Okay, flashback-post for the drive over, and a flash-forward post (as requested) for the drive back.  What happens in-between is complete case-post.  This, by the way, was really fun to write, since this is a Greg story with no Greg, and I finally had the opportunity to show him interacting with some of the team, in this case, Grissom and Catherine.

I hope you enjoy!

**

Chapter Thirteen: What We're Fighting For

**

It became a game to play over the hours.  Catherine started it by clicking off the radio that had been singing softly of lost love, and saying, wistfully, "Remember last year's Christmas party?

**

They hadn't exchanged presents.  Presents were for birthdays, individual and special, and Christmas was their more general celebration.  Catherine, to no one's surprise, had organized the office party, and Greg had been her cheerful assistant, for the most part, hanging mistletoe that Grissom thought was begging to be misconstrued as sexual harassment, coming in with loaded trays of sugar cookies, and hanging wreaths like they were going to be there for more than a day.  Ecklie would probably tear them down in the morning with a frustrated growl, disgusted at the spirit of Christmas and all that the holiday represented.

Traditions start accidentally, for the most part, and since, the year before, Grissom had taken the day to personally thank his team for their good performance, he did the same that year.  Mingling in and out of their tightly-coiled circles, he traded, momentarily, detachment for kindness, and mixed in sincere words of praise.  He was surprised when there were ducked heads and furious blushes.  He found Greg by the window, his nose pressed against the glass like a seven-year-old, frowning.

"Greg?"

A jerk back, as if he'd been pounced on.  "Oh, sorry, Grissom.  Just thinking."  Whatever he'd been thinking about before, his current topic of thought looked like it might be where to hide.

"What are you doing for Christmas tomorrow?"

Greg licked his lips.  "Nothing."  He hesitated briefly.  "Well, Catherine invited me to her little dinner-party thing, at eight."

Another annual event.  "You're not heading to San Francisco to see your parents?"  He watched as Greg squirmed in his shoes.  He was trying to soothe the lab tech, but he kept saying the wrong thing, apparently.  "I'm sure they'd be glad to see you."

"Um, no.  Not this year.  In fact, if you need me, I can work tomorrow."

"I don't need you, Greg."  Well, that had come out sounding somehow harsh.  Despite his previous intentions to lavish a bit of praise on Greg and then finish making his rounds, he felt obligated to stay until he worked out what was troubling the young man.  "Not tomorrow, at least.  Just enjoy your day off.  Get some sleep.  Call your family if you can't reach them."

"Yeah," Greg said.  "Sure."

What was it about his tone?

"So what were you thinking about?"

Greg's nervous smile turned genuine.  "Wishing for snow."

He patted Greg's shoulder.  "You can wish for snow back in with everyone else.  Sara's feeling particularly cheery and she's decided that we're going to watch Christmas movies for the rest of the night.  I doubt you'll see any snow from that window anyway."

Greg nodded and allowed himself to be steered towards the main room, and they were about to enter when Grissom remembered his purpose for finding Greg in the first place.

Something truthful.  Something real.

"Do you remember your first day?"

Greg grinned.  "Yeah.  I was scared to death I'd mess up and be your only DNA tech to get fired on the first shift.  Archie kept introducing me to people and giving me little warnings."

"What did he tell you about me?"

"That you'd hate my taste in music."

"Archie is remarkably observant."  Here came the kicker, the part he was going to enjoy.  "I suppose no one told you why you got the job?"

"No."  Confusion, then interest.  Greg's eyebrows were raised.

"Hand-picked."

"By Brass?"

"By me."

He ushered Greg inside before the young man could close his mouth again.

**

The game was called "Memories," though they didn't call it anything.  They just traded snapshot images of Greg back and forth, connecting the dots along four years of life.  It was Grissom's turn to prompt and Catherine's turn to reminisce, so he said, "Tell me about when you visited him in the hospital, to tell him about the explosion.

"It happened like this," she began:

**

Catherine built up a pyramid of words, described everything completely, from Hodges to herself, and made sure Greg knew exactly where the blame rested.  She gave him all the details, spared him nothing, and when she was done, she sat there, and waited to be condemned.  Greg's eyes were paler than she remembered, hazel instead of brown in the light, and they searched her face relentlessly, until she felt naked - - more than she had ever felt as a dancer.  She became somehow certain that he didn't understand, that maybe the medicine had fuzzed his mind a little, and he had missed the precision she had laid out for him, so she said, plainly, "It's all my fault."

He said, "That's a relief.  Usually, it's mine."

She didn't know what to say.  Her mouth dropped open and then snapped shut again, more in self-defense than anything else.  She was clueless, adrift.  No one had ever told her that she might be forgiven.  She had expected accusations, expected hurt withdrawal.  Maybe even Greg throwing the glowing little clock-radio at her head and yelling for her to get out of his room.  Not relief.  Not kindness.  It wasn't right, anyway, that he should be pitying her, when he was the one in the hospital, when he was the one who had been hurt.

Her disbelief was so strong that she said, "You're hurt because of me," slower, that time, because she wanted to make sure he understood.

"I'm going to get better," he said, as if that were obvious.  "It's not like you killed me or anything."

She wanted to scream that she could have killed him, though.  Wanted to pound it into Greg's head that she was guilty, and that she didn't deserve his forgiveness.

"We were scared for you."

"How's Sara?"

"Fine," Catherine said.  "She's fine.  Just cut, but Grissom made sure she was patched up."

Greg was getting sleepy, and his eyes were drifting shut.  That bright slash of hazel was fading way into the pillow.  He said, halfway into it, so the words were barely indistinguishable, "Do you think he's mad at me?"

She found herself soothing him, petting the covers down around him, stroking his shoulders.  "Of course not.  Why would he be mad at you?"

"Because I blew up the lab."  His voice was slipping away.

"But you didn't," she said, now sure that he had understood.  "Greg, I did, not you."

"But you can tell him that I did, if you want."  He forced his eyes open.  "I don't want you to lose your job, Cath."  That said, proclamation made, he was falling asleep again, eyelashes fluttering closed, and muscles relaxing.

She said, angrily, "Why are you so damn nice?"  It was a ridiculous thing to say.  She blushed the second she heard it, but it was what she felt - - why was he being nice to her, when she'd hurt him?

Greg was actually looking frustrated when he pulled himself back from the brink of sleep again.  "You're sorry about it," he said clearly.  "You came to tell me that you were sorry because you cared.  Nobody's ever done that before."  His mouth widened into a smile, a happy, sleepy, lightly-drugged smile.  She wondered what it had taken to lower his inhibitions enough to admit what he just had, and she wondered what she thought about it.  "Now can I sleep, please?"

**

Grissom wondered why they hadn't pieced it all together.  Why they hadn't understood.

Catherine's turn to ask for a memory, so she said, "Tell me something special."

He wondered what to pick.  This game - - if they could call it a game, anymore, with the precision they were trading these memories back and forth, it was becoming more of a ritual - - was more maudlin than he liked and more open than he wanted.  Standing up to Nathan, defending Greg, that had been easy.  Telling her about the rape kit had been harder but still in the same vein.  Admitting personal attachment, sharing some moment - - that was hardest of all.

But detachment was a coping mechanism, not a way of life, so he drew from his mind and began with:

"Okay.  Chess."

**

Captain of the chess team.

He wasn't sure when he had found it out, but he remembered Greg telling him that he'd been the captain of the high school chess team.  He'd said it with a weird blend of pride and shame, and Grissom thought he understood why.  High school experiences weren't always fun, and being captain of the chess team wasn't exactly a ticket to popularity.  Greg looked like the kind of kid that might have cared about that.  Still, Warrick reported that the kid was by no means a lightweight - - three games, three checkmates, all on Greg's side.  Whether or not he had enjoyed his geek status and the outcast situation it may or may not have placed him in, Greg had obviously benefited.

That was why Grissom found himself buying the chess set.

It was supposed to be a welcome-back present.  Sorry you almost died in an explosion, have a chess set.  But he found himself taking more care in it than that, going over the different types and even calling up an antique dealer he'd met once to get the perfect one.  Having him back would be worth the money, so Grissom paid for the ebony-and-crystal set without a pang.

Grissom arrived early so that he could get into the DNA lab before Greg, on his first day back.  He set the chess set on the cleared space by a computer, and made the first move.  He attached a note with sparse sentiment, as if hoping to counterbalance the thoughtfulness the gift itself had shown.  "Glad you're back.  - - Grissom."

He didn't wait around to see Greg's reaction, but when he came inside to get his results, he found that Greg had made the next move.  It was easy playing a game from the distance, with no chance of seeing someone's shaking hands.  Greg was on break and Grissom had made his second move before he noticed the response on the card.

It made him smile.

"Glad to BE back.  - - Greg."

**

"Cute."

"I am, on occasion, appreciative of human emotions."

"Even cuter.  It's your turn."

He checked the clock.  They had time for one more.

He echoed her, purposefully, "Tell me something special."

**

Having a cold was a bitch.  Coming to work with a cold, that was even worse.  Catherine pounded through her cases, nose stuffed up and red, eyes glazed, feeling drifty and insubstantial, as if she'd somehow gotten high off the cheap, over-the-counter cough syrup.  She had to call it a summer cold, since it was June, but what cold in Vegas wasn't a summer cold, anyway?  Near the end of shift, she barricaded herself in the break room and buried her head in her hands, wishing for endless boxes of Kleenex, endless bottles of medicine, a cold-pack, and home.

"Here."

"Huh?"  Even words seemed to get trapped on their way to her mouth.  She sounded congested.  "Greg.  What is it?"  She recognized his voice, but he was behind her, and she was in no mood to stand up, turn around, and see what he'd cooked up.

"Lift up your hair," he said.  "This is going to feel good, I promise."

Wondering what kind of positive surprise she was about to get, she obediently lifted the hair from the back of her neck, and a blessedly cool strip of gel was suddenly resting against her skin.  Greg moved with precision, tapering and pressing, until the wrap circled around her neck and aching shoulders.  He came into view with a little grin.

"Cold-strips," he said, beaming.  "My girlfriend in college liked these."

Catherine gave a soft sigh as the cool feeling sank into her sore muscles.  "God.  I would have married you."

He was wearing a polite, puzzled frown.  "Your husband never did these for you?"

"Eddie?"  She barely suppressed her laugh.  Even in the good days, Eddie was more of a "suck it up and deal with it" kind of guy.  He wasn't exactly a born comforter.  He had always preferred to be as far away from her as possible when she was sick.  "No.  He wasn't the type."

"Some guys just don't know what they have," Greg said, shaking his head.  "It's a tragedy, but it's true."  He sat down and reached for Grissom's crossword, before his fingers twitched in a sudden reminder.  Catherine smirked.  Greg had to know that no matter how good a mood Grissom was in or how much he liked Greg, if he came back to find his crossword filled in, he'd go through the roof.  Greg carefully separated newspaper pages to find the cryptograph, instead.

"So what happened to your girlfriend?"

He was connecting letters and didn't look up.  "She met a better guy."

Catherine touched his elbow.  "Well, some girls just don't know what they have, either.  You'll meet someone who does."

His ears reddened.  "That's not your line.  You were supposed to say, 'There are no better guys than you, Greg.'"

"Don't push your luck, mister."

He gave her faux-flirtatious eyes, batting his eyelashes.  "You can't say that I'm not lovable."

"No, Greg," she said sincerely, pressing her fingers into the cold-strip.  "No one can say that."

**

"I detected a hint of flirtation in that memory," Grissom said, smiling.  "Do I need to post an office memo on interpersonal relations?"

"It's called friendship, Gil."

"My friendship with Greg didn't usually extend to him applying cold-strips to my neck."

"And we're all very thankful for it."

Their conversation withered as the desert faded into town.  Amble, California.  A little town that might be housing the one person they really wanted to find.  Grissom rummaged through his files for the street address as Catherine drove.  They didn't trade any more memories.  The pain was better now - - they both knew what they were fighting for.