He stood on top of the roof and looked down at the ground below him. He didn't get up here very much, what, with being stuck in the morgue most of the time. You get used to being below, of course, and dead bodies weren't usually hard to handle if you're a good coroner, but it was nice to get out in the open sometimes, and above the smell of rotted flesh to a brisk breeze on a cool night. It was nice to be on the roof and alone instead of in a basement with dead people. He didn't mind the company of the dead, of course, it was sort of an occupational hazard, but even when you were mostly immune to death, that constant companionship of those who've passed over could depress you every now and then.
He liked his work, he did. He was an essential part of the team, but the one not featured often. The CSI's all liked him, he was pretty sure of that, but at the same time, he never went out to lunch with any of them. It didn't particuarly bother him. When watching films, he would identify himself not with the hero, but with the hero's best friend who was necessary for survival but often overlooked. And again, he didn't mind this. He liked all of the CSI's-Nick, Gil, Sara, Catherine, Warrick-but he wasn't excessively close with any of them, which made objectively watching them all the easier. And they were, after all, a fascinating group to study.
He was probably closest to Grissom. Neither of them were young men anymore, nor did either of them attach closely to others easily. They had a good deal of the same quirks, but even he was more outgoing than Grissom. Grissom kept all of his emotions hidden even from himself; it was fascinating to watch. The situation with the hearing, though, had taken him by surprise. What surprised him the most was that Grissom had failed to do anything about it. He hadn't seen Grissom as the type of man to be driven by fear, and normally, he wouldn't be. Grissom was the type of man driven by curiousity, by science, by a need to know more, but even the most learned man was afraid of something. Grissom feared that by acknowledging the problem once, it would be with him forever: that somehow, if he just pretended it wasn't there, that it never would exist. But it did exist, and he respected Grissom all the more for handling it-the fear only made Grissom seem more human than most people would ever understand.
He had known Catherine for almost as long as he had known Grissom but he didn't have much of a relationship with her, even though he did like her. He had felt sorry for her too, especially when her ex-husband was lying on his table in the morgue. From the little he had picked up on Eddie Willows, the son of a bitch hadn't been worth shedding two tears over- but tell that to someone who loved him for years and had a child with him. Outside the morgue may have been different, but Catherine was always the CSI who seemed most affected when looking at the dead victims. She took everyone dead too heart, especially children. Every child who died could have been Lindsey, and sometimes he was surprised that Catherine handled herself as well as she did. He wondered briefly how many times Catherine must have seen Lindsey in the morgue in her dreams and was briefly glad he didn't have children. Every victim couldn't be special in a coroner's eyes. You'd go crazy that way.
According to the rumor mill, it was Sara who had the most empathy for the victims. He had heard about a few clashes above grounds in CSI, a few with Sara and Warrick, a lot between Sara and Grissom. Every now and then he watched Sara as she listened to Grissom and thought he saw something more than professional courtesy. He couldn't tell if Grissom felt the same way and was surprised to notice he didn't really care that much about whatever relationship drama the two CSI's may have had. Love. . . a concern of the living.
He frowned as he looked down at the ground below, shifting his weight a little as he stood, trying to make it easier on his artificial leg. Love may be a concern of the living and not the dead, but he wasn't dead yet. Surrounded by death but not dead. Then again, maybe he wasn't entirely alive either.
He glanced below again at the people coming in and out of the building and thought he saw Nick walking outside. Nick was the CSI who got the dates, or at least he had been. Even in the morgue, he had heard of Nick's reputation as a player, though he hadn't heard as much lately. It occured to him as he watched Nick walk to the parking lot that he paid an awful lot of attention to gossip that moved around, especially for an old man. Still, wasn't that too be expected? The giggled whispers of co- workers were healthier to listen to than the silent whispers of the dead. He had known coroners in other cities who had heard them, and where better for the dead to speak than Sin City?
His thoughts moved back to Nick again. He seemed like such a normal, together guy. He guessed that if he had met Nick in the store, he would never have guessed that this man's business was, in fact, death. That alone made him more curious about Nick than most of his other co-workers, all except Grissom, of course, who was the proverbial conundrum wrapped in a riddle. Nick seemed so stable, so steady, so normal that it made him wonder what darkness he hid within.
Maybe he read too much into it. After awhile, it was easy to assume that everyone was hiding secrets. Maybe there was nothing.
Maybe not.
Warrick was the last CSI on the night shift and ultimately, he didn't have a whole lot of thoughts on him. He liked Warrick, he did. Sometimes, watching him work, Warrick could remind him of Grissom, which was interesting because the two had virtually nothing in common. Still, Warrick and Grissom seemed to have this invisible connection, some bonding between mentor and pupil that wasn't with the others, and it made him wonder what Warrick would be like when he got older.
What would the all be like when they got older, was the real question. Somedays, he felt older than his fifty odd years. Somedays, he wondered how the hell he had gotten here so quickly. Time moved on and on while you weren't watching, but death was timeless. No matter where, no matter when, there would always be people dying. And that didn't bother him so much, really. After all, death was just another cycle of life. Someday, he would be the dead one lying on the table in the morgue, and maybe David would be the one cutting him up and sending him off to the crematorium like he wanted. He could see himself lying there, on that cold, metal table. . .and it was okay. He didn't shudder from fear. He didn't try to shake the image from his mind. It was okay.
Because he wasn't there now. That was the important thing. Had he seriously wondered a few minutes ago if he was dead or alive? What a stupid question. Of course he was alive. He had thoughts. He had hobbies. He had friends. Work was important to his life but not his entire life. The people at CSI, his co-workers, were good people to talk to, interesting to study, but not family. He had his own family. He had his own life. The dead were only a part of it. His life was all his own.
He breathed in the crisp, clear breeze on top of the roof and felt very much alive.