Chapter Four
1 Week later
Luck be a Lady
On the first day he ignored the phone when it rang, every time it rang. She left a message on the machine, her familiar voice coming out of the small black machine on his desk. Just checking on him, was he ok? He laughed. And then he cried.
On the second day, he ripped the cord out of the wall.
He'd made the right decision, no question. What use was punishing the guilty when the victims were still dead? So, Warrick handed in his weapon and credentials with in an hour of watching Nick die. What good were they to him anymore? They hadn't helped him find his best friend, so he handed the gun to Brass, the ID to Grissom, and didn't look back.
Part of his brain keeps telling him that it was all a joke. When sleep overcomes him, he dreams that Nick walks through the door, fanning himself with the hundred Greg had just reluctantly handed over. The whole thing was a bet, Nicky explains laughing. And in his dream, Warrick, his fist clenched, nearly punches him, but hugs him instead.
He sits, unsure of what to do, where to begin, it's been so long since he's done this.
The keys are dusty. White ivory coated with gray grime, and he ran his finger down the succession of keys, leaving a trail of white in his wake. Old habits die hard; he finds himself looking for the imprint of groves and ridges his fingertip left behind. He snorts a short laugh at himself and shuffles lazily into the kitchen, his left hand clenched tightly in a fist. Bringing back a dishtowel, he wipes off the keys, restoring them to their original ivory, then tosses the towel at his feet.
His elbows rise, bringing his hands in front of him, hovering just above the keys. Only then does he realize his left hand is clenched, fingers curled in on themselves, wrapped up in his palm. Warrick looks at his hand, his brow furrowed, the pain of the taxed muscles and tendons just registering. He tilts his head, bringing the hand up for closer inspection, staring at the back of his own fingers. When had he closed his fist? It's a greater effort than it should be, opening his hand, and he watches, almost disembodied, like he's watching a movie version of himself, forcing his own fingers to unlock, uncurl.
He feels the pressure of something in his palm, and at first, assumes it's a ghost image of his fingers, but then the feeling peels away, a tearing sensation, and he can feel more than see something slip off from his skin and fall toward the floor. Instinctively, his hand dips, slipping down quicker, lower, catching the descending object, like a mother bird scooping up a fallen babe.
His fingers mechanically refold over the object in his palm, but this time, forcing them open doesn't require half the effort. He sees the object resting in his palm, and has to look again, bringing his hand up closer. What the hell? A dime? Why would he carry around a dime in his hand… and then he remembers, the memory hitting him with such intensity it knocks the breath out of him. The lucky dime. Or unlucky, depending on which side of the flip you were on. He hangs his head for a moment, willing away the tears that once again threaten.
Slipping the dime into his breast pocket, he once again raises his elbows, poising his fingers over the keys, and this time there's no hesitation, his fingers glide over the piano keys, his grandmothers favorite Sinatra classic wraps around him, like a bandage around a wound.