A/N: This is everything I have posted on WMDB. I've just moved into a new house and don't have internet yet; although Chapter 21 is finished it might take me a while to upload it. I haven't abandoned this story, I promise.
Late that afternoon, three prominent businessmen are found bound, gagged, and shot execution-style in the kitchen of a classy restaurant. I spend three days sleeping on the lumpy couch in the break room while we work the case around the clock, and it feels weird on the morning of the forth day to let myself into your place. I haven't been back to my apartment in weeks except to pick up my mail. You're still acting like there's nothing strange about this, and you spend the morning kicking my ass at Halo and coming up with absurd speculations about the case.
It's almost a week before we manage to get out for a run again, and I'm feeling off my game, letting you set the pace. We go for two miles at an easy jog before I finally feel my mind stop spinning, lulled into a meditative state by the rhythm of exercise, and then we're rounding the corner of your street and without warning you break into a sprint. It's so unexpected that it takes me a few seconds to follow suit and by then you're flying ahead of me, head back, hands pumping at your sides as your long strides eat up the pavement.
We stumble to a halt outside your apartment building, and I lean over, bracing my hands on my thighs as I gulp at the muggy air. You bounce on your heels, shake your shoulders out, then flop down onto the lawn, laughing breathlessly.
You're losing your edge. Hey, give me a break. I haven't had a full eight hours sleep this week. Any leads? We think it was the waiter.
You close your eyes. Your face is flushed and sweaty and unexpectedly calm in the golden light.
I miss it, Nick. The chase. You talk to Grissom yet? Yeah. He gave me the number for the department shrink.
I can't tell from your voice whether or not you're annoyed about that, so I keep my tone neutral.
And? I'm going. My appointment's Tuesday. Do you want me to give you a-- I'll take the bus.
The interruption stings a little, and then you look up at me, shaking your bangs out of your eyes. Your hair needed a trim before all this went down, and by now it's almost long enough to pull into a ponytail at the back, streaky blond and unexpectedly curly.
I need to start getting out on my own.
Your voice is soft, but it hits hard. I forget, sometimes, how thoughtful you can be under that wise-cracking exterior, and you're right, of course. We can't go on like this much longer; one way or another, something's got to give.
I don't really know what to say, so I don't say anything at all. When you lean forward to get to your feet, I offer you a hand up and you take it with only an instant of hesitation, strong fingers gripping, palm hot and dry against my own.
It's the very next day when the reporter shows up.
You're in the shower, and I'm cooking breakfast--dinner--whatever. Pancakes. My hair is wet and sticking to the back of my neck; I probably need a haircut too. It's been a while since I've paid much attention to my reflection in the mirror.
We have a routine, you and I. Running in the morning, then taking turns in the shower. In some ways it reminds me of being back in the frathouse, except for the fact that both of us take our clothes into the bathroom to change. Some days, like today, I cook. It's almost comfortable, like we're roommates or something instead of whatever the hell we actually are.
I'm flipping the last pancake onto a plate when I hear the knock on the door. It smells like maple syrup in here, and the air is warm and damp from the shower running for the better part of half an hour. You take long showers. I don't know whether that's a new thing or if you've always been this way, and that's another minefield I don't really want to trigger by asking.
Just a minute--
I cover the plate and slide it into the oven to keep, turn off the burner and head toward the door, wiping my hands off on a dishtowel. Sara, I'm thinking. Catherine has some school event with Lindsay, and Warrick still seems uncomfortable with the idea of visiting you here. Could even be Grissom, but when I open the door there's a short, sleek-haired woman standing there with a brightly inquisitive expression that reminds me a little of a magpie. She's wearing a neat pinstriped suit, and she's nobody I've ever seen before in my life.
Something I can do for you? I'm looking for Greg Sanders. Is this where he lives?
She steps forward into my space, the way people do when they're expecting you to step aside and let them pass. I hold my ground, folding my arms and channeling Brass at his most obstinate. I just hope this isn't some long-lost friend of yours coming to check up on you.
Why do you ask? My name is Amy Winters and I'm with the Daily Mail. I spoke with Mr. Sanders at the pre-trial hearing, but I've been having some trouble getting in touch with him since then and I had a few additional questions for my piece--
She's speaking in a practiced sing-song that reminds me of a flight attendant or a waitress, and it grates on my nerves more than is reasonable.
I'm not sure Greg's really up to talking to the press right about now, ma'am. What about you? Are you up to giving me a few minutes of your time?
She smiles in a way that's probably supposed to be engaging. Her teeth are sharp and white, like a shark's.
I'm not really up to talking to the press right about now either, ma'am. Are you his partner?
Before I can answer that, the bathroom door swings open, letting a puff of steam out into the rest of the apartment, and I can tell that you're coming up behind me by the way Miss Winter's eyes shift, but I don't turn.
You planning on just standing in the door all--oh. Hi.
Neutral tone, not angry but much cooler than I'm used to hearing out of your mouth.
Mr. Sanders, I'm Amy Winters from the Daily Mail; we met at the hearing last month and-- Yeah, I remember.
I know you well enough to hear the warning in your voice, but I doubt she catches it, because her smile doesn't waver.
I'm working on a piece about your case, and I was hoping to talk to you about the upcoming trial. Our sources indicate that Emma Doyle and Andrew Small were originally the prime suspects in your kidnapping, but they've both been given suspended sentences pending their testimony and I was hoping--
Christ. It sounds like she's planning on just conducting the interview right here in the doorway whether you like it or not. I glance over to you to share an exasperated look, but your expression is sour and unamused. Suddenly, I remember your blind panic when you stumbled out of the courtroom that day, and at the time I just thought it was the trial but now I'm wondering if this woman had something to do with it.
When you cut her off, you don't sound at all panicked. In fact, I don't know that I've ever heard that tone in your voice; it's sharp and cold and painfully, precisely courteous.
Miss Winters-- Amy. I'm not really interested in talking about my case with you or with anyone else,
She opens her mouth again, but before she can get another word out, you reach around me to yank the door shut in her face. When I turn around and look at you, your face is pale and you're standing too close. You close your eyes and take a step back, out of my space, but I can still detect the warm, clean smell of soap. Your hair is dripping water down your neck to darken the collar of your t-shirt. I want to pull you into a hug, but that won't fix anything and I can't help wondering if you heard what she asked me as you were getting out of the shower. It makes me feel weirdly guilty, for some reason.
I hate reporters. Reporters and shrinks, huh?
I'm usually pretty good at saying the right thing with you, but when you cut me a look I wonder if I should have been so flippant. Then you laugh, reluctantly.
Yeah. I think I'm in the wrong line of work. Nah. Look on the bright side--at least you didn't chase her off your lawn with a baseball bat. Who did that? Me.
Two weeks home from the hospital and some skinny kid from one of those drama rags wanted me to tell the whole world exactly how it feels to be buried under a hill of fire ants for an entire day. In retrospect, I probably could have handled it better. I haven't told that story before, but now you're really laughing, half amusement and half astonishment, and it's worth admitting to acting like a jerk if it gets that haunted expression off your face.
Seriously, you hit a guy with a bat? And he didn't press charges? I didn't hit him. They must be pulling their reporters from the Las Vegas Marathon, I've never seen anybody run that fast in my life. That's awesome, Nick. Yeah, well, you might want to avoid following my example. I don't have a baseball bat.
You're still grinning, eyes crinkled at the corners, and I jerk my chin in the direction of the kitchen.
Pancakes? They're still warm. Awesome. Thanks.
We don't mention Amy Winters or her article again.
Your first appointment with the therapist is on Tuesday, and you're still there when I get back from work. I sit down on the couch and put my hands on my knees and stare at the blank TV screen. I don't know how long I'm there before the door finally creaks open, but it seems like an age.
You stand in the doorway, silhouetted in the light streaming in from the window in the entry hall. Your eyes look like something behind them is cracked open, hollow and raw.
I'm already opening my mouth to ask how it went, but I take another look at you and change my mind.
I picked up that new street racing game on my way home.
Your face relaxes.
Cool. Move over, let me sit down so I can kick your ass.
You have another appointment on Thursday, and halfway through my shift on Sunday night Grissom calls me into his office. He's fiddling with a sheet of paper when I come in, looking uncharacteristically frustrated.
Nick. Yeah, Grissom? I need your advice. My advice? Yes. About what?
But really, there's only one thing right now that he could possibly need my advice about, so I'm not surprised when he hands me the paper and it's your request to return to work. You've been getting more and more antsy for the past week; much as you like to pretend otherwise you're as much of a workaholic as the rest of us and enforced idleness doesn't suit you.
Grissom gives me a minute to glace over it. This is almost definitely against department policy, but I can't remember a time that he's actually given a damn about that kind of thing.
You've been staying with him since he got out of the hospital. Gris-- You know better than anyone else how he's doing, Nick. I need to know that he can do the job before I let him come back.
To somebody who didn't know Grissom, that would sound cold, but I can read between the lines well enough to see the worry there.
He's been talking to a therapist. I know he has; I've spoken to her. I also know that he's perfectly capable of telling her what she wants to hear whether or not it's the truth. I need to know how he's really doing. He's--it's been tough on him, Grissom.
Damn it, I should have seen this coming. I don't know what to say, because this should not be in my hands.
Grissom takes his glasses off and rubs the bridge of his nose before looking up at me.
Is he going to be okay?
I've never heard him sound like that before, like he doesn't know what to do. He's Grissom, for Christ's sake. He always has the answers. And all I want to do now is reassure him that you're going to come through this just fine, but I won't lie.
I don't know. I know he's chewing the bit to get back here, but-- I understand. Thank you, Nick.
He puts his glasses back on and holds his hand out for your request form. I give it back to him and turn to leave.
As the door swings shut behind me, I look back to see him sitting at his desk, surrounded by his collection of creepy-crawlies and looking lost and alone. Finally, he pulls the paper to him and scribbles something at the bottom of the page. Request denied, probably.
If you find out about this, you're going to kill me.