I never intended to take this long. Don't know what's wrong with me—hours just turn into days, and days into weeks… and before I know it, it's been a month, and me with no updates.

I know this is really annoying to you readers, so please, let me know. Do you still want me to continue this fic, even knowing I may not be able to do better than this—an update a month?

Thanks for your input, whatever it may be.


11.

He'd died and gone to Heaven. That was the only explanation Greg Sanders could find for the chocolate-eyed angel standing over his bed, gazing intently down at him. I could drown in those eyes… his foggy mind murmured blissfully. One naughty hand shot inadvertently out from under the covers, and his heart skipped several beats when it was met by another.

"Hey, Greg," the Angel spoke, giving his fingers a squeeze. "How are you feeling?"

Trick question, his subconscious warned. Say you're okay and she leaves. Say you're in pain and…

And what?

He wasn't in pain anyway—not really. There was a beautiful hazy numbness trickling through his veins, giving everything a surreal quality. Somewhere deep down Greg knew he had to figure out what this was all about but he couldn't stay conscious long enough to care. Did it even really matter? If it got Sara Sidle giving him her undivided attention for an hour or two, it couldn't be that bad.

"Greg."

She was shaking him—forcing him awake when all he wanted was to drift happily off into dreamland again. No, don't make me stay here, darlin'. Have pity on my poor soul!

"Greg, can you hear me?"

The Angel sounded upset. Greg's heart went out to her. I won't be responsible for making a woman cry. "Loud and clear," he asserted. Or at least, he tried to. Disjointed mumble was actually more like it.

There was something wrong with his left eye—the lids were stuck together or something. Vaguely his other hand crept up to fix it, crashing into some hard plasticky substance. "Ouch!"

As the pain settled into his orbit and cheekbone, Greg found himself suddenly remembering, the torrent of unwanted memories toppling over him like a flash flood—the neverending shift, the darkened parking lot, a coworker who wouldn't wave back. The cast-off purse at his feet, a beefy fist jarring his brains almost into oblivion. The metallic taste of Catherine's car paint as his poor face was ground into it.

"Cath… Catherine…" he sputtered, swiping at the alien thing covering his eye. It wouldn't come off. What the hell is this shit?

"Calm down, Greg. Cut it out!" Sara exclaimed, shoving his writhing self back down onto the gurney. "It's okay—she's right here. Catherine's right here."

For a second Greg wondered if he'd imagined the dirty look his precious Angel shot the other person in the room. Because why would Sara ever treat anyone like that? Especially someone in a wheelchair?

Knock it off, Sanders. Get over it. I know you're on drugs and all—at least, you must be, if you're acting like such a moron—but you gotta assess the situation. Scientifically—the way investigators do. Walk yourself through it. C'mon.

The person in front of him was Sara. Brown-haired, brown-eyed… endearingly gap-toothed.

The person beside him was in a wheelchair. She was decidedly female, apparently blonde—late 30s. Someone had done a hell of a number on her face, raccoon eyes, a fat lip, and nonexistent nose being the kindest way to describe it.

And she was talking to him. With startling familiarity.

Holy shit—that is Catherine!

He considered it wisest to keep his opinion of her appearance to himself. "It's you."

Brilliant demonstration, Sanders. Dazzle her with your wit again, why dontcha.

"How are you doing?" His eyes would have been rolling if he'd had free use of both of them.

"I'm fine," she replied. And astoundingly enough she really did sound it—even if she didn't look it. "And I got you to thank for it. Or so I'm told."

A warm bubble rose in Greg's chest. "I'm glad." He couldn't help but evoke the last position he'd seen her in—trapped under some huge hulking gorilla—and if any of his actions had helped get her out of there, he was grateful.

"How are you doing?"

"Been better," Greg honestly responded, fingering the odd synthetic appendix. He was lucid enough by now to realize it was an eyepatch. "What's wrong with my eye?"

"Fractured orbit," Sara broke in, her voice unusually sharp. "You had surgery a couple of hours ago. You'll be okay. But you really do need to rest though. Come on, Catherine, let's get out of here."

Wait!

"Did you find these people? The ones who did this?"

Catherine spun back to him, an expression of hopeful intensity on her mangled face. "You know who they are?"

That's when he realized she knew even less about this than he did. Disappointment was a bitter pill to swallow.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Sara couldn't quell her impatience as she wheeled Catherine back to her own room, just a tad more aggressively than was necessary.

Okay—she was pissed.

Greg had been perfectly fine until Catherine decided to flaunt her guilty self into the picture. Why'd she have to insist on being there when he woke up? He was sure to get frantic, what with the drugs and all she'd put him through. Cool it, Sara checked herself shortly—no one's saying Catherine's to blame for this. Yet somehow she was sure the blonde had something to do with it. Maybe not deliberately. Catherine had a way of attracting trouble, taking others down with her… just like that time with the lab explosion…

Poor Greg was above suspicion. He never had anything to do with anything. As a lab tech, he wasn't even directly involved in the cases. Yet because of her—and who knew what she'd gotten herself into this time—he'd ended up in surgery.

"Watch out," Catherine cried out, her right shoulder just barely missing the doorframe.

"Sorry," Sara meekly apologized, controlling herself.

She'd got a little carried away. It wasn't that she didn't like the blonde. She actually kind of admired her in a way. Catherine was smart, and had her own spirited way of solving crime puzzles that was pretty enlightening, and refreshing, to a classic, by-the-book, strictly evidence-based Grissom follower. She just couldn't understand her. There was a time when she would've killed to be friends—when she presumed they were. But the woman was forever blowing hot and cold—one day they were chums, the next, Sara might be hanging from the nearest tree for all she cared. When that fuck-up Eddie Willows was murdered and she failed to bring proper closure to the case, Sara was certain she'd lost whatever chance at camaraderie they had. But then Catherine's sympathy had taken her completely by surprise when that whole unsavory Hank Pettigrew affair went down…

Who could ever hope to figure her out?

Plucky little Lindsey Willows, one of the few kids she had ever known and liked, had already come running to claim her mother, and since Sara had to return to Headquarters anyway, she figured she might as well leave them. They'd be better off in each other's company than hers anyway. Hospital settings made her edgy.

Good thing it was a nice day at least, she thought, blinking her sun-blinded way out into the parking lot. She didn't see how any of them would've been able to stay up otherwise. Now, between the sunny day and knowing Greg to be out of danger, she'd be much more focused on the task at hand. All she wanted, in fact, was to be back in her comfortable well-known work environment. If only she could remember where she'd parked the Denali…

Oh shit.

Her feet came suddenly to a halt.

The car was there—but about a foot shorter than she'd left it, that precious Denali Grissom had never consented to loaning her before. All its tires were slashed and all its windows smashed, a huge pool of shattered glass framing it like a halo. The words "back off bitch" stared out at her from what used to be a gleaming black hood.

Fuck.