A/T: Hello out there! -waves- I will absolutely finish this, it just takes a while. Here's to hoping you don't get too tangled up in the case and that the world still loves Greg and Ryan as much as I do!
FYI: Please remember that the victim and Brass's daughter aren't the same. To reduce confusion, I thought about changing the victim's name and the figured it would only prove to be even more confusing. Like I said before, I wasn't a complete CSI dictionary until the first few chapters of this was already written. Forgive me, but I know your intelligence can prove itself when reading this. Ellie Jenkins. Ellie Brass. Not the same gal. (It's my mistake, but you're paying for it. Mwahaha! )
Oh, and I picked up some Las Vegas maps from Barnes and Nobles. The roads I mention are real, but probably incredibly wrong. I really did try to research, so if there are any Las Vegas residents reading this, don't laugh. Well, okay. You can laugh a little, but don't tell anyone about it.
For catlover2x, kahlualeia, nigaishin, and quasilogical. You'll never meet anyone cooler than these folks.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never mine. Always wishing they were mine. It's the story of our lives.
Out With It
Chapter 8: Running, Breathing, Standing Here
You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.
-John Keats to Fanny Brawne, 1819
What I'm trying to say is that I'm really attracted to you.
In defense of Eric's CSI abilities, the kiss had given him that nagging suspicion that maybe Nick did have a thing for him. You know, possibly. If he wasn't looking too deeply into it.
But even the most casual observer could tell him that he was, without a doubt, the stupidest man to walk the planet. Because what had he done? Had he told Nick he felt the same? Had he returned the kiss? Had he offered him any indication that he wasn't completely repulsed?
No.
He had given him some crappy story about… what had it been about again? The moment was so rushed and blurry that he couldn't even recall what had been said. The only thing he was certain of was this: the excuse he had given was undoubtedly transparent and weak. "I have to meet Ryan to review the case" or "I really need to get some sleep" or "This conversation we're having is making me uncomfortable, so let's forget the last twenty four hours ever happened and move on."
Eric had left Nick in the truck. That's all he could really remember: he left him deflated and confused. Eric had rushed up to his room, only to find it empty like he knew it would be. He dropped his kit on the floor and peered out his window to the parking lot where Nick's vehicle was still occupying a space. He swallowed hard. Nick had gotten out and was pacing nervously, walking a dozen feet in one direction down the sidewalk before turning and walking the opposite way and repeating this action several times.
He wanted to go back, to change what he had said or, more appropriately, didn't say. He wanted to open the window and lean out and call Nick up to him, bring him to his room, apologize in the most intimate way possible.
But I guess you knew that already.
He did. He knew.
He had just been too cowardly to face it.
He watched as Nick got back into the truck, reversed, and drove out onto the street before disappearing from Eric's line of sight. Eric felt himself grow sick and his internal screaming wasn't helping much. What are you doing? Why are you letting him go?
He let out a sigh as he flopped onto a cold mattress, arms outstretched and gazing at an increasingly familiar ceiling. This wasn't supposed to happen; he was supposed to fly to Las Vegas, solve a murder, and fly back home to Miami, where he so rightfully belonged. Meeting someone as amazing as Nick was never part of the equation; he was unprepared and stumbling blindly through the entire process, failing over and over again, repeatedly making a fool of both his and Nick's affections. He, like Ryan, was awkward through the whole ordeal, but Ryan had taken the plunge into dark and murky waters, only to emerge victorious with a sunken treasure in his hands.
Eric thought it was ironic that he was the underwater recovery specialist and yet he wouldn't even approach the shore.
…
"Hey Cal!" Ryan called once he spotted a familiar head of blonde hair amongst the sea of busy lawyers, drowsy detectives, and swing shift stragglers. Calleigh and Sara turned from their animated conversation with Archie Johnson to see who was calling their names; Calleigh lit up when she saw that it was Ryan battling the swarm and making his way towards them.
"Hey stranger," she greeted, gracing him with a smile. "What's up?"
"Hopefully a lead," he replied, turning and giving Sara a polite nod so as to not dismiss her from the conversation. "Hi Sara."
"Hey yourself. Just getting in?"
"Yeah," he replied, fighting the yawn that threatened to make itself known. "Haven't even gotten around to stealing some of Greg's coffee yet."
"You're so lucky to be partnered up with him," she groused, allowing herself a small sigh. "What I wouldn't do for a cup of that stuff. Think you can grab me a little while he's got his back turned?"
"He won't even notice it's missing," Ryan confirmed. She grinned before turning to Archie and slinging her left arm around his neck in a purely platonic manner.
"Have you met Archie Johnson, audio visual tech and self-certified Trekkie?"
Ryan grinned and extended his hand. "A whole week and I still haven't met the man who went through a hundred hours of airport footage."
Archie laughed, taking the chance to shake the offered hand. "Thanks. Yelina and Warrick suffered with me, but I amused myself by teaching them to speak Klingon."
"If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were completely serious."
Archie gave him a bright smile. "Yelina can say 'This pencil is yellow' with such flourish that Worf would be proud."
Ryan had the distinct feeling that Archie had, in fact, taught Yelina a couple of Klingon phrases. He made a mental note to ask her about it later; after all, he wanted to make sure that this trip wasn't completely un-educational. Either way, Ryan was certainly amused at the thought. Star Trek didn't exactly spur Yelina's creative senses or passionate heart.
"Hey Arch! Have you got those dispatch recordings ready yet?" called a voice from down the hall. The four turned to see who was speaking; it was Catherine, peering from the corner. She gave them all a friendly wave from before pointing to Archie and indicating for him to follow her. Archie sighed and Sara patted his shoulder encouragingly. Ryan's genuine sympathies went out to him; it seemed as if Archie was pulling several shifts in succession with little time to sleep.
"Well," he said, evidently unenthused about the task at hand, "Duty calls. It was nice to meet you, Ryan."
"Same to you. Maybe you can teach Yelina to say 'Ryan deserves a promotion' tonight."
"And then after that, you can coach her in saying 'Ryan is delusional,'" Calleigh suggested. Ryan couldn't help but laugh at that; Calleigh shot him a teasing smile while Archie nodded in agreement.
"I'll see what my amazing abilities of persuasion can do. See you guys later," he promised. Calleigh and Sara chorused their farewells as he turned and began towards his lab.
Calleigh shook her head, apparently charmed. "I like him," she confessed. "Tyler totally needs to learn an alien language."
"Archie's great," Sara concurred. "He really can speak Klingon, you know."
"I wouldn't put it past him," Ryan replied. "Can he even do that 'V' sign that Spock does with his hands?"
"It's a natural reflex for him," Sara confirmed, holding up her left hand and attempting to do Spock's trademark 'live long and prosper' gesture. When she failed three times in a row, she sighed and gave up, surrendering herself to more pressing matters. "So Ryan, I'm sure you didn't track us down for our conversational skills alone. What's the buzz?"
"I wanted to ask what you guys have on Ellie Jenkins's family," Ryan answered. "We're track down her brother. Greg and I are leaving with Captain Brass in a few minutes and I really need to brush up on her background."
"Both of her parents are deceased," the brunette informed. "They died in a car accident four years ago, but she does have a brother named Christopher."
"Aunts? Uncles?" Ryan queried. Sara took a moment, trying to remember, before holding up her index finger, signaling for him to wait. "I'll get you the file on her family," she offered. "Be right back."
Before he could put a word in edgewise, she was off like lightening, vanishing down the foyer. Ryan slowly turned to Calleigh.
"She's an interesting one," he observed. The blonde could only nod, giving him a small smile.
"Just a little dark," she replied. "She's had it pretty tough, but I've never met anyone so dedicated to this job. Anyway, I adore her. She's fabulous."
"Fabulous?"
"Absolutely," Calleigh replied, laughing a little. "I'm glad we're partnered up. Last time we had to travel for a case, it was in the middle of Nebraska. I was assigned a forty year old divorcee who kept trying to feel me up."
Ryan's jaw dropped. "And what? You didn't report him?"
Calleigh shrugged. "One direct hit in the man's sensitive area and he was hands off after that."
Ryan inwardly shuddered. "Ouch."
"He seemed to agree. So tell me, Mister Wolfe, what's driving you to look up the vic's brother?"
"A witness said a man who looked a lot like Ellie made a big scene the night she got on the plane. I'm hoping it was family resemblance."
"Siblings have similar features," she agreed. "Did he buy a ticket?"
"Yeah. This might be the break we need."
"That would be great," Calleigh said, noticeably enthusiastic about the possibility. "We've been here almost a week and we're not having much luck. Maybe you can break the case and get that huge promotion you were dreaming about."
Ryan rolled his eyes. "And the weatherman forecasted clouds and a chance of pigs flying, Cal. I don't think so."
"You doubt yourself too much," she commented, shaking her head disapprovingly. "You and Greg are blazing the trail. Hodges even said so."
"Hodg-? Wait, you mean David?"
Calleigh paused a moment. "It's what everyone else calls him. What, does he like being called differently?"
"No, it's not that," Ryan replied, slightly startled by the news. "I just wasn't aware he thought we were any good."
"Sara tells me that it takes a wild boar to beat a compliment out of him, so you should feel like walking on water. Your talents are obviously coming through to people."
As she spoke, her gaze fell over Ryan's shoulder, her eye trained on something behind him. He followed her line of sight until he saw Sara and Greg laughing over a joke between them, a file in Sara's hand as they both moved towards the two Floridians.
"And by the way," Calleigh whispered, making sure to keep her voice low so they couldn't hear her following words. "I see the way Greg looks at you. I'm completely jealous."
Ryan felt the tips of his ears burn, but before he could open his mouth to rebuke anything, Sara and Greg had found them. "What's so funny?" the blonde questioned, ignoring Ryan's obvious embarrassment and addressing the two cases of giggles before her.
"Oh, nothing. I found Greg making a paper crane out of Griss's crossword puzzle again. Obviously, he has some sort of death wish," Sara replied, shaking her head at the other man's antics.
"Crossword puzzles?" Ryan inquired, out of the loop in regards to the inside joke.
"Don't worry your pretty little head over it," Greg retorted, giving him a grin. "It's just my neck on the line."
Ryan would have investigated further on Greg's odds of dying, but time was pressing him towards a more vital appointment.
"We're supposed to meet with Captain Brass in about five minutes," Ryan informed, glancing at his watch, making sure there was no way he could run late. "Want to head on out?"
He glanced back at Greg, who was looking expectedly at Sara. Sara, in response, crossed her arms and raised her left brow. "Well?" she asked. "Aren't you going to answer the man?"
Greg's eyes flew open and he quickly turned to Ryan. "We? Both of us? Really?" Greg asked. If possible, Ryan was certain the other man's ears would have literally perked up.
"Yeah. Christopher Jenkins, the brother? We're taking him in."
"We?"
Ryan gave him a strange look. "I thought I just said that."
"You did, but we. Us. As in two or more people. Who's going to man trace?"
"I asked David. He said he'd handle it until we got back."
"What, Hodges said yes? Why didn't he say yes to me when I asked? Where's the tech bond? The brotherhood?"
"I have this suspicion that he just doesn't like you."
Greg gave him puppy-dog eyes. "Who can resist this face, lover?"
Ryan flushed a deep red as Calleigh gave an un-ladylike snort of laughter; Sara merely gave a polite cough. This was obviously news to her, but she quickly sent Ryan a thumbs-up of support.
Greg went on as if the two women weren't even present. "And anyway, why say yes to you when he knows me better?"
"Because I don't get on his nerves?"
Greg paused a moment. "Oh. Is that the problem we've been having all these years? Am I annoying to him?"
"That's a question you might want to save for him personally."
They began down the hall, Ryan having graciously taken the family file to be reviewed on the drive over to Christopher Jenkins's place of residence. Sara and Calleigh watched them go, noting the absence of space between the two men. They were unconsciously close together, Greg making Ryan laugh despite the dark circumstances.
…
"Don't tell me I'm stuck with you, Sanders," Jim Brass muttered as he watched Ryan and Greg approaching him in the parking lot, dusk falling around the city and the moon emerging from the clouds. Although Las Vegas (like many other cities) never slept, the crime lab was alight with activity and brilliance when most of the Western Hemisphere was curling up to get some shut-eye. In a bizarre way, the CSIs who worked the graveyard shift lived completely different lives than those who walked the more beaten career paths. What they saw and experienced each night were things most others wouldn't dream of doing even once in their lifetime. And somehow, amazing people like Greg Sanders managed to keep their spirits up and humor about them.
Greg shot a quizzical look Ryan's direction when he heard Jim speak. "Okay, it's one thing for Hodges to think I'm annoying, but what's the deal?"
Ryan only laughed and shook his head at Greg's playfully exasperated tone. How did anyone think Greg was bothersome? Sure, he played loud music and lived with a unique personality, but it was part of him. The only thing Ryan would change was Greg's unhealthy habit of letting food sit in the refrigerator, allowing it to ferment over a decade's time.
"So this is the detective we're going to be working with?" Ryan asked rather uncertainly as they drew closer to the stern looking man. It wasn't that Jim Brass seemed cold by any means; he just seemed… serious. Which, Ryan knew, was a good thing. Frank Tripp in Miami had no idea what science gadget Horatio was going to pull out next, but you better believe he was going to arrest the guilty party when said science gadget uncovered the evidence. Jim Brass had a similar persona –maybe it was the same for all detectives- and Ryan knew that they were in capable hands.
"Jim? He's great. Underneath that rough exterior lies a sweet, fuzzy guy that secretly adopts puppies off the street. You'll love him," Greg whispered in reply.
The mental image of Captain Brass surrounded by cute puppies now haunting him, Ryan advanced with what he hoped was a solemn expression. He took a deep breath before sending the man a confident smile and sticking out his hand. "Ryan Wolfe, Miami. Pleasure to meet you."
"Jim Brass, likewise. I see you drew the short straw this time around," he began, walking to the driver's side of the car, his tone one of pure conversational observation.
"Sir?" Ryan asked uncertainly.
Brass made a motion over to Greg with a tilt of his head. "You're partnered with Sanders. He's gotta have you drinking by now."
"Now Jimmy, that just isn't fair," Greg replied, giving him a mock-pout. "I didn't have you drinking until two weeks after we began working together."
Ryan grinned as he buckled up in the passenger seat, Greg having chosen to sprawl out in the back.
"He's not that bad," Ryan answered. "The worst part's the music. Ever heard Alien Ant Farm on surround sound?"
"The question is whether I've heard Alien Ant Farm at all," Jim replied. "And luckily, I haven't."
"'Luckily' being the operative word."
"Are you both going to conspire against me now?" Greg asked, fake distress tinting his voice. "I happen to be very fair when we have our radio station battle."
"That's true," Ryan agreed. "Sometimes he lets me listen to whatever I want."
"And what horrid music style do you torment him with?" Jim asked, an amused smile playing on his lips as they navigated out of the parking lot and onto the main road.
There was another patrol car escorting the Captain and two CSIs; they trailed behind them, following intently. Two armed officers were prepared for whatever may be waiting at their destination, be it a safe false alarm or death defying shoot out. Ryan glanced into his rearview mirror, observing the car and the two faceless officers who were inside. He used to be one of them; there was always a quick fix to be slapped onto any situation. That seemed like such a long time ago. What if he hadn't decided to make that jump and become a CSI? He certainly would have never met Greg.
He grinned, returning to the conversation and trying to let his overactive thoughts fade away. "The Cure. Good musicians for the eighties, but more depressing than a dead tree in the middle of winter."
Greg let out a horrified groan from the back seat. "It's terrible, Jimmy. He knows I can only handle so much of it before I want to tear out the stereo system all together."
"So let me get this straight," Jim began, giving Ryan a look of praise. "You like to torment Sanders?"
"It's the reason I get up every morning," Ryan replied.
"Then you and I are going to get along just fine."
Ryan had to laugh at this before realizing that all the nervous energy he had before their plane ever touched down in Las Vegas had all but disappeared. He was, believe it or not, actually fitting in.
"So what's in the file?" Jim asked, glancing over to the manila envelope in Ryan's hands. "Anything interesting?"
Ryan quickly flipped it open. "Miranda and Thomas were the parents," he replied, scanning photos and information for more to work with. "They only had two kids. Grandparents are deceased, no aunts or uncles that live here in Las Vegas and no immediate family to speak of."
"So what, the kids grow up in an orphanage?"
"No, it looks like they died when Ellie was seventeen and Christopher was nineteen. They lived on their own after that."
"Where'd they stay?"
"A trailer park, I think. Looks like Ellie got her feet on the ground and started working. Maybe she didn't want to live with her brother anymore."
"Yeah, but she got a job at a club as a dancer," Jim replied, a tinge of doubt coloring his voice. "Wasn't she too young?"
"According to this," Ryan replied, "She was exactly twenty one. She'd been working at a book shop until then."
"Barely scraping the legal age limit," Jim muttered. "Why can't she just get a job at a fast food joint?"
"Jimmy, she got a job as a showgirl, not a stripper," Greg quickly replied. "And even if she was, being a stripper isn't a license to get killed."
There was a pause in the conversation before Jim muttered, "I really wish you'd stop calling my 'Jimmy', Sanders."
They discussed possible theories as they drove on, both Greg and Ryan feeling free to express their theories without fear of looking stupid in front of those who knew better. Jim was a laid back kind of guy, taking things as they came. Ryan had the impression that the man had been around the block more the once and had seen and heard it all.
Twenty minutes later, they had passed the scarier part of town and drove into an area of trailer parks, all sprawled out and in no "neighborhood" form to speak of. Ryan watched as blinds were peeked through, those who resided in the trailers curious but unfazed as two patrol cars zigzagged through their park. Bits of chain link fence separated the homes; they didn't completely square them all off, but there was enough of a barrier to tell which piece of property belonged to who. There were various broken down vehicles littering the yards, such as they were. There were free roaming pets and children playing on beaten down toys and plastic slides. Frankly, it was the ideal "trailer trash" scenario, although Ryan refrained from labeling it as such. Trash came in every step of the American hierarchy; just because you lived in a rough neighborhood didn't mean you were trash and just because you could afford Armani suits didn't mean you weren't.
Finally, after a short drive onward, Jim stopped in front of a trailer just on the outskirts of the community. Looking through the windows of one side of the trailer and one could see neighbors and parts of the city; the other side revealed nothing but miles of merciless desert.
"Pretty abandoned looking for a guy who's supposed to be living here," Jim muttered as he, Greg and Ryan emerged from the vehicle. There was a little frown on Jim's face, as if he had been through this countless times before and knew exactly what was going to go down. Even with a rundown truck parked in front of the residence, it still looked uninhabited. Had Ellie's brother made a run for it? Ryan's blood coursed. The brother wouldn't run unless he had something to hide. Why hadn't they picked up on this before?
Jim was slowly withdrawing his weapon. He motioned for the two patrol officers to do the same before glancing to Greg and Ryan, silently ordering them to wait until they were in the clear. Greg and Ryan exchanged anxious glances but consented; they knew there was something wrong as well.
The three armed men warily approached the house before one quickly jogged to the other side, making sure their suspect couldn't slither through the back exit.
Jim knocked forcefully on the door. "Christopher Jenkins, this is the LVPD. Open up."
At the lack of action from inside the house (no voice, no compliance, no life of any sort) ten seconds later, Jim knocked once more, visibly tense. "Christopher Jenkins, LVPD! I would advise you to open this door or it'll be opened by force!"
When no response came, Jim nodded to the officer next to him and they proceeded to kick the door open, leaving it looking tattered and busted. Ryan held his breath, edginess washing over him. He had kicked in enough doors in his time to know that it was rarely a good sign, especially when an uncooperative witness was holed up inside. Beside him, he could feel Greg hold his breath, his knuckles white around the handle of his field kit.
On the upside, there was no arguing or gunfire from inside the house, which meant zero struggle. On the downside, there was no noise at all, which equaled zero confirmation that the scene was clear.
A fleeting moment passed that felt more like an hour. They both stood silently, Greg leaning on the car, his breathing even, like a human clock that told time in a manner foreign to time itself. Another moment, another breath, a continuous pattern. But a movement disrupted the pattern; Ryan sucked in a quick breath as he saw a man fall from the ceiling right in front of the doorway, obviously having hid in an attic of some sort. Ryan watched as he shot out the front door, a pale blur to the human eye.
When the man caught sight of the two CSIs, he glanced uncertainly from Greg to Ryan before shooting off to the right, obviously having made his silent decision. Not even a millisecond of uncertainty passed before Ryan dropped his field kit and began furiously after him.
He could hear Greg's panicked, "RYAN! WAIT!" but quickly left the range of earshot, his eyes trained on the fleeing character before him. His CSI tendencies quickly kicked in despite the circumstances: male, white, average height and build, dark hair, pale skin, wearing black from collar to sneaker.
He didn't try and get the man's attention by yelling; it would have been a waste of precious breath. Instead, he concentrated on not losing sight of him and not tripping in his frantic scurry to keep up.
The man assumed to be Christopher Jenkins paused at the corner of the sidewalk, looking around frantically and trying to deduce the best way to shake off his pursuer before he decided to make a sharp left, Ryan not missing a beat and quickly following behind, his breath beginning to hitch and his chest tightening. He couldn't let him out of his sight.
They would never find him if he did.
The trailer park domain was quickly becoming part of the battered downtown area, where dark, ominous alleys were of the norm and litter was strewn across abused sidewalks. The buildings were mainly abandoned; those that weren't were crack houses and gang hangouts. Only the bravest or stupidest walked these streets, even in the middle of the day. To be running through said sidewalks donning a police vest was like painting a red bulls-eye on his chest before proclaiming 'Come and get me!' in the middle of the street; in other words, he was either very brave or very stupid. It was quite possible that he was both.
Christopher continued his wild spur forward, Ryan hot on his heels. A few potheads taking a smoke sat lazily on crumbling steps of the buildings and watched with half interest, as if the scene was an everyday occurrence. Ryan tried to see ahead, where Christopher might turn next. It was a four-way intersection.
Christopher, unlike last time, didn't pause to see where he would turn next. He took another sharp left and continued on, obviously loosing the adrenaline, not that Ryan was a ball of energy either. However, this didn't deter him. Ryan gathered strength from every muscle he had and kept up his rapid pace, hoping to gain at least some ground before any other measure was taken.
"Christopher Jenkins! LVPD!" he yelled over the rush of air passing his ears. Unable to think of anything more complex or even intimidating at the moment, he finished the bellowed introduction with an unintentionally desperate, "Stop running!" The man heard and, obviously spurred by this reminder, made his body increase its speed. Ryan forced his body to do the same.
They were swiftly approaching an underprivileged but less seedier part of town, successfully gathering bewildered and sometimes frightened stares from those they forced off the sidewalk. An increased number of people was a double edged sword; Christopher could be slowed by the surplus of pedestrians, but Ryan could as well. He didn't allow his eyes to leave the white skull stitched on the back of Christopher's hoody.
The longer they ran, the longer the city blocks became. By then, Ryan was gasping for breath, trying desperately not to slow. Runrunrunrunrunrun. It was his mantra and he was sticking to it; whether it would be the death of him or not was still up for debate.
It was at that moment that a young mother and her toddler stepped out of a small thrift store. The mother turned to close the door behind her and by the time they reached the bottom of the sidewalk, it was too late to escape the furiously treaded paths of a criminal and a criminalist.
Christopher, unable to stop himself in time, bowled the young mother over, the two of them becoming a tangle of limbs on the concrete. If this wasn't a miracle then it was something close to it and Ryan used his last extra burst of strength to catch up before Christopher could scramble to his feet and continue on.
Christopher was already rising from his crash, trying to make a break for it, when Ryan finally reached out, grabbed his hoody, and restrained him from moving any further. He clutched the fabric between his fingers, not letting go. Christopher, in a rage, turned and threw a wild punch in the general vicinity of where Ryan stood, but the CSI had seen it coming and took a small duck from harms way. What he had not seen coming, however, was the immediate deploy of Christopher's second fist that went straight to his gut, knocking the air right out of him.
Ryan felt himself grow sick as he tumbled to the ground; Christopher was turning, beginning to run…
No. No way. No way was Ryan chasing after him again. Ryan felt himself rise once more, his body trembling but he absolutely couldn't let him get away for a second time. All of his energy was gone and he felt like stone, even as he was moving. Christopher was turning the corner and-
Ryan watched in a dazed awe as Greg bolted from behind the corner and basically tackled him back to the ground. He was a little awkward at it, but was visibly taking the precautions, making sure that there was no way their culprit could press charges for unnecessary force. A tussle began between Greg and their intended target. Where had Greg come from? The Floridian wasn't sure, but God, what a beautiful sight to behold; no more running madly after a man who was, admittedly, a bit faster that that of his pursuer.
Ryan's days on the patrol were swiftly kicking in. He quickly moved forward, grabbing the back of Christopher's wrists and hauling the protesting man to his feet. He pushed the man face first against a brick wall of a deserted building.
Greg pulled out his cell phone, shooting Christopher a dark look, his breathing violent and harsh. It took only a second before Brass picked up on the other line.
"Hey Brass, it's Greg. We're on Spring Canyon and Spanish Gate. Yeah, we got him. We're fine. Okay, sure. Two streets down? Awesome."
Greg flipped his phone shut and staggered over to the two, giving Christopher an evil stare. "So when he said," Greg began, panting for much-needed oxygen and leaning on the wall to hold his worn-out body, "'Stop running', what part of that did you misinterpret for 'go faster'?"
Christopher looked as if he wanted to speak, but didn't have the breath to do so. Instead, he twitched violently, trying to squirm out of Ryan's grasp.
Greg ignored him and drifted over to the mother and her child, both of which were still numbly sprawled out on the ground. He stuck out his hand and the woman clutched onto it, unsteadily standing before bending to pick up her sobbing toddler. She gave both CSIs a look as if perhaps they were crazy before turning and running off in the opposite direction.
Greg watched as she did so before turning to his partner. "Wise woman," he observed. "She's getting the hell outta Dodge."
Ryan's oxygen deprived mind could only ask (despite wondering if Greg had picked up the "outta Dodge" phrase from Nick), "How did you know where we were?"
"As a long-time resident of Las Vegas, I've learned my way around. I ran with you for a while because I could see you through the chain link fence. But when you got to the buildings, I lost sight. I saw our man of the hour make a left, so I took some back alleyways and waited at the corner. I could tell from the screams of the old ladies you pushed out of the way that you were still coming this direction."
"Very CSI-ish of you."
"I like to think I learned from the best."
Ryan raised an eyebrow, his hold still tight around his suspect. "Oh? And who might that be?"
"Well, besides Grissom, Nick, Warrick, Catherine, and Sara-''
"Cute, Greg. Very cute."
Greg grinned, ignoring the filthy swears Christopher was shelling his way. "Well, I wasn't going to let you chase after him alone. Unfortunately, I think I ruined my new pair of shoes in someone's puddle of puke in one of those alleys. It just goes to show that I can be fashionable or employable, but not both."
"We'll buy a new pair. Maybe next time you shouldn't bring stuff you love to work with you, though."
"Then you're staying home."
Ryan felt himself turn a distinct shade of pink just as Jim drove up to the scene.
…
"So. Christopher Jenkins, is it?"
Jim Brass's voice carried off the walls calmly as a twenty-six year old man sat across from him.
"Yes."
Christopher's voice was cold and clipped. He shot Jim, Gil, and Horatio a dark look.
"You're Ellie Jenkins's brother, correct?"
"Yes."
"And when's the last time you saw her?"
"I wouldn't know."
"Of course you do. Think back," Jim replied. Horatio and Gil were silent on either side of him, observing closely. Christopher set his jaw firmly.
"I don't remember. A week ago?"
"Very good. You get a gold star," Jim replied sardonically. "Eight days ago, where were you?"
"Working."
"Chris, we're going contact your boss and ask if you were working that day. When they say no, you'll be in some deep shit. If, in the rare instance they say yes, we're going to form a timeline and you'll still be in deep shit. Save us the time, would you?" Jim snapped, throwing down a file impatiently. "Ellie, your sister. Did you see her eight days ago or not?"
Christopher shrugged nonchalantly. "Probably. Don't know."
"Okay, let's try this another way," Gil interjected. "You say you saw her a week ago. Was she planning a trip?"
The man opposite of them shrugged again. "Don't know."
"If you weren't aware that she was planning to leave, did you realize after a few days that she was missing?"
"I guess."
"Why didn't you report it?" Horatio asked, looking placidly over to their suspect.
"Didn't care."
"She was your sister, dumb ass. Why the hell didn't you care?" Jim asked, scowling over the table.
"She was a fag. Didn't know where she was, didn't care what happened to her. When she came out of the closet, I kicked her to the curb."
"I'm sure that was a huge loss on her part," he viciously replied. Christopher rolled his eyes.
"Look man, you don't scare me. I know my rights."
"Wow. You're a smart guy then, aren't you? If you know your rights, then you oughta know the law. Just so we understand each other, killing people is against the law."
"Whatever. Can I go now?"
"Sure," Horatio replied, closing the open file in front of him and leaning back into his chair, draping his right foot over his left knee, completely composed. "An officer can escort you to a jail cell."
"What the hell?" Christopher asked, slamming his palms against the table angrily. "Why?"
"Reckless endangerment? Evading an officer? Kid, that's just for starters," Jim supplied. "And we're going to need a DNA sample. Are you going to make this difficult too?"
"Will it piss you off?" he snapped, sending a loathing look their way.
"On he contrary," Horatio calmly replied. "We thrive on complications."
"Makes the job more interesting," Gil continued, opening a silver kit and taking out a long, white swab. "Now say 'ah'."
Christopher looked as if he wanted to argue, but knew that they were going to get some of his DNA no matter how much he protested. He opened his mouth, revealing straight, white teeth. Before their untimely deaths, his parents had obviously cared enough for him to give him braces and the best of what they could afford.
Gil swabbed the side of Christopher's mouth before pausing a moment, Christopher's hoody having fallen around his neck. The skin showing was marred with black ink. Grissom stopped a moment to observe it. "Is this a tattoo of the swastika?" he asked, his voice the epitome of conversational etiquette.
"Yeah. Got it when I was nineteen," the teenager replied, almost as if he was proud of the mark that now branded him.
"Did you know the swastika was designed about sixth century B.C? The Hindus said in brought luck, represented the sun and reincarnation. The Indians used it, Asians, entire European cultures." He gave Christopher a steady look. "But that's not what you intended it to mean when you got this tattoo, did you?"
The man gave him a grin, clearly indicating his answer; still, he didn't confirm Grissom's theory. "What's it to you?"
"It's nothing to us," Gil replied simply. "Only that you proudly wear the Nazi symbol. I suppose you know the history behind the movement and what they did during the Second World War?"
"Absolutely."
"They killed and tortured millions of innocent people."
"They made it stand for something worthwhile."
Ryan and Greg stood behind the mirror, watching the interview with rapture. Greg was glaring at him, as if hoping his withering stare might somehow penetrate the glass and strike Christopher where he was sitting. Ryan, on the other hand, was calmer but no less upset.
It seemed clear that their suspect wasn't going to give anymore information that evening; rare were the suspects that spilled the beans before getting their estimated prison sentence first. Ryan's entire body ached and Greg didn't look as if he was faring any better.
"It's been a long day," Greg finally whispered, his hand ghosting across Ryan's. "Let's go home. What do you say?"
Ryan gave him a small smile. Greg was unconsciously using the term "home" and it sounded so incredibly right. "I say that sounds great."
They were exiting the small room together when a voice stopped them mid-trek; it was Jim, talking with Horatio and Gil as two officers took Christopher away.
"Let me tell you, Gil, you should've seen them. Wolfe was running like a fire was after him."
Horatio turned from his two companions to observe the subjects of Jim's recollection. There was a small smile on his face as his blue eyes swept over Ryan and Greg from a few feet away.
"I hear you two ran down our prime suspect. I wanted to congratulate you."
Ryan cleared his throat, uncomfortable at the attention his three superiors were giving him. He took a self-conscious look around, making sure that no one was watching or listening in. "Yes sir," he confirmed, hoping to end the conversation as soon as possible. "It was…"
"Exhausting. I've sworn off junk food for at least the next three days, or until Catherine brings in a box of Krispy Kreams, whichever comes first," Greg finished. Ryan couldn't help but relax at the enthusiastic voice of Greg and his ability to feel at home with just about anyone.
"Horatio," Ryan began, unable to stop his small laugh, "Have you met Greg?"
Greg stuck out his hand enthusiastically. "Greg Sanders, CSI level one. Ryan's told me a whole bunch about you."
"Really?" Horatio questioned, shaking the offered hand politely. "Anything scandalous?"
Greg let out a mock sigh of disappointment. "I've tried to get some juicy stuff, but he won't budge. He says if I'm feeling particularly suicidal, I can try and steal your sunglasses, but I figured you seem like a nice enough guy. I'll save my tormenting resources for someone more deserving."
"Speaking of suicidal," Gil interrupted, "Where's my crossword puzzle?" He shot Greg a suspicious look. "Did you make another of those paper cranes again?"
Greg paused a moment before exchanging a look with Ryan. The blonde man spoke quickly. "You know what? I think I hear Hodges calling me. Something about fingernail scrapings."
Ryan looked thoughtful. "I think he's asking if you'd like to say any final words. Hey, if you start running now, I bet your boss won't catch you until… oh, I'd say the parking lot."
"Which is where I'll meet you in about five minutes," Greg replied quickly, giving his boss a nervous look. Although Ryan still didn't understand the entire paper crane issue, he had to admit that he found it amusing.
"Greg," Gil began, a hint of warning to his voice. "How many times have I told you that you can fold up any page you want except the crossword puzzle?"
"Too many to count, sir."
"And?"
"And I suddenly remember seeing a paper crane on the top of the snack machine."
"Of course you did. Now run before I start making paper cranes out of your termination slip."
"He seems nice," observed Horatio as the other man scampered down the hallway, in search of an ornately folded crossword puzzle. Grissom gave Horatio and Ryan a polite nod before slowly following the Californian. "You two seem to get along well together," the red head finished, turning his attention back to Ryan.
Ryan felt a telltale blush beginning to rise from his neck. "We do. He's definitely…"
"Exuberant?"
"That's one word you could use," Ryan replied, fighting his natural tendency to look down at his shoes while he spoke.
"No one here seems shy about your chase today, either. I'm getting details from everyone in the lab."
"And they probably got the particulars from Greg. If it weren't for him, I would have lost the suspect."
"Then it's good you're working together. He's seems to admire you."
"Oh, really?" Ryan asked, clearly surprised by the observation. "He's a level one, just like me. I can't say I have a lot to teach him about the field."
"I wasn't talking about your jobs, Ryan," Horatio replied, blue eyes meeting brown. "You two just be careful."
Ryan stood as still as stone, his heart hitting the floor. How did Horatio know? They were being as discreet as possible! Eric and Calleigh certainly wouldn't have spilled their secret to anyone. Still, he met Horatio's eyes, unwavering. He had the distinct feeling that if Greg ever discovered the other people knew about their relationship, he wouldn't shrink away. He'd give them a big grin and a cheeky remark. He'd confirm it right off the bat. In other words, he would be proud. Ryan took a deep breath. He certainly wasn't going to abuse this relationship by trying to deny its existence; besides, Horatio would never break confidence. Their secret was safe.
"How did you-?"
Horatio gave him a smile before following what sounded to be a desperate struggle for a crossword-paper crane down the hallway. It became apparent that Horatio wasn't going to tell him verbally, but Ryan had the distinct feeling that anyone who wasn't blind could see what was happening between him and Greg.
…
Ryan found Greg leaning against his car, the Las Vegas sun beginning to peak over the horizon, coloring the sky with orange and pink. Ryan could hear the daily bustle of the city sounding off; a business man's sedan, the jingle of keys, horns honking, voices emerging to become part of the morning. They were all waking and there was a collective need for caffeine throughout the Western Hemisphere. However, as most of the city woke, Ryan and the rest of the graveyard shift were feeling the pull of a hard night's work. They were fully prepared to turn in.
Greg was looking out to the street, observing the morning rush. The orange light of the sun made him illuminate somehow, washing him with a glow that forced him to stand out among the gray pavement and every day scenery. Ryan stopped ten feet away, Greg unaware of his presence. Ryan wanted to take the moment and admire the man he was falling dangerously in love with. Greg was so beautiful, so bright: what made him want to choose Ryan over so many worthier candidates?
Greg continued to look out onto the city before feeling the watchful eyes of another. He turned and smiled at his observer.
"Hey handsome," he said as Ryan walked over, having guiltily been caught. "Ready to go?"
Ryan sighed. As tempting as it was to simply jump into Greg's car and drive off into the sunrise, he desperately needed to get some of his own clothes. He had narrowly avoided doom when David noticed he had been wearing Greg's shirt, but he wasn't sure how someone else might respond if they caught wind of their relationship. "Actually, I need to get some stuff from my hotel room. I'll meet you at your place in half an hour?"
Greg let out a dramatic groan while he slowly wrapped his arms around Ryan's waist, as if considering Ryan's half-an-hour deal. "I think I can manage to wait that long, but it's going to be difficult on me. And you'd better not be a minute late either," he warned, taking the sting out of his words by bending and catching a kiss.
"I'll get there as soon as I can," he promised. "We'll even try to cook."
"Cook?"
"Yeah, you know food and fire and pans? It's all part of it."
"I'm sure someone, somewhere, thinks you're hilarious."
Ryan grinned as he gently pried Greg's hands away from him, taking an admittedly unconscious but swift look around to see if anyone was watching.
"Closeted?"
Ryan turned back at Greg's frank question, slightly alarmed. "What?" he asked, immediately understanding the question and reluctant to answer it.
Greg gave him a smile, quickly shoving his hands in his pockets, giving Ryan the space he silently wanted. "No public displays of affection, right?"
An emotion that could only be known as guilt welled up inside the Floridian. He certainly wasn't winning the gold medal for the "Most Sensitive Boyfriend of the Year" category. He gave Greg an apologetic look.
"No. Cal, Eric and Horatio know. It's just weird, I guess. You're my first…"
He stopped himself. What was Greg, exactly? A short-term boyfriend? A friend with benefits? Ryan hated that. Friend with benefits. When they kissed, there was always something more than just sex involved.
Greg seemed to be asking the same question. He looked up at Ryan uncertainly before giving him a crooked smile, traces of curiosity and slight confusion around his lips.
"I'm your first male partner, right?"
"Technically," the other man admitted, somewhat sheepishly.
"All right then. And don't sweat about the public affection thing. It's not a big deal."
Ryan sighed before giving Greg a quick kiss. "You're a lot more than just a first male partner," he whispered, unable to stop his hand from brushing Greg's cheek gently. "I'll see you in a little while, okay?"
Greg nodded. "You'd better or I'll be forced to hunt you down," he threatened (although the childish grin on his face took the seriousness right out of his words) before hopping in his car. He gave Ryan a silly wave through the window and drove off, leaving Ryan in the parking lot. With a somewhat inane smile on his face, Ryan quickly hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address to the hotel.
The drive was uneventful, giving him an unsettling amount of time to consider how crazy his life had become in a mere seven days. The case was beginning to gain a little momentum and his relationship with Greg was ideal so far. However, Ryan's natural tendency to peer deep into the future was starting to make itself known. When the case was closed, where would they go from there? How would they say goodbye? Would Greg give him a wave and then head on home, forgetting this ever happened? In the back of his mind, Ryan wondered what it would be like to live in the famous city of Las Vegas with the younger man on a more permanent basis. But would Greg want such a serious commitment? It seemed as if he would; he hadn't shown any signs that clashed with the notion. Still, there was no way Ryan could leave Miami. He couldn't abandon his uncle and friends. He silently watched as the cab raced by the bright scenery and towards the hotel.
He paid his fare and trudged up the steps. The idea of never seeing Greg again was having a serious effect on his psyche. He needed to get with the program. He could be unattached, couldn't he? He didn't have to put his heart into everything. There was no obligation here, no promises. Just because Greg was the most meaningful partner he could ever remember having, did that mean he was in love? Or was it just lust? Or was it the heat of the moment?
Ryan frowned as he punched his floor number in the elevator. A lot of people flew cross-country on business trips or vacations and had a meaningless fling while they were there; a shared hotel room with someone they met in a bar. Why couldn't he do the same? What made this so different? He was knowingly growing too attached, willingly falling into the inevitable snares of utter heartbreak. He could handle it if Greg could, right? Surely Greg couldn't silently be sharing these thoughts.
He felt his heart hit his stomach as he jammed his key card into his now-useless hotel room door lock.
"Oh my God, there's a complete stranger in my room," a voice said lightly, jarring Ryan from his reflections. He looked up to see Eric splayed across the couch, his nose having been stuck in a book, a terrible looking novel that appeared to have been recently purchased at the gift shop downstairs. "You remind me of someone I knew a long time ago. If memory serves, I think his name was Ryan Wolfe."
"Ha ha," Ryan retorted as he closed the door behind him. "I'm dropping by to get some clothes and soap and… well, everything," he finished, a small blush now gracing his face. It was pretty obvious that his residence would no longer be room 435.
"What, Greg doesn't have some shampoo you can borrow?"
"I figured we're skating thin ice when I wear his clothes, so smelling like him won't exactly help my case."
"Ah, the cautious CSI."
"When have you known me not to be cautious?" Ryan asked as he wandered into the adjoining bedroom to begin searching for his belongings. Eric followed him and flopped onto the edge of a bed while Ryan started emptying the closet of his clothes and folding them neatly, storing them carefully in his suitcase.
"Point taken. I'm just glad you and Greg are so star-crossed that hotel rooms have become unnecessary. And by star-crossed I meant minus the poison and doomed ending."
"If that doesn't fill me with confidence, I don't know what does," Ryan replied, rolling his eyes at Eric's grin. "And anyway, I haven't seen you in a while. I wanted to come by see how low you've sunk without my constant presence."
"And here I thought you saved your bull for work hours only."
Ryan turned to the Cuban, a smart remark on the tip of his tongue, but decided to be the bigger of the two and overlook the beginnings of a wit battle. However, he couldn't stop his grin. The 'how low you've sunk' comment was rather ridiculous; in fact, it reminded him of something Greg would say. "What I'm trying to ask is how you're getting along with the case," he continued, turning back to his previous task of packing.
"We printed every surface of the club that we could possibly reach if that's what you want to know. Office, dressing room, around the stage. I'm sure whatever poor sap's in charge of the lab budget is having a cow."
"Oh, so you and Nick worked out whatever was going on between you two?"
Ryan went on with his job of folding, waiting patiently for the reply. When it finally came, however, it was a strained and somewhat transparent "Yeah, we're fine." At the tone of voice, the younger man turned to see Eric's eyes had become hard and his face troubled. The cheerful banter that had been flowing between them disappeared in favor of a tense silence.
"Eric, is everything okay?" he asked slowly, unable to interpret the look on Eric's face. The Cuban quickly tried to abate Ryan's concerns, but his smile was forced, as if he was trying to hide something from view. He nodded.
"Just stressed out with work. Like I said, tons of prints and all those club employees to deal with."
Ryan paused a moment before setting his belongings down on the closet shelf, his full attention now directed at Eric. His friend's excuse was nothing more than a way to change the subject, but Ryan wasn't buying it.
"Work? What parts of it?"
Eric shrugged nonchalantly. "Just the usual, but you'd better get going or Greg'll be calling soon."
"Eric, don't lie to me. What's going on?"
"Nothing, I swear."
"Eric-''
"Ryan, drop it," Eric snapped, his body rigid and his tone going cold. He rose from his seat and walked back to the television room, as if trying to escape the discussion altogether. "It's nothing for you to worry about, okay?"
"You said it was work. What happened?" Ryan asked, following his friend anxiously. Despite Eric's wishes, there was no way he was going to abandon the issue.
"Greg's going to be expecting you," Eric said, trying to gain as much leverage as he could. Ryan was persistent when he wanted to be, only because he was such a faithful friend, wanting to make sure those around him were happy. He knew when something needed to be addressed; the problem was that Eric didn't want to address anything. He didn't even want to think about it.
"He'll call if he starts to worry," Ryan countered, rapidly gaining the upper hand. Eric knew there was no way he was going to win unless he was suddenly struck with a dose of great lying skills; Ryan was too determined and genuinely concerned.
Eric finally found his space back on the couch, his novel shoved under a spare pillow. Ryan took the space next to him, his mind now concentrating on one thing: the best friend he'd completely forgotten about. In between the case and his own clumsy war of emotions, he had totally overlooked Eric's situation. At the other man's doubtful silence, Ryan leaned forward. "I'm your best friend. Please tell me."
Eric unconsciously tapped his fingers on the armrest next to him. "It's stupid," he finally muttered, not looking Ryan's direction and training his eyes on the open window across the room instead.
"If it is, I'll be sure to tell you."
"Fine. But I swear to God, if you tell Cal, I'll hunt you down and string you from a cactus or something."
"And you'll have every right."
Eric sighed and closed his eyes. He had no choice but to speak. "Okay, here's the thing. I messed up."
"Messed up? What, the case? Did you contaminate evidence? Because I'm sure Horati-"
"It doesn't have anything to do with evidence," Eric interrupted, successfully soothing the bout of worry that was beginning to form over Ryan's head. "I messed up with Nick. I freaked out and now it's weird."
"Whoa, whoa," the younger man said, his eyes growing large. Sure, he had suspected that maybe Nick and Eric flirted a bit, but how far had they gone without Ryan knowing? "Details. Spill."
"Yesterday, after we were chased down, we…" At this moment, he paused, true embarrassment forbidding him to speak any further. "We- I mean, you've gotta understand that we were stressed and we nearly died, so-''
"As position of best friend, I don't judge, but I can't help you if you're vague about it."
"Wekissed."
"You what?" Ryan demanded, all thoughts now spinning a million miles an hour in his head. Even with Eric's rushed words, there was no mistaking "we" and "kissed".
"I mean, he kissed me, but the point is that it happened and-''
"Wait, so in the heat of the moment, he kissed you. Am I getting this right?"
Eric buried his head in his hands, a humiliated "Yeah" coming from him in response.
"And what, you didn't like it?"
"No, that's the problem."
"So you did like it," Ryan said slowly, trying to clarify all the facts.
"Yeah, I did. Can we move on?"
"But you're a party guy, right? He seems more like a one-significant-other-at-a-time kind of guy."
"So you're saying I can't stick with one person?"
"No, I'm saying here's pretty serious." There was a pause before Ryan spoke again, his voice low. "Do you like him?"
"What's it matter? There's no way it would work. We're half way through the case anyway, or so I've been told. And long-distance never pans out."
"Is that going to stop you?"
"You're gung-ho about this, aren't you? Seeing Greg is making you lose all perspective."
"I have perspective," Ryan argued. "Normally, I would never do this, but Greg's different, just like Nick's different."
"So you're saying I should just hop into bed with him?" Eric asked, rolling his eyes. "You're dreaming."
"That's not what I meant at all," Ryan quickly replied, trying to fight away the flustered, embarrassed flush that was heating his skin. "Greg and I… it's a lot more than-''
"Trust me, I know. I'm sorry," Eric interrupted, giving him a small smile. "I like Nick. A lot. But what happened makes things difficult. I'm not as brave as you and Greg."
"You're the one who told me to go for it."
"I could tell you and Greg were really serious."
"Just like you and Nick. You're not the only one who can pick up on these things, you know," Ryan replied. "But that's beside the point. What did he say?"
It looked as if Eric would have rather been swimming in a pool of crushed glass than speaking about this. At Ryan's insisting silence, Eric sighed and, not meeting the other man's eyes, said, "He even admitted that he was attracted to me last night. And you know what I did? I bailed, Ryan. Totally left him there and now conversations between us are so awkward that Calleigh's picking up on it."
"There's only one remedy for that," Ryan answered, giving Eric a grin. "You have Nick's address. You should at least talk with him and work it out."
"Just show up on his porch unexpected and probably uninvited? You're delirious."
"I like to call it optimism."
"Most others call it insanity."
A silence finally fell between them. Two best friends, both hopelessly displaced and tangled up in webs that they couldn't seem to get out of. Frankly, Ryan didn't want to get untangled. Eric, on the other hand, was fighting for an exit.
"You should go," Ryan whispered. "And this is coming from a guy who never takes chances."
"You took a chance with Greg," Eric argued. Ryan smiled.
"Only because you told me it was worth it and it ended up that you were right. And now we're switching roles and I, who hastens to do anything particularly crazy, am telling you that you'll never know if you don't try."
"I'll never know if I don't try? You're just full of clichés, aren't you?"
"Love is blind. Love conquers all. Love means never having to say you're sorry. Lo-''
"Okay, you've made your point. Now get out of here. I'm sick of you already."
"I was just getting started," Ryan complained, a look of mock disappointment on his face. Eric rolled his eyes.
"Sure you were, lover boy. Now grab yourself a cab and hit the road before Greg starts calling."
"You should be so fortunate."
Eric laughed as Ryan grabbed the rest of his belongings and, abandoning his natural tendency to fold and place things in the correct order, stuffed them in his suitcase before making a break for the elevator.
…
An hour later found Greg and Ryan piled in Greg's bed amongst a kingdom of blankets and pillows, both physically and mentally drained from a long night of work and the extracurricular activities they partook in after hours. Greg's arms tightened around Ryan's waist as he sighed, pleasantly worn out.
Ryan closed his eyes, hoping he could burn this feeling of warmth and comfort into his memory. He knew, after too many hours of debating and arguing with his inner monologue, that there was no possible way this could ever be more than it was: a fleeting love story. However, he had refrained from mentioning his concerns with the man spooned next to him. He could at least enjoy the time he was given without demanding more, right?
In the midst of his thoughtful silence, Greg spoke. "I'm glad you're here," he whispered, his breath hot against Ryan's chest. The dark haired man closed his eyes again. Voice. Warm breath. Memorize this and move on. That was his plan of action when the case inevitably came to a close.
"Me too," Ryan replied, threading his fingers through Greg's.
"Having someone here, especially you," Greg began, his voice soft, "Somehow makes it easier."
"What do you mean?"
"Sometimes I have this dream," the he confessed, his words slow and uncertain. "I can't sleep when I wake up afterwards, but knowing you're here almost makes it painless."
"What kind of dream?" Ryan queried, now curious, his hand idly playing with Greg's blonde hair.
"An explosion," Greg answered. "But not my explosion in the lab. It's somewhere else, in a different place."
Ryan's heart nearly stopped beating. He took in a deep, shaky breath. He didn't want to ask if there was music in the background or yellow crime scene tape that was floating in an ash-heavy wind because that would sound utterly insane. His mouth, like so many times before, had a different plan.
"Is there music playing?"
Greg seemed to stop breathing as well and a moment hung suspended between them. Finally, after searching a minute for his response, he spoke, shifting in order to meet Ryan's eyes. "Yeah," he whispered, giving Ryan a puzzled look. "How did you know?"
Ryan didn't reply, merely hugged Greg closer to him. The question of how this relationship would work was put in the back seat to be blissfully forgotten for a few more precious days.
The fact was that something was brewing on the horizon; it was dark, menacing, the plot of a mad man.
And they were in the middle of it.
TBC.