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Chapter Thirty-one: Disappear Entirely (GRISSOM)

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Just once, he wanted to see everything in black and white. He wanted absolutes and whole answers, with none of the fragments and half-truths that life tended to throw at him. As far as black and white went, as far as clarity, Grissom seemed to receive only the black. The indisputable facts were that Greg was dead and that he had not died peacefully. After that, everything seemed subsidiary, waves eddying and falling against his subconscious, primary colors instead of blacks and whites.

When Nick told him about Hodges and Ecklie, he wanted to tell Nick that all of it seemed like just flickering colors in his peripheral vision, because Nick, so stricken, looked as if he might understand. Nick was hurting, and hurting badly, his voice coming out creaky and disconnected, and his whole self closed against Grissom. Nick had simply - - retreated. Enough was enough, Nick's eyes said, and this is definitely enough. He had the idea that Nick's vision had gone entirely black, with no chance of whites or even primary colors.

And Grissom just listened to him tell the story in that robot's voice, listened as Nick told him about Hodges and plans and lawyers and serial killers who were the force behind the figureheads.

"He tried to tell me," Grissom said finally. "Tried to tell me, and I called him paranoid."

"Greg," Nick said, and his mouth seemed to do a funny spasm, as if he tried to frown and cry and smile and speak all at the same time, and only succeeding in stretching the muscles instead. "Yeah. Oh. Yeah." He sounded confused, imprecise, floundering, and for a split second, Grissom could see all the way down through Nick's shields, and he could see a battle going on there - - an epic war in Nick's mind to hold off his grief and guilt so he could do his job.

"Warrick says. Warrick says," Nick continued, and then the glimpse was gone, replaced again by those shutters that kept Grissom entirely out, "that since we already have the primary suspects, there's no reason to keep you out of the case. He says that he's willing to make a few deals with Covallo, and as long as he stays the primary on the case - - you know, not you - - then Covallo will let you help us."

It was a deal. Grissom wiped a hand across his mouth, his fingers gliding coolly over his lips. It was more of a chance than he'd had since Lizzie's death, and far more of a chance than he thought he'd ever have again. It was a partial acceptance, and the first step back to his old life, to his normal life - - and he just sat there, motionless, wondering if this was still what he wanted. They were giving him his job back, and he would still have that career that had been his life - - Nick's small, tired grin confirmed that - - but was that even what he needed anymore? The rest of his life was in shambles, and if what Nick was saying about Ecklie and Flowers were true, then this had all been because of him. His own life, ruining his own life. And ending Greg's.

Hell, ending Lizzie's, even, if they came right down to it. She wasn't really innocent in the matter, but she had still been killed for his sake. To frame and to implicate.

So much death and chaos surrounded him in a circle, choking him, and he didn't know how he was supposed to feel about getting back a job that would just give him - -

What? What's bothering you, Grissom, is that you know exactly what you need and now you can't have it.

Which was probably true - - he didn't usually lie to himself. Not about what he knew.

If Nick had entered the last of the little rooms with his head sunk instead of lifted, and if he had told Grissom that nothing had changed, that Greg was still dead and that it was still Grissom's fault, still all his fucking fault because it was set up for him, set up for him to be ruined, hurt who Grissom loved, and Greg ended up crucified in a fucking parking lot because of Grissom, because it was all because of Grissom, and the blood on Lizzie's sheets was owed to him, and the holes in Greg's hands were owed to him, and if Grissom didn't rape Lizzie and murder Greg, well, then, he might as well have. If Nick had told him this, and asked Grissom to just leave, to get the hell out of Dodge, because it was all his fault, then Grissom would have looked at Nick for a long time to try and see when Nick stopped being the person that Grissom knew he could trust and started being so bitter, but then he would have nodded, and he would've left without a second glance behind him, and without regrets.

If that had happened, he wouldn't have protested, because he would have known that every word Nick said was gospel truth, unkind or not, and it would have been an excuse. He wouldn't be abandoning them, he would just be - - exiled. Let go. Terminated. The lab no longer had need of a Gil Grissom.

It would be . . . punishment. Punishment for being the reason they hurt so badly. Punishment for Greg's death, Catherine's lowered eyes, and Warrick's exhaustion. Punishment for kissing Sara and opening up a door that he could not pass through, and punishment for the guarded look Nick had while he tried, behind his eyes, to not go insane too soon.

"Griss? Grissom, you can come back." Nick sat down beside him, close enough for Grissom to see that Nick was trembling. "You can come back," Nick emphasized. "Please, Grissom, we need you."

There was something too delicately heartbroken in Nick's expression for Grissom to explain about punishment and possibilities, so he just nodded. Nick gave him a genuine smile, and closed his eyes. Grissom watched as a crystalline line of tears appeared around Nick's eyelashes, and then Nick blinked them away like rainwater, still smiling just a little.

"I thought that you were going to say no," Nick said softly. "I was afraid you would. You looked like it, for a second, like you weren't going to - - Like you were gone," he finished, shaking his head, and a tearstain glimmered in the light.

"I'm right here, Nicky."

And just who exactly are you trying to reassure now, Gil?

Nick nodded. "Oh yeah. That's good. You're here, okay, I can deal."

"Ecklie," Grissom said, because he had to say something, and it was applicable enough. Couldn't wait to see Ecklie. Couldn't wait to get his hands on Ecklie, to tell the truth, so angry that it physically hurt him, this waiting. "Are we going to go and talk to Ecklie about this?"

Nick's genuine smile turned into an expression so unrecognizable that Grissom couldn't decipher it until he imagined it away from Nick's face. It was a grimace of pure, unadulterated hatred. It was a razor blade smile; thin, tight, and sharp. He hated seeing that look on Nick's face, and it actually frightened him. It wasn't like the thought that Nick could hate someone hadn't ever entered his mind, that would be ridiculous - - but he had never seen it. Never believed that it would be so close, and so sudden.

"That's the plan," Nick said with that funny, hard grin still on his face. "We go in together, hold each other back, make sure no one kills him before he can testify."

"Make sure no one kills him?"

"Yeah. No one like us, I mean," and that grin didn't go away. Grissom didn't like it. It was too vicious, as if Nick didn't just want to kill Ecklie, but rip him to shreds. It was a predatory look, he realized, with a dark chill. "And no one named Matthew Flowers."

He had to make that grin go away. Had to be remorseless enough to kill Nick's anger, and he didn't want to do that, because the anger made Nick seem more alive than the emptiness, and the silent desperation he'd had before: Please, Grissom, we need you. Nick's anger kept him sane in the place of the guilt that was otherwise taking over him, but the anger was going to hurt worse than the guilt after a while. No one could live with remorse that long - - it would devour them, eat them from within.

Grissom knew a lot about anger, and he knew even more about guilt.

"Do you know why I sent you to Boston, Nick?"

Nick blinked, the anger not gone, but hazed over. "Yeah - - you wanted me to find about Lizzie Zimmer. I'm sorry that I couldn't find more than I did but . . ."

"No, no. Why did I send you to Boston?"

Nick seemed to collapse one step a time, the grin going first. He looked down at his hands as if reassuring himself of all ten fingers, and said something that Grissom couldn't hear. He repeated it, louder, raising his gaze as far as Grissom's mouth, but still not looking in his eyes. Still trying to hide and shy away. "Expendable," he whispered. "You don't need me."

"No," Grissom said, shaking his head, "no, that - - that's not true."

He hadn't guessed that Nick would be so far off the mark - - he had meant to reassure Nick of his place and remind him that he was trusted as the safety. When Grissom wanted to react too hastily, when he was uncertain, he liked to have Nick there, steady and strong and trustworthy, reminding him of what he had to try and be. Had he really been so cruel or so careless as to let Nick translate that trust into condescension? But he hadn't known, of course, or he would have said something earlier - - maybe not so directly, but he would have at least hinted, complimented and smiled until Nick felt valuable, felt trusted. He hadn't known.

But you suspected, said a little voice in his head. It sounded almost like Greg, and when Grissom thought that, the resemblance seemed to grow stronger, given shape by his ghosts. You always kind of suspected that he didn't think he was good enough, didn't you? And you tolerated that, because it wasn't too obvious. The only reason he was so valuable was because he thought that he didn't matter. He was afraid that you wouldn't tolerate any excess in him, Griss, that's why he's your safety. Warrick and Sara know you trust them, so they can do whatever they want. They can show fear or pain. Nick? In the immortal words of the Mafia - - fuhgeddaboudit, Grissom.

After all, the not-Greg continued, we're cut from the same cloth, me and Nick. Or we were. Since you killed me, I'm not really cut from anyone's cloth. Just cut. The unkindest cut of all, right?

How could he keep Nick perfectly sane if he couldn't even get rid of his own ghosts?

Too many colors and too few absolutes, Grissom decided, watching Nick watch him. And too many misperceptions. How do I even start to tell him anything at all?

"You aren't expendable, Nicky," he said, and put his hand on Nick's elbow, but Nick pulled away.

"We have an interview to do," Nick said, his voice iron-controlled and too quiet. "Come on. I want to get this over with. I just want it all to be over."

Grissom had had a case once where the killer was a young woman, so out of her mind with pain and drugs that she could barely make herself understood. Her words had come out in a mushy slur, apologies and prayers and pleas, and the only thing that consistently appeared like a thread through the lengthy ramblings was one constant statement, spoken in such high-pitched gibberish that if he hadn't heard it almost ten times, he would have dismissed it as mere insanity, and not real terror.

Oh please, she'd kept saying, don't let me disappear, don't let me go away.

That was who he thought of when he looked at Nick. Nick looked as if he were trying his best not to disappear entirely. He put his chin up when he looked at Grissom - - brave and bold and terrified and defiant, so confident in his own insecurities.

"You ready for this?" Nick asked, and the faintest edge of hope showed in his voice. "I mean, it could all end the second we step into that room. It could just be over. Things could be okay again, you know? Things could - - could almost be okay," he amended, and Grissom knew he was thinking about Greg. "If it just ended now, we could still end it soon. We could still - - I mean, it could still be okay, right?"

"I don't know," Grissom said.

Nick paled but nodded, and held the door for him as they left the room. He stood there for almost another thirty seconds while Grissom watched - - just holding the door wide open as if waiting for one more person to stroll out of the room. After a while, he smiled sheepishly and let it swing closed with a small, almost inaudible click.