CHAPTER 37- One Man's Trash is Another Man's Treasure

Nick Stokes was desperate, furious, vengeful and entirely incapable of focusing on any task requiring thinking, or sleeping, for that matter.

He looked through the chart that Howard, Grissom and Warrick had helped put together of evidence that needed to be dealt with. Pursing his lips, he noted the garbage truck. Greg had originally processed that.

Nick chuckled to himself. Greg always got the dirty work. Memories assaulted him. "Dumpster diving is my specialty," Greg remarked humorously, rolling his eyes. He was covered in leftover spaghetti and what looked to be chicken parmesan. Greg could always find the humor in a situation, Nick thought.

Another more recent image replaced the Italian leftovers.

Greg sorted through the garbage truck, unearthing each new piece of trash like it was an ancient artifact. To Greg, it had been. He had long studied Vegas of the old, for his book – or at least that's what I thought it was for, Nick thought. In retrospect, he realized, the ancient artifacts unearthed of past days of Gedda were in fact quite relevant to Greg's job as a Fed on Gedda's trail. For all Nick knew, Greg had recorded his findings in that truck elsewhere for his FBI investigation.

Nonetheless, Nick would have to go through that truck again. It was the task that required the least attention on his part, for he knew, no matter how important the task at hand, the majority of his attention would no doubt be occupied by his overwhelming guilt.

Nick happily made his way to the truck, tucked away safely in FBI custody. Rummaging through paper and plastic of older days, he worked like a zombie, his mind set permanently between the torture he imagined Greg going through and the comforting channel of nothing. Thinking about nothing, and truly zoning out, had never felt so good.

Disgusting vermin and sodden newspapers were nothing in front of him. They registered no reaction, and he turned them over, one after another, again and again, dismissing them like leafs of a book he read through too fast. They meant nothing to him. He was finally free from his thoughts.

His mindlessness was interrupted by vibrant brownish red, which he knew from years to be blood, criss-crossing a familiar logo. The logo at last broke the levees holding back conscious thoughts from his mind. They flooded him as the logo, that of the diner – the one that had, in a way, started this whole misadventure – pierced his eyes. I didn't even realize it existed back then, he thought mirthfully, trying once again – though unsuccessfully – to banish the onslaught of thought, and its accompanying emotions. Wait, he suddenly realized. It didn't.

The diner didn't exist back then.

He was so lost in thought that he didn't register the footsteps behind him. This time, they weren't Warrick's.

"Mr. Stokes. Fancy seeing you here," said a gravelly voice behind him.

Nick turned around in shock.

"Wh-what?!" Shit, he thought. A gun pointed at his chest. He knew there was no escape now.

The gun moved to his back as his visitor – who looked awfully similar to Greene -- led him away from the garbage truck. The napkin was still in Nick's hand. He crumpled it anxiously, all thoughts of evidence escaping his mind.

He had no idea what to do. He thought of the ways he'd seen victims fighting back, desperately grasping for ideas. There was Greg and his Denali. He remembered Greg's words to Sara, as he'd heard them. Sara had confessed them to him, crying, of her encounter after the beating, how Greg had still been trying to make her proud.

"I scratched one of them," the bloody mess that was Greg Sanders had rasped out. "And you should check my vest… I think the same guy s-spit on me." He took a deep breath. "One of their cars crashed into the Denali." He fought back a wheeze. I guarantee there's transfer on it." Looking up at Sara, he retained a desperate attempt at composure: "You should process the scene now. Me later."

Nick didn't even recognize the tears in his eyes as he walked, still effectively lost in the memories that he'd sought to dodge by coming to the garbage truck. Struggling to deal with the situation at hand, he tried to think back to before Greg had become a CSI. Who was the bravest victim I knew? He wondered. Suddenly, it dawned on him. Gum drops. Nick's face lit up intensely.

The thug looked at Nick curiously. He laughed, spit flying out of his mouth, grossly, and landing on the contents of the truck, and on the napkin. Nick knew that this thug was known for his brawn, not his brainpower.

As Nick passed his Denali, parked next to a garbage can, he blew his nose on the part of the napkin farthest away from the blood.

Then he punched Greene in the nose.

The thug shrieked – surprisingly high-pitched and girly for someone of such size – and moved to tackle Nick, but not before his blood had landed on the napkin and Nick had tossed it toward the trash bin next to the Denali, careful not to actually let it land in the trash can.

Greene looked at him questioningly, before tackling him.

"I never litter," Nick murmered, before getting punched himself. Greene nodded, clearly amused at the questionable priorities of his captive. He must think I'm even stupider than he is, Nick thought, gaining confidence with his last endeavor.

His chest rose with pride and feelings of efficacy, before getting punched back down by his confused and irritated captor. At least they can find that, and check for the fingerprints that I know are on there, as well as the spit, blood and snot that's now there, he thought as he lost consciousness to the punches.

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Thanks for reading, and please review! Thanks to PisceanPal and Racefh for beta and to LostLadyKnight, SawyerFan, GregsLabRat and Mma63 for reviews!

Harper