A/N: Don't own 'em… wish I did… especially Greg… prima volta means "first time." It's usually used to indicate something different about the first time a part of a musical composition is played. It is repeated after that at least once.

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Last Voice: A Concerto
2: Prima Volta

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Up until that night, the only time I had really been involved with blood, it had been in small amounts and in small vials. Well, maybe not always small amounts – small compared to this.

This was the last night I felt at all at ease walking to and from my car. It was the last night I was just a little lab tech at heart.

It was a bludgeoning case.

Grissom had warned me. "It'll be bad, Greg. Maybe you should wait until something less bloody comes along, like a nice little poisoning or maybe a head shot."

Okay, maybe that's not exactly what he said. But it was the basic drift. After all, Gris would never be that blunt.

I'd insisted. "I can take it. I stayed through that whole autopsy last week, and I helped Sara on a little spatter for practice."

Ha.

Amount makes a freaking big difference in how bad blood is.

Catherine and I ducked under the yellow police tape. Brass and another officer stood nearby, but neither had seen us yet.

I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and ended up gagging on the sudden stench.

Blood. Waste. Decomposing corpse.

I choked and suppressed the bile that had begun migrating up my esophagus. Catherine turned back to me

"Are you sure you can handle this?"

I waved it off and swallowed. Yeah, I could handle it. Maybe.

As bad as that was, it was about to get a lot worse.

Catherine pulled a cloth out of her coat pocket and held it over her nose. I don't know if it because of the actual smell or to make me feel better, but either way I did the same.

We entered the alley.

There was the vic. It was a young woman, with dyed red hair. Or maybe it was just full of blood.

Blood.

It was everywhere. Everywhere.

Someone had beaten the life out of her, and that life was splashed across the cement – from countless scrapes and contusions – finally draining into a brown-red-black pool under her body.

It was like a painting. That's the only way I can describe it – like strokes and spatters of red paints. Like the killer was some sort of perverted artist.

I tried to swallow, but nothing got past the lump that had formed in my throat.

On a happy note, that met my stomach contents couldn't escape, either.

Or so I thought.

Catherine glanced at me. I was probably looking a little green – forget that, I probably looked like a lime.

"Greg, go, now," she ordered. I obeyed – and was exceedingly grateful there were no onlookers at this time of night. I prefer puking in peace.

I lost my entire dinner. Chinese isn't nearly as good the second time around, and the first had been too greasy as it was. Heaved dryly a couple more times for good measure. Unfortunately, memories can't be thrown up. And the image of that crime scene was laser imprinted on my brain.

I pushed myself up onto my knees. Catherine was there, one hand on my arm and the other gently moving in a circle between my shoulder blades, muttering words that were oddly soothing at the moment. No wonder she was a mother.

I wiped my mouth. "I'm sorry…"

"It's okay. That happens. Damn, Grissom never should have out you on this case—"

"No. No, no, he didn't want to, I did. I don't think he knew…" I looked up at Catherine pathetically. Swallowed hard, trying to ignore the bile taste in my mouth.

I tried several times to talk.

"It's part of the job," she said soothingly. "Every time you see a crime scene, every time you deal with it, it's like… it's…"

"Like part of you dies?" I filled in weakly.

"Yeah. And eventually, there's nothing left to die, and that's when investigators start running down. When you can't feel for the victim anymore. But somewhere in between you and that…" Catherine shook her head. "Well, that's where the rest of us fall. Those that take it. You'll get there. You get tough enough that you can take it."

My breathing started to slow.

"Why… Why do we do this?"

Catherine thought for a moment.

"Why do you?" I rephrased.

"Me? Well… I guess I was sick of people pushing me around. Telling me what I could and couldn't do." She smiled slightly. "I guess I wanted to prove them wrong. Show that I was good for more than getting high and taking my clothes off."

I felt a smile tug at my lips.

"And puzzles. I love puzzles. I once told – told Gribbs that solving a case was like being 'King Kong on cocaine.' And it is. It's my rush. My booze, speed, and sex."

"It's less destructive that any of that."

"In some ways. And I can face Lindsay knowing I've put away a killer."

And not with the rest, I finished mentally.

"You're right. Let's go. I can do it."

I picked up the cloth that I'd tossed aside.

Catherine nodded. "There's a bottle of water in the car you can wash your mouth out with. Just try with the photos for right now, okay?"

I nodded.

I could take it.

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A/N: Hmm, I've been planning that aaaaall day. I enjoyed writing it. Maybe it's Catherine – I think she's a very cool character – or maybe it's vomit. Something about vomit really gets my creative juices flowing. Maybe it's because there's so many ways to say it… puke, vomit, barf, throw up, hurl, loose your lunch, toss your cookies, toilet tango, Technicolor yawn. How poetic.