Title: Good Enough

Chapter 21

Author's Notes: Do you people realize that I use the word, "Greggo," so much that I had to add it to my computer's dictionary?! (shrugs)

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"Nick?"

I glance around the room. A curtain, a woman dressed in scrubs, and lots of white. The ER. Right. I remember being brought here, but I guess I must've taken a good hit to the head, because everything's hazy.

"Grissom?" I say. "Is that you?" I close my eyes tight. When I reopen them, sure enough, I see Grissom standing in front of me. Or actually, he's kind of swaying back and forth.

I vaguely recall the nurse asking me for a number so they could call someone to pick me up, but the only numbers I could remember were my locker combination and Grissom's cell phone. And since my locker probably wasn't going to sprout legs and catch a taxi over to get me, I went with Grissom.

"Are you all right?" Grissom asks, a hint of worry coloring his voice.

"Never better," I say, as I reach a hand up to massage my throbbing temple.

Grissom narrows his eyes. "Do you know where we are?"

"Hospital."

"Yeah, you're in the Emergency Room," Grissom says, "Do you remember what happened?"

I remember walking down the street, trying to decide if I should get hammered or go home like the dependable sap I am, or if I should crawl over to Greg and beg for mercy. Then there were these two guys—something about my wallet, a crack about my accent…

"Mugged," I say.

Grissom nods. "Attempted. Fortunately, they didn't get anything. A couple of college kids broke it up before it got too far."

I glance down at my bandaged wrist. "Should we send flowers or candy?" I ask.

"What?" Grissom asks, giving me a strange look. When he realizes I'm not answering, he says, "You have a broken wrist, some bruised ribs, and some cuts. You also took a bottle to the head, but the guys who brought you here say you never lost consciousness."

I nod. Letting out a breath, I shift on the exam table, trying to get more comfortable. But my movement sparks a sudden wave of nausea, so I clutch the sides of the table in an effort to keep from fainting.

"Nicky?" Grissom says.

I reach out and grab Grissom's shoulder. "Will you stop moving around like that?" I plead, "You're making me dizzy."

"Is this normal?" I hear Grissom ask.

"Who really knows what normal is?" I say, digging my fingers into Grissom's shoulders.

A new voice jumps into the conversation. "We gave him some medication for the pain," the voice says. "He's going to be goofy for a while."

I turn to glare at the source of the voice, a pretty young nurse with brown hair. "I'm not goofy," I inform her. "Greg gets to be goofy. I'm the dependable one."

"Thanks for clearing that up," the nurse says.

"Do you know how hard it is to be the dependable one?" I press.

"Actually, I do," the nurse says sympathetically.

Narrowing his eyes, Grissom says, "All right, you just sit tight. My kit is in my car. I'll go and—"

"No way, Gris," I say. "I'm not going there."

Besides, the way this room is spinning around, how could he get anything done?

"Nick," Grissom says, letting out a long-suffering breath.

I shake my head. "Gris, would you stop being a CSI for a second? I don't need people to know my private business."

"Nick," Grissom says authoritatively. He frowns as if he's about to launch into a lecture about justice and being rational. But then he lets out a long, haggard breath. "All right," he says.

"Thank you," I say, my fingers digging further into Grissom's shoulder.

Wincing in pain, Grissom says, "Why don't you lay back, Nicky?"

"Because I'm sick of sleeping alone," I say.

It's weird. I know I shouldn't be saying half of what I'm saying, but I just can't seem to help myself. It's like watching someone in a horror movie sneak into a dark basement. You know they're going to get stabbed or something, but no matter how much you yell at the screen, they keep going.

Wearily, I surrender to Grissom's leading and lay back on the exam table. As I lie there, I can hear the nurse giving Grissom instructions about my medicine. They sound like they're in another room, even though I know they're standing beside me.

Finally, Grissom grasps my shoulders and hauls me into a sitting position. "Let's get you home, Nicky."

"Let's go out," I suggest.

Grissom steers me toward the exit. "You need rest, Nick. We'll stop at the pharmacy down the block, and then I'll take you home. I'll call Catherine and see if she can—"

"I don't want to go home, Gris," I say. "The day's young."

Suddenly, my knees start to buckle, so Grissom wraps his arms around my waist to steady me. When he's satisfied that I won't crash into the pavement, he pushes me onward toward his waiting car.

Somehow (by magic?), we reach Grissom's car, and he busies himself buckling me into the seatbelt. I'm only vaguely aware of everything that's going on around us. I can hear people talking, and I can see blurry figures wandering past Grissom's shoulder. But my body feels heavy and warm, and somehow, it seems like Grissom and I are in another world entirely.

"You can be very nurturing," I murmur.

Grissom raises his eyebrows. "Really? I thought I was an unfeeling robot."

"You're a nurturing robot," I correct him.

As we pull out of the hospital parking lot, Grissom says, "Okay, we'll stop and get these prescriptions filled, and then I'll take you home. Also, the nurse said you should eat, so why don't—"

"The unfeeling robot's back," I say.

"What?"

I tilt my head, which is currently resting on the headrest, to look at Grissom. "I don't want to go home," I say, "I want to go to Greg's."

Grissom nods. "All right. When we get to the pharmacy, I'll call and make sure he's there."

I shake my head (which seems to weigh about 500 pounds). "He leaves his phone off the hook when he's not on call."

"Really?" Grissom says, "That's interesting information. I'll have to remember that."

-----

"Nicky? Come on. We're here."

I open my eyes, but I snap them back shut, as I'm temporarily blinded by the brightness of the day.

Grissom nudges my shoulder. "Come on," he says.

Letting out a rebellious moan, I inch my way out of the car. "I thought we were going to the pharmacy first," I whine.

"You've been asleep since we left the hospital, Nicky," Grissom says. "We stopped by the pharmacy, and I filled your prescription. I also picked up some juice."

"Oh."

Grissom pulls me into a standing position. "Do you need me to hold onto you?"

"Nope," I say. "I don't mind falling."

In response, Grissom clutches me a little more tightly, and then steers me toward Greg's building. After a couple of minutes—or maybe an hour—Grissom and I reach the lobby of Greg's building.

As Grissom pushes the buzzer to announce our presence, I slump against the wall and watch a tall blonde from Greg's floor carry her white Persian cat toward the exit. The woman glances back at me, narrows her eyes, and then marches regally out the door.

After a moment, I feel Grissom take me by the arm and pull me into the elevator. As we near Greg's floor, it dimly occurs to me that Greg might not want me here. I squeeze my eyes closed to ward off that thought.

When we reach Greg's door, he's already standing in the doorway, waiting. "What happened?" Greg asks, stepping back to let us in.

"He was mugged," Grissom says.

"Attempted," I say.

"Oh God," Greg says. "You okay, Nicky?"

I stand in the middle of Greg's apartment for a second, trying to get my bearings. Then, I feel my legs buckle and before I know it, I'm sitting on the ground.

Greg kneels beside me. "Let's try sitting on the couch, okay?"

"I'm sorry," I choke.

Greg pats me on the back. "S'okay," he whispers. "Help me with him, Gris."

As the two men steer me toward the couch, Grissom says, "He was lucky. A couple of college kids jumped in and ran off his attackers."

"Should we send flowers or candy?" Greg asks.

Grissom flashes Greg an odd look, and then says, "He's heavily medicated. He needs to take an antibiotic soon, but he needs to eat with it."

"I'll make some soup or something," Greg says.

"Greg," I say, grabbing his arm. "I'm sorry."

"Let's not worry about that now, Nick," Greg says.

"Greg," Grissom says. "I'll make some food. You just handle him."

Handle me, I think. That's an apt way to put it.

"When can I take another pain killer?" I ask. "My head's starting to hurt."

The pain's starting to clear my head a little, too. I'm still pretty hazy, but at least the room isn't spinning around.

Greg starts to knead the muscles in my neck. Gently, he puts an arm around me and gives me a little shake. "You trying to freak me out, Nick? What happened?"

I shrug. "I wasn't paying attention to my surroundings. I guess they got the drop on me. I had stuff on my mind."

"Stuff?" Greg murmurs.

Greg tries to make eye contact with me, but I focus my gaze on Greg's kitchen.

Greg presses on. "I've had some things on my mind, too."

"Yeah?" I say.

"Yeah."

About then, Grissom breezes out of the kitchen, a dishtowel in his hands. He doesn't seem to notice that Greg has his arm around one of his CSIs. "How about I make some sandwiches, too?"

"Okay," Greg says. "Sounds like a workable plan." Turning to me, Greg says, "Let's get you out of that bloody shirt, Nicky."

I glance down at my denim shirt and realize for the first time that it's not only stained with blood, it's also ripped. Damn.

Grissom tosses the dishtowel over his shoulder. "You want me to have Catherine stop by Nick's townhouse and get some of his clothes?"

Greg shakes his head. "No, he has clothes here." As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Greg looks at me and winces. Turning to Grissom, Greg shrugs and says, "He crashes here sometimes."

"I see," Grissom says, raising an eyebrow. Then he turns on his heel and strolls into the kitchen.

Greg leans close to me. "Sorry," he whispers.

I swallow. "Nah, Greggo. I asked him to bring me here."

Pushing me onto the bed, Greg crosses the room and tugs open a drawer. Returning with a t-shirt and sweats, he says, "I could've played it off better. I'm sorry."

As Greg unbuttons my shirt, I say, "It seems like apologizing is all either one of us gets done."

Greg licks his lips and says, his voice cracking, "Yeah, well. Whatever."

I lean forward and kiss him on the forehead. It's a nice gesture, but to be honest, I was aiming for his lips. "Let's stop apologizing for awhile, okay?"

Greg smiles slightly. "That'll last about ten minutes."

Holding his jaw with my unbandaged hand, I kiss him again, this time connecting with his lips. "Better than nothing," I say. "You know?"

Greg doesn't answer me. Instead, he gently pecks me on the lips, and then starts to help me pull the t-shirt over my broken wrist.