Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them; most of the others are mine, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.
Spoilers: through "No Humans Involved".
Note: Clichés four, five, twelve, and forty-seven, but I've always wanted to write one of these. Rating may change later. Thanks yet again to Cincoflex, who never fails to be wonderfully encouraging, and who thought of the title.
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Cheri had been a state trooper for over a decade. In that time she'd dealt with countless vehicular accidents, seen the mangled wrecks of cars fallen victim to the laws of physics, handled the traumatized survivors and onlookers. She was a professional, she was good at her job--and it wasn't easy, trying to do anything in law enforcement with a name like "Cheri"--she'd learned how to let the burdens go at the end of the shift. It was let them go or burn out, after all.
But that didn't mean she didn't feel for the victims.
Oh, it wasn't intense; after all, she didn't know them. But she could still empathize. And she did, letting it show just enough so that they knew she cared, that they weren't faceless to her.
This time it was no different. She and the CSI had slid down the steep muddy hill, hoping that it wouldn't collapse under them and praying fervently that both the passengers were still alive, and had been rewarded. One conscious, one not; the driver was injured and shocky, but coherent enough to tell them a little about what had happened. Fortunately, Rescue hadn't been far behind, and now the MedEvac helicopter was gone, its noise fading into the rainy sky.
That was the thing about accidents. Rescue came, Rescue departed, and so often there was someone left behind. Someone who watched their loved ones vanish, and had to follow not knowing if they were chasing death or a chance at life.
This one was no different. The CSI--Cernan? No, Grissom, that was it-- stood staring up at the clouds, even though the chopper's lights were gone. He was as muddy as Cheri, and was shivering a little, though she suspected it was more from distress than cold. He didn't seem to notice. The two accident victims were apparently members of his team; the conscious one certainly seemed to know him pretty well.
She looked around. The scene was under control, with other troopers making sure that the hill above the road was stable and dealing with the accident's aftermath. She stepped forward and touched the CSI's arm. "Dr. Grissom?"
He didn't start, but Cheri got the feeling that her hand brought him back from a very long distance. It took him a moment to turn and look at her, and when he did, she hid a wince. His face was impassive, but his eyes...
"I'll give you a lift to the hospital," she told him, and he nodded, and they turned to scramble back up the hill.
But he stopped before they got more than a few yards. "Go ahead," he called to her, and picked his way back down to the vehicle. Cheri finished the climb and turned to see what he was up to.
From her angle, thanks to the more powerful lights brought in, she could see him poking around in the front of the SUV; when he straightened, he was holding a dark rectangle that he pushed into his jacket pocket. Then the CSI leaned in until he was peering over the seats into the back. She saw him strain to reach something, but when he brought it out it was smaller, and she couldn't make out what it was before he tucked it away.
She had the cruiser's heater blasting by the time he reached the top. "Forget something?" she asked casually as he dropped into the passenger seat."
"Nick usually puts his wallet in the center console during long trips," the CSI said absently. He didn't continue, and Cheri didn't ask what else he'd found; she just pulled back onto the road.
He said nothing on the whole trip down. In fact, nothing on him moved but his thumb, which rubbed against the inside of his fingers in an obviously long-set pattern. Some people in his situation would chatter, babble even, unable to contain their anxiety, but he just sat. Cheri might almost think he didn't feel anything, except for the tension that was emanating from him like some strange form of energy. All his body was strung tight, leaning imperceptibly towards the hospital where his colleagues were.
Besides, she'd seen his eyes.
She'd let this one go too, at the end of her shift, deliberately smoothing the memory of his pain into forgetfulness, filing his name and those of his wounded colleagues into the portion of her mind that dealt only in facts, not in emotion.
But until then, she would do all that she could. And if that meant getting him to his friends faster, then that was her mission.
Cheri flipped on the flashers and siren. Faster it was.
xxxx
His thoughts kept circling, restlessly, too afraid to settle. A fact lay in the middle, a wretched, pain-filled fact, and he didn't want to touch it, but he couldn't forget it either. So he let his brain rattle on, tumbling over thoughts of bad hospital food and insurance deductibles and who'd won the game last night...
"Hey, man."
Nick looked up. Warrick was braced in the doorway. "Mind if I come in?"
Nick grinned wanly at him; his face didn't hurt today, the burn was almost gone. "Welcome to my world." He waved at the hospital room. "You can have the bed."
He himself had taken over the room's only chair; one day in bed was plenty. "I hope you're here to get me outta here."
"Soon as they sign your papers." Warrick sat on the end of the bed, bouncing a little to test the spring, and looked at Nick's sling. "How's the shoulder?"
Nick shrugged, one-sided. "I'll live." He'd apparently hit it on the window on the roll down the hill, dislocating it.
There was an awkward silence. Nick broke it, trying desperately to avoid the inevitable topic. "The doc should be here soon."
Warrick nodded. "We stopped by yesterday, but you were pretty out of it."
Another silence, and Nick's throat was getting tight again. Don't make me say it, man, he wished desperately at his friend. Don't--
Warrick shifted uncomfortably, but before he said anything, another familiar figure walked in. "Good afternoon, gentlemen."
All Nick's pain and sorrow was suddenly transmuted into fury, and despite injuries, drugs, and not a decent meal in two days, he was on his feet, pressing Grissom into the wall with his good arm. "You unbelievable bastard," he hissed in his ex-supervisor's face.
"Nick!" Warrick jumped off the bed. "Nick, man, what are you doing?"
Grissom wasn't fighting; he was only watching Nick, eyes cool and regretful, despite the pressure across his collarbones. "I know," he said softly.
"You're the reason she's dead," Nick spat. "She gave up because of you!"
Grissom frowned at that, and Warrick's hands pulled Nick away. "What are you talking about, man? Sara's not dead."
Nick blinked, suddenly dizzy. "She's not?"
Warrick guided him over to the bed and made him sit down. "No. She's up in the ICU."
"She's in critical condition, but she's stable," Grissom added, pushing away from the wall as though being threatened was an everyday occurrence.
"Oh." Nick blinked again, trying to work through the confusion, feeling tremendous relief welling up beneath it. "Oh. Oh geez." She's not deadshe'snotdead...she's alive--
Warrick sat down next to him. "You know Sara, she's a fighter. She's going to be fine."
Nick swallowed and exhaled, trying to calm his roiling insides. "What made you think she was dead?" Grissom asked, his expression showing no anger, only concern.
Nick shook his head. "I kept asking about her yesterday, and no one would tell me anything. They just kept saying they'd find out, but nobody ever did." He felt a little foolish now at the conclusion he'd jumped to, but their eyes were only compassionate, without a trace of amusement.
"Nick, they were worried about you," Warrick said, putting a hand on his good shoulder. "She's not in good shape, and you kept getting agitated."
"Oh," Nick said again, and looked up at Grissom. The older man regarded him calmly, and Nick realized that two years ago, or even one, he would have apologized to Grissom.
Not any more.
"That doesn't make you any less of a bastard," he said coolly.
"I know," Grissom said again, still calm. "Warrick, would you excuse us for a minute?"
Warrick looked from one to the other, then raised his brows, gave a soft whistle, and rose to leave the room. "I'll give you three."
When the door closed behind him, Grissom turned back to Nick, who found his anger returning, if not so desperate. "How do you know?"
Grissom tilted his head. "Do you remember what you and Sara were doing when the slide hit you?"
"Yeah, I was driving, duh. And Sara was talking to you on her cell."
Grissom nodded. "She lost it in the accident, but it didn't shut off. The volume was turned down, and the phone landed behind her seat; they found it later."
Nick's brows went up as the picture came clear. "You heard us."
"Yes." Grissom's face was still, but there was a wealth of pain under his words. "But you couldn't hear me."
Nick winced as he imagined Grissom on the other end, hearing the wreck and the subsequent conversation yet unable to even reassure them that someone was coming. "We...didn't even know the phone was still in the car."
Grissom shoved his hands in his pockets. "It was a good thing; we might have taken longer to realize you were in trouble otherwise."
"Yeah." Nick shivered. "How is Sara, anyway?" Looking at Grissom's stillness, he had no doubt that the older man knew precisely.
"She hasn't really regained consciousness, but they've got her fairly heavily drugged," Grissom replied, and now the worry showed. "She's pretty agitated when she's aware enough. Apparently she believes we left you behind." His smile was small and sad. "She swears a lot."
Nick chuckled, surprised, and it felt good. "That's my girl."
"If you'd go up and see her, you might be able to reassure her," Grissom added, and Nick snorted.
"You'd need Brass and a full squad to keep me away." He stood up carefully. "Which room?"
"Warrick'll show you." Grissom didn't move, only watched him, and finally Nick sighed.
"What?"
"What she said..."
"Oh. Grissom--" He felt distinctly uncomfortable. "People say things they don't mean when they're hurt, you know that."
Grissom shook his head. "No. There are moments for truth, and that was one of them. No, I just wanted to ask..." He hesitated. "I...I couldn't hear what she said at the last."
Nick regarded him, seeing as if for the first time the bone-deep weariness of the man, and his pain. And it struck him afresh how much of a waste the whole thing was. "She asked me to take care of the team." Never mind that they were split up now; they were still a team.
"Ah." Grissom nodded, as though he'd expected nothing else.
Nick walked past him, heading for the door, but when he reached it, his own compassion got the better of him. He turned a little, not quite looking over his shoulder. "And she asked me to take care of you."
He stepped through the door and closed it gently behind him.
xxxx
They were going to kick him out eventually. But for the moment, he was here, and he was staying.
Grissom watched from the hub of the ICU, leaning back against the nurses' station and observing Nick in one of the pods that spoked off from the hub. He was seated next to Sara's bed, looking like a hero with his sling and his bruises, and he was holding her hand with his still-swollen right one, talking to her softly. Her eyes weren't open, but at least she'd stopped the restless movements that had concerned the doctors.
The nurses moved around Grissom as though he were a particularly large potted plant; they were used to him by now. He'd been there all day yesterday and most of the night, barring a few bathroom breaks and a couple of visits to see Nick.
But the younger man had been asleep both times, and didn't remember.
A quiet step by his side made Grissom glance over, and the sight he saw made his eyes widen. The person standing next to him, mimicking his posture of folded arms, wasn't statistically the last person he expected to see, Grissom thought in astonishment. There were probably some folks in Mongolia or New Zealand who were less likely to be there. But the new assistant supervisor of the lab wasn't much further down the list.
Neither man said anything for a long moment, but finally Ecklie sighed. "How is she?"
Grissom restrained his impulse to reply with sarcasm, and repeated what he'd told Nick. "Critical, but stable. They think she'll recover."
Ecklie nodded, and just watched the two CSIs for another minute. "You people have until she's out of ICU," he said at last. "Then you start eating into your leave. Not that you don't have plenty of it."
The utter lack of insinuation in his tone took Grissom aback. Apparently sensing it, Ecklie turned his head to regard Grissom.
"I know you think I'm an ass, Gil," he said, with the little smile that usually made Grissom's hackles rise. "But I know what it's like to stand here and wait."
Grissom found himself without words. "Conrad...thanks," he finally managed.
Ecklie shrugged. "Just doing my job." And the statement was so loaded with irony that Grissom didn't know what to make of it. "Tell Sidle when she wakes up that the lab needs her."
He turned on his heel and left, leaving Grissom staring after him.
xxxx
They let him stay all that night, too. He sat in the chair by Sara's bed, holding her hand when it was permitted, which wasn't often; drifting on the edge of dream most of the rest of the time. Nick's visit appeared to have done the trick; Sara had calmed, and was herself sleeping for the most part. The doctors seemed pleased, and Grissom took heart from that.
But when she was aware, she didn't seem to recognize him, or anybody. It worried him, even though the doctors said it was normal for her head injury and level of sedation. They were more concerned about her internal injuries, and the threat of pneumonia. "No reserves," Grissom had heard one of them comment. "She's underweight."
The conversation he'd overheard through Sara's cellphone kept replaying in his head, with Nick's words and Ecklie's for fresh counterpoint.
The lab needs her.
Prefers blondes.
I give up.
He--cares about you.
I should have left long ago.
She asked me to take care of you.
How did I let you get so far away? he asked Sara's still form, knowing the answer and tasting it, bitter on his tongue. He could remember, quite clearly, her nervous words, asking him about the promotion, then asking him to forget that she'd said anything. As though I could.
That's when he'd thought it was over. That she'd moved on. That, whatever decision he came to about the two of them, it would be too late.
He'd struggled, since then, to try to restore something of their old friendship, especially after he'd taken her home from the police station. But it hadn't gone very well. Did she think I was rejecting her friendship too? Never that.
He glanced around, and seeing no soft-soled medical professional, took her cold hand in his again. No matter how long he held it, her skin never seemed to warm, though they kept a blanket pulled up to her chest. Grissom laced his fingers through hers, rubbing gently with his thumb, not sure whether he was trying to reassure her or himself.
There were more words, words he kept close to him even though they stung.
Damn Grissom anyway, for making me love him.
I didn't mean to! he cried silently, knowing even as the thought formed that it wasn't true. He just hadn't thought he'd succeeded.
What cruel hook was it in his persona, that made him retreat from her even as his own subconscious conspired to attract her? And why couldn't he have mastered it before things got so bad?
He didn't know what it was that made him look up, but when he did, her eyes were on him, and this time they were aware. He knew that cool, evaluating gaze--he'd seen it trained on a thousand pieces of evidence and many a suspect. He opened his mouth, prepared to say her name, to reassure.
She pulled her hand from his grasp and laid her arm carefully across her abdomen, below the bulge of bandage. He followed it with his gaze, taken aback, and when he looked up to her face she was watching the ceiling. After a moment her eyes closed again.
Once upon a time, as a kid, he'd swallowed wrong and gotten an ice cube lodged in his throat. This felt much the same--the painful, icy choke, the sense of panic. Muscles spasmed, and he swallowed, and the feeling lessened, settling into his stomach to take up residence.
He sat back in the chair to wait, but they sent him home before her eyes opened again.
See Chapter 3