetration in his forehead or neck or chest. No last thoughts, no Oh shit I'm gonna die, no trivial thoughts such as the decision to haunt the man who killed him. No tensing of his muscles, as though if he was compact enough, the bullet couldn't go through him. Not even a last minute I never got to tell Nick how I feel.
There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
He heard a scream. Maybe it was his own.
Shouting, then, and a horrid squealing noise, like tires on concrete.
Get on your knees! he imagined he heard someone yell, but he wasn't sure.
"Greg!"
He knew that voice. Nick.
Nick saw him die.
He opened his eyes and he was still standing. He was still capable of breathing, though at the moment he wasn't, his throat was so closed up that he was surprised he wasn't on the ground convulsing, blue in the face. And Nick was running towards him, panic and worry ruling his actions, and stopping in front of him and grabbing his shoulders and saying something but his words weren't registering in Greg's brain and behind Nick he saw the under sheriff on the ground clutching his bleeding hand, the gun forgotten several feet away, and police officers flooding the scene and handcuffing him.
"What…" He wasn't even sure if he spoke the words, if he didn't just think them in his fractured thoughts.
"Greg." Nick shook him firmly. "Greg, stay with me, okay?"
Where was he going to go? Seriously. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
"Greg, are you listening to me? Can you hear me?"
He wanted to respond, he really did. Yes, Nick, I can hear you, can you please keep talking? Your voice is keeping me calm, but something was wrong with him, like a hand covering his mouth and another closing around his chest so he couldn't utter a sound. And suddenly his eyes began to lose focus and they tilted to the back of his head, and the only thing that kept him from blacking out was Nick shaking him again and repeating his name. Greg tried to gasp for a breath but none came—it was as though the air had vanished, replacing the void space with carbon dioxide, and it was slowly suffocating him.
"Nick…" Now, he really did say that, he was sure of it.
"Yes, Greg, you're okay. You're all right. Just stay with me, okay? An ambulance is coming, we're gonna get you checked out…"
Nick's voice trailed off, though his lips still moved. Greg couldn't hear him again. He couldn't hear much of anything, actually, except for the blood rushing in his head. Waves were crashing, and they were tilting him off balance in the tide. He was being swept away.
"Nick…I can't…"
His knees buckled. What was happening? Nick dropped down in front of him, his hands sliding down to Greg's forearms. He drew comfort from the connection; it made him feel even slightly grounded in this dizzying situation.
"It's okay, Greg," Nick whispered. Greg was glad he could hear his voice again. "I've got you. McKeen's been arrested. You're gonna be fine."
Tears welled in his eyes and he tried to curl into himself, but Nick's body in front of him prevented it from happening.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. He stared straight into Nick's eyes, his own wide and scared; he needed Nick to understand. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry…"
"What are you sorry for, Greg?" Nick titled his head to be more eye level. "You did nothing wrong!"
"It's my fault," he gasped, the tears spilling from his eyes. He sobbed brokenly and titled forward. "Oh my God, it's my fault that he's dead…"
Nick suddenly wrapped his arms around Greg's back and pulled him forward, and Greg was enveloped by his warmth, his arms acting as a barrier from the outside world. Greg slipped onto his hip to be in a more comfortable position and he fisted Nick's shirt in his hands.
"Why do you think it's your fault, G?"
And oh God, Nick used his nickname, so of course he was going to answer him, with Nick's body so close to his and Greg's face buried in the crook between his neck and shoulder. He couldn't remember ever feeling so right, like this was where he belonged, and the world could collapse all around him, leave him nothing but chaos and destruction and plague, and as long as Nick was protecting him from it, it didn't matter.
"I asked him to help me," he said. "I didn't want to do it by myself because I'm not as experienced as you guys and I didn't want to mess up in case I missed something and Warrick would be stuck as a suicide victim and I couldn't let that happen, he was your best friend and my friend and he meant so much to everyone and if I fucked it up I could never forgive myself so I asked Malcolm to help me—"
"Whoa, Greg, slow down," Nick said softly. "It's not your fault, okay? You did nothing wrong, you did good, you wanted to bring Warrick justice." The pain in Nick's words bit Greg and left a bitter film over the wound.
"You were so broken," Greg said. His mind was floating somewhere in the abyss that encased his mind, and for once he felt like he could be completely honest with Nick. No barriers, nothing to stop him. "After his death. I hated seeing you like that, and Catherine loved him and Grissom felt so guilty and I just kept thinking that everything was wrong, and that I should have known him better. And when Ecklie said to close it as a suicide I just lost it, because it wasn't fair and not at all possible, and I kept thinking about how you would react to that. I knew I had to do something."
He took a deep breath. The cliff that had been following him for two years was wide open at his feet, ready to take him in. "I love you," he whispered.
"Yeah, I love you too, man," Nick said, his arms tightening for just a second.
Greg closed his eyes and a small sob escaped his throat.
"No," he said. "I mean, I'm in love with you."
Nick was silent for a shattering moment, where Greg didn't move and he thought, I did it, and it felt so amazing to finally let it out, let it go, that he didn't even care that Nick wasn't saying anything, he wasn't saying those four beautiful words, I love you, too, in return.
"You're…you're what?" Nick breathed, but just then sirens filled the air and Greg knew the ambulance had arrived, so he extracted himself from Nick's arms, pushed himself onto his feet, refused to look at Nick's face, and he walked towards the flashing red and blue lights, not feeling much of anything at all.
-9-
