Author's Note: Hey people! I apologize ONCE again for the long pause in writing. It's been one thing after another all this week. To reward your loyal perusal, I've come up with another chapter. Thanks so much for your support. Happy reading!
P.S. I know this title is the same as one of the CSI episodes - season 5, if i'm not wrong? But i can't resist using it. Every title i use corresponds to something in that chapter, and isn't randomly selected or irrelevant. So forgive me for it. :)
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
"Would you please cut that out?" Warrick snapped.
Thump. Thump.
"How long is this going to take?" Greg replied breezily, sounding not at all offended by Warrick's less-than-cordial attitude. "I'm hungry."
"You sound like a kid." Warrick rested his elbow on the armrest of the straight-backed chair he was seated in. The hospital waiting room was not exactly a place where he wanted to be, alone with Greg Sanders and with his leg stitched and bandaged to high heaven. The painkillers he had taken were rendering him drowsy, and he wanted to close his eyes on this case and sleep for a month. The pain of his leg was more than he had let on, and he suspected the paramedics and the doctor were informing Vega as such.
Greg tapped his foot on the floor again. Then, as if he finally comprehended Warrick's irritation, the young man stopped the annoying gesture, much to Warrick's relief. To him, Greg would always seem like a kid instead of an adult – one of the things that the CSIs all loved and hated about him.
"Aren't you tired?" Warrick mumbled, sounding too much like a petulant child to even his own ears for his liking.
"'It is only our bad temper that we put down to being tired or worried or hungry; we put our good temper down to ourselves,'" Greg quoted with a flourish. His lean, handsome face was innocent enough that it looked positively cherubic, and his bandaged arm didn't seem to be swaying him from releasing pent-up energy.
Where does he get his attitude from? He's like the Energizer bunny on caffeine.
"I give up," Warrick answered drily. "Enlighten me."
"C.S. Lewis," Greg replied with an obvious ta-dah! in his voice.
Warrick groaned loudly enough that Cavaliere looked over at the two CSIs, and grinned. "Spare me, Sanders. I want to hit the sack, and you aren't helping any."
Greg's face turned serious. "You'll get enough sleep when you're dead."
Gee, what's with the 180-degree about-face? Warrick forced his eyelids open and looked straight at Greg, his expression speaking volumes.
Greg turned away soberly and sighed. "Nothing, 'Rick, nothing. Just trying to needle you, I suppose."
Warrick smirked humorlessly, schooling his temper. He gave up trying to sleep and rubbed his fingers across his eyes, massaging the lids before he opened them again and focused them once more on Greg.
"You're really eaten up over this case, aren't you?"
Greg turned his baby blues on Warrick and propped his chin up on his hand, facing the older CSI as he similarly rested his elbow on the armrest in a classic pose of boredom and disinterest. That attitude was not mirrored in Greg's face; an ancient look of weariness and worry was written all over his youngish features.
"Of course I am. What sort of question is that?" The kid didn't wait for Warrick to finish. "I throw off Grissom's schedule by that whole acid-in-my-cap business, and now everything's messed up. I wanted the chance to prove Grissom right about my abilities as a CSI, and now he's going to think that I'm some sort of screw-up."
Warrick blew out his breath and fought exhaustion. "See, Greg, that's where you're wrong. Grissom's worried about you – about all of us. He doesn't see you as having messed up. This guy, the one that's after us, he's the one that Grissom will go after – and Brass will be right behind him, to take a piece out of the moron that dared to attack us in the first place."
Greg didn't look convinced. He settled back quietly in the chair with a sigh, self-reproach etched clearly in his expression.
Warrick rubbed the bridge of his nose. He realized that he was starting to know Greg a whole lot better. The young man really was like a kid most of the time, craving fun and games, always peppy and energetic and ready to please. Still waters, however, ran deep, and Warrick had to admit to himself that Greg had more to him than met the eye. He was like an onion with more layers to him than were obvious at first sight. Much as he disliked eating humble pie, Warrick knew he had made a mistake in jumping to conclusions when it came to Greg.
However, deep down, Greg seemed to see Grissom as a sort of father figure, and the others on the graveyard and swing shifts as brothers and sisters. To the only child that he was, Nick, Catherine, Sara, Warrick and Sofia were his role models and mentors; Grissom was the most highly esteemed of them all, to the youngster.
Another thing was that everyone seemed to be irritated by Greg's humor and wit at times. What Warrick was beginning to understand was that Greg used that humor and wit as a defense mechanism – that he used jokes and witty statements to deal with the horrors that he saw on the job. Warrick remembered, with a great deal of amusement that alleviated his drained state, how Greg played pranks on the other lab techs, challenged them in bets, and turned the DNA lab into his playground when he wasn't yet in the field.
He had been the best DNA lab tech ever – Warrick couldn't think of someone who could beat him in delivering timely results and successes to the CSI team on a silver platter. Besides this, Greg did all the small and dirty jobs as a CSI Level One without much complaint, and as best as he could – which meant for top-notch work.
Number one attitude to go along with that genius-level IQ and EQ, he thought, raising an eyebrow in silent admiration.
Greg drummed his fingers on the armrest and then tapped his foot experimentally on the floor again, as if to test Warrick's reaction. He peeked at Warrick out of the corner of his eye, like a kid waiting to see how mom or dad would behave.
"Here," the lanky African-American finally told him, catching the young CSI's attention. "Get something from the vending machine on me." He tossed several quarters in Greg's direction; as if revitalized, Greg caught the quarters one by one, plucking them from the air, and grinned that cute-kid smile.
"Thanks, 'Rick."
Warrick didn't hide his own smile as Greg bounced out of his seat and hurried down the hallway towards the vending machine. Then his eyes went to the two detectives that stood discussing something in low voices with the paramedics and the other hospital personnel. As if sensing Warrick's discomfort, Vega glanced up and raised two fingers – two more minutes, pal, and we're out of here.
Warrick nodded assent and stretched. Then he flexed his leg and winced. The painkillers didn't fully take away the sharp sting of the deep stab wound on his leg. He remembered how the six-inch blade had gone almost clean through the muscle of his thigh. If he concentrated enough, he could still feel cold steel in his leg and hot blood running down his skin.
When the two CSIs and the two detectives left, maybe he could persuade Cavaliere to stop at a bar or something. Warrick didn't drink a lot, but right now he could use some hard liquor to drown his memories and the recent events. Today wasn't a day that he wanted to stay sober; forgetting would be so much easier.
Too bad the others couldn't be so lucky. Warrick hoped that they would be safer than he and Greg had been.
The way things were going, however, he wouldn't hold his breath.
