Disclaimer - The plot and the character development in the subsequent story are the only elements there within that I can rightfully call my own; all else belongs to the group of capable people who produce CSI. Hence, they are, justifiably, millionaires, and I will never be financed by my shameless use of their creations.
When Nick was in the coffin, I wasn't like this.
Then, it was all fear. Get him out get him out get him out...
And, as painful as it was, I think I preferred it. Because it made me a decent person.
Now that Nick is safe, the fear's slipping away. It's turning into an aspect of that memory that I can perceive and quantify, instead of being an active feeling that skewed my perception.
And less decent parts of me are starting to notice things now that it's under control.
Three years ago, Nick was in danger, and I was the one who noticed the Crime Stopper article in the background of Nigel Crane's video tape.
A few nights ago, Nick was in danger.
And Grissom found fire ants.
Sara found their nursery.
Doc Robbins found a cecum.
Mia found Kelly Gordon.
Warrick found Walter Gordon's Ford.
Archie found the web cam's trace.
Greg found the prototype coffin.
Hodges found semtex.
I... I found some white fibres and then ran to My Father The Un-convicted Murder. To ask for a million dollars.
You're sitting here like Jack Handy with your deep thoughts, staring at a coffee cup. You got a better plan, I'm all ears. In other words, Grissom, you're acting like a scientist, and I can't, right now.
I back my head against the seat of my car as I wonder what happened to the woman who, five years ago, told Holly Gribbs that CSI solve. Who called herself a kid who got paid to work on puzzles.
I wouldn't have thought to use the backhoe. And Warrick ignored me. He only stepped away from Nick when Grissom told him to.
And that's what it really comes down to – I shut my eyes as my fingers knead my forehead – I'm never going to be as good as him.
Grissom, who stopped to think about how it would look if Sam Braun bribed the lab.
Who could still think about things like Short bursts, Greg. Don't suffocate him! when Nick was almost out.
Who could make Warrick step up and out and away from Nick by telling him to Just trust me.
Who thought to call him Pancho.
And I can't pretend that Grissom can do it because he doesn't care as much as I do.
Because I know he does. And I know it bothers me when other people – who don't know him well enough – can't see it.
The position calls for leadership, Catherine. You have to inspire others, solve problems, which means you have to leave your own problems at home.
You wouldn't think, even after knowing him for a good period of time, that he'd given it that much thought.
I almost wish I'd started under Ecklie. So much less to live up to.
And some of his bitterness would probably have rubbed off too, so I'd be too busy hating Gil to notice how brilliant he is. But I wouldn't be good at my job.
I find the fact that that still matters to me reassuring, somehow.
As long as I'm better than Ecklie, I can stand being worse than Gil.
I exhale, somewhat explosively. This is pathetic. I make myself stop thinking, and I open my eyes to stare at Nick's house.
I still haven't worked up the courage to get out of my car. And I've been parked here for almost fifteen minutes.
Sitting in the ambulance, I'd just acted. Relief-provoked impulses that weren't wrong because they all stemmed from unsullied, genuine happiness: Nick was there. Alive.
Now, however, he's home from the hospital, and I'm visiting. Checking up on him. Whole different ball game.
What should I do? What should I say? What will he think?
What did I really do to save him? I don't deserve to be the one standing on his doorstep.
I clench my teeth, jab my thumb into the seatbelt button, and snap the car door open. You're his friend and supervisor. In that order. Just ring the damn bell, Catherine.