A/T: I know it's been ages since I've updated, but don't fear: I still love this story! It's my baby. –huggles- I'm sorry to say that this chapter is short compared to my others, but I promise that I'm working on it. Thanks for all your support!
To Onigami Nanashi: You're too funny! –laughs- If it annoys you, just iono... ignore it or something. Trust me, you aren't annoying at all and a writer can never have too many reviews. Plus, ask all the questions you want. I live to serve. :D
Disclaimer: Not yours, not mine. I make absolutely no money from this; I write because I love to do it!
Out With It
Act 9: This Place Called Home
My mind without you is dead and cold as the dark midnight river when the moon is down.
-Percy Bysshe Shelley to Mary Godwin, 1814
A receptionist sat down at the welcome desk in the Las Vegas crime lab.
Well, "welcome desk" was nothing more than a courteous term; she was more of a guide for the dozens of people who came in hopelessly lost with no idea as to where they were supposed to go. But she'd been working there for quite a while and knew the lab like the back of her own hand, so she could direct them to the farthest reaches of the building without thinking twice. She was the directory and information specialist. She called security when people started a scene. On the days Greg didn't make the coffee, she would have to bear the brunt and make it herself. It wasn't the actual process of making the coffee that she dreaded; instead, it was having to hear everyone complain when it was anything less than Greg's.
The evening had been the same as it had been for almost a year now, which was a pretty sweet deal when she considered the alternative. After part of the lab exploded, she had sworn off the desire for a more exciting life. The same computer, the same people, the same job; safe, everyday work was a blessing, really. It was secure and it was all she could possibly want.
She set down her cup of coffee. Luckily, Greg hadn't forgotten tonight. Her fingertips brushed against the computer keys as she entered the password for her account. She nodded cheerfully at the same guards, the same CSIs, the same detectives and made sure to keep away from hard subjects like the cases they were working; after all, she was the receptionist and usually offered coffee and a kind word.
The phone rang. She answered it, as was her duty. It was her job to be polite but to the point; she waited for the system to accept her password as the sun began to set beyond the glass doors of the lobby. The tile shined and the walls sparkled, but her foot restlessly tapped against the floor, because something didn't feel right.
The phone rang. She answered. The computer finally logged her in and she pulled up the appropriate databases for quick access.
The phone rang.
"Hello, this is the crime lab. How can I direct your call?"
Pause. Those passing by didn't notice her sudden stillness, the way her lips pursed together, her eyes cold. Everything was normal to everyone else outside the building because they dwelled within lives that were pretty standard, but the Las Vegas crime lab wasn't normal and it certainly didn't live by any standard that she could think of.
"Who is this?" she asked, but a resounding silence was the only answer she received. The caller had immediately hung up once they had finished their speech.
She hung up as well and waited for a moment, allowing for the line to reconnect. She grabbed the handset and dialed with trembling fingers. Her own life was typical most of the time and she was glad for that, but for the 364 days that she wasn't scared out of her skin, there was always that 1 day where she swore she would quit this job.
It only rang once before someone answered. "Grissom," said the voice on the other end and she let out of sigh of relief she never even realized she was holding. She didn't know the entomologist that well, but he always had an air of authority and knowing about him. She knew he was the man to report to.
"Mr. Grissom? This is Judy from the front desk." She took a shaky breath before speaking again, hoping her voice was steadier than it sounded. "Sir, I just received a call from a man claiming he's put bombs in the Las Vegas Airport."
In the background, she could hear shouting, cursing, absolute chaos and mayhem.
"Sir?" she asked, making sure the connection was clear, hoping Grissom's cell phone hadn't decided to frizz out. "What's going on out there?"
Instead of getting any sort of answer, she found herself on the end of a dead line for the second time in less than a minute. It was rude to simply disconnect; however, Grissom was never without a reason. Wherever they were, it sounded like they were in the midst of an emergency.
She hoped everyone was okay and somehow knew this would be one hell of a night.
…
Twenty minutes before Judy ever arrived to the front desk, eleven CSIs and one lab technician were preparing to leave for the Las Vegas Airport. "Preparing" was the key word here. The criminalists were usually right on time, if not early; however, due to several variables throughout the evening, they discovered that they were late and, quite frankly, they didn't like the feeling. Most of them had practically forgotten the meaning of the word (although Greg had been quick to cheekily inform them that 'late' was an adjective, synonymous with 'delayed'. He was going to continue with his explanation, but Sara had threatened him with yesterday's coffee, so he backed off.) considering the chewing out they'd receive if the Sheriff were to ever discover this somewhat embarrassing mistake.
However, Ryan was probably the worst when it came to the delicate art of being behind schedule.
He drummed his fingers against the top of the table as he watched his friends rush around, trying to gather both their wits and supplies. He knew he shouldn't be so impatient, but his internal, OCD-induced clock was ticking; it was a relentless, constant reminder that they were late. He couldn't help that he was itching to go, tardiness being an alien notion to him. He hoped he was hiding his impatience well enough; after all, he'd hate to be known as the stickler, although Greg could probably take one look at him and know exactly what was going through his mind. Then again, Greg had that uncanny ability. Ryan's nerves relaxed as he thought of his boyfriend and he took a deep breath before removing his hand from the table. Being late was a part of life. He could handle it.
Maybe.
"You guys ready to head off?" Gil called as he and Horatio stuck their heads through the doorway and watched their respective teams scramble about, collecting their materials and sparring for the last available cup of coffee.
Despite being amongst the general pandemonium that surrounded him, Gil Grissom was calm, even serene. Although this was his usual state of self, it was even more noticeable when compared to the somewhat frantic, stressed mood that the rest of the crew was in. How could Ryan blame them? He too felt the heavy burden and responsibility that came with trying to put another killer behind bars. If they couldn't find a piece of damning evidence from the airport, the case would fall apart and Christopher Jenkins would strut right out of his jail cell, laughing all the way to an attorney's office before slapping the crime lab with a lawsuit that Ecklie would faint at.
"Swing shift left there half an hour ago," Gil pointedly informed them, ignoring Catherine's cursing of the coffee machine. "We're late." Ryan inwardly cringed. He was all too aware of this fact and he fought the urge to continue drumming his fingers.
"Late?" Catherine echoed, seriously ticked off. "I'll tell you what's late." She accusingly pointed to the coffee machine with a well-manicured finger. "If this thing could go any slower, it'd be brewing backwards."
"Are you insulting the coffee maker? Cath, that's a line you just don't cross. I mean, when has Darla ever let you down?" Greg asked, traces of genuine shock in his voice. Catherine shot him a look, one that was a mixture of both curiosity and irritation.
"Did you really name the coffee maker, Greg? Boost my faith in mankind and tell me you didn't."
"What, you don't like 'Darla'? I was told it was classy and yet feminine."
"How do you know whether an electronic appliance is male or female?"
"You just know," Greg explained, grinning when Catherine rolled her eyes in incredulity. "She speaks to me. Darla and I have had many a deep discussion. Y'know, theology, philosophy, the meaning of life, whether the Yankees will-''
"I get it," Catherine interrupted, looking rather thankful when the coffee finally finished trickling into the mug. She quickly dumped in some creamer and sugar, stirring the contents until the liquid turned a lighter shade of brown, almost white.
"You want some coffee with that pound of sugar?" Warrick asked, casting a skeptical glance at the mug before bowing his head, trying to escape the wrathful glare Catherine shot him.
"Hey, I think we can all agree that sugar and caffeine are wonderful things when you're forced to spend another breathtaking night at the airport," she replied, taking another gulp of the cherished beverage and flipping her red hair back with an impatient hand. "And I'd like to see you even try and take this away from me."
"But what's at the airport that we could even need? Our prime suspect's her brother," Warrick observed as he speedily refilled his fingerprint powder. Ryan inwardly groaned as he watched the action; they were so behind schedule that the Sheriff was going to have their heads for trophies when they finally arrived to the scene.
"His DNA didn't match the fingernail scrapings under the victim's nails. She definitely fought back, but it wasn't Christopher she was fighting against," Gil calmly replied. Warrick grunted and shook his head, too teed off at the thought to even respond.
A cloud of disappointment hung over the team. It wasn't as if they weren't prepared to tackle whatever assignment was deemed necessary for the completion of the case; it was the fact that they couldn't seem to catch a break. A week had already been spent tracking down worthless security videos, deceased family members, and useless co-workers, trying to put the pieces together and fill in the blanks.
"Gil, I gotta say there's a billion prints in that place and you guys dusted anyway," Jim replied, unapologetically cynical. "What are you even looking for?"
The intelligent man cast a calm look over to the Captain. "The answer," he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and Ryan supposed, when put in vague terms, it was.
Jim rolled his eyes at the unclear, philosophical response he had come to expect from the entomologist. "Right," he muttered. "Why did I even bother asking?"
"I don't suppose the chaos theory applies here, does it?" Catherine inquired, giving Gil a raised brow. "Y'know, Ellie just had an urge to take a Florida vacation, hopped on a plane and found herself at the whims of chance?"
"No," Gil replied, the epitome of patience. "There's definitely preempted actions taking place and it lies somewhere in that airport."
Catherine looked as if she wanted to respond, but found herself interrupted by Nick's voice as he tore into the room, speaking over his shoulder.
"Yo Hodges, you ready?" The Texan asked, looking rather rushed as he grabbed his kit before turning, doubling back, and grabbing his glasses as well.
Gil looked up at the query. Ryan noticed a worried frown was now tugging at his lips and for once, he was losing the tranquility he was known for. "Is Hodges ready for what?" their boss asked, looking close to concerned.
"The field," Warrick replied, patting down his jeans and, upon realizing he was missing his keys, grabbed his jacket and began shuffling through the pockets.
"The field," Yelina questioned. "A DNA technician on the field?"
"Don't worry," Nick replied. "He's been trained in the ways of the Jedi. Plus, he's got an I.Q. higher than a monkey, y'know? He just documents. Saves time."
Sara smiled sweetly, flashing her gap tooth. "He's a monkey with a Masters in chemistry."
"That's cute," the technician replied, shooting the woman a cool look as he strode into the room, appearing much more relaxed than his Texan friend. "I suppose you earn a few extra bucks working as a comedian on the weekends?"
Ryan heard Sara reply; it was probably a barb, because he saw David put his hand on his hip and glare at the shorter woman. However, most of his concentration had been shifted to another man walking towards him. Greg was smiling, hands in his pockets, looking at Ryan with eyes filled with… Ryan didn't even want to think about it. Scientifically, how could eyes really portray emotion anyway? It was more of a romantic phrase that poets and dreamers liked to use, describing how their soul mate gazed at them with expressive eyes, betraying their inner feelings. It was ridiculous, not to mention impossible.
Still, when Greg sat down next to him, it was difficult to completely dismiss the theory. The way Greg was looking at him made Ryan feel like he was the only person in the room, in the world, and despite his scientific ramblings, he realized that the poets and dreamers might have stumbled upon something that was actually believable.
"I can hear you thinking from across the room," Greg whispered, lightly touching Ryan's twitching hand, his fingers trying to stay still and not edgily tap against the table.
Ryan sent the blonde a small, sheepish smile. "I know. I just-''
"Hate being late?"
"Exactly. But I'm working on it," he finished. "Besides, I should be used to it since I hang out with you all the time."
"Har har," Greg replied, grinning before leaning forward. "I'd have a stinging retort to that, but my desire to kiss you right now trumps just about everything else." His whispered words made Ryan feel as if he were melting. It was rare that Ryan would feel such an emotion as to forget his surroundings. If they were home –Greg's apartment, he reminded himself- then he would have let Greg do whatever he wanted to and, right then, in the middle of the crowded lab, he was tempted to let Greg do it anyway.
Greg smiled. "But I can wait."
"You don't have to," Ryan replied.
Greg smiled once more, but it was different. His eyes ghosted over every inch of Ryan's face and he moved forward. For a moment, Ryan was torn; he wanted Greg to kiss him, but the sensible side of him was telling him to lean back and create some space. He loved Greg, but they were at work and it could affect- well, everything, and… A moment later, Ryan realized Greg never had the intention of kissing him. Instead, he was simply trying to keep their conversation private by being close and keeping their voices hushed.
"I know when you're lying," the blonde confessed.
The dark haired man took a breath. "Good," he whispered back. "Because I don't."
"And I know you'd let me kiss you in front of the President if I wanted to, but you're still a horrible pretender."
"I'll get better at it."
"What, making out in front of the President?"
"Kissing you in a public place."
"You don't have to."
Ryan grinned and copied Greg's action by leaning forwards. "I know when you're lying," he murmured.
Ryan, despite the strenuous circumstances, felt surprisingly calm and together. Perhaps it was because Greg was leaning against him in a subtly-loving-but-not-too-obvious way, his skin warming the Floridian's body. He wanted to kiss Greg, speak to him like anyone would their significant other, but the rushed crime lab wasn't the place to do that. Still, Greg's breathing had him unwound and tranquil; this, of course, couldn't help but make Ryan curious as to his other best friend's circumstance. He felt the silent tension between Eric and Nick as the two men avoided each other's eyes; they could barely even stand in the same side of the room for too long without getting antsy and wandering away, hoping to ease the sparks between them. It didn't take long to figure out that Eric hadn't taken Ryan's advice on the matter, but he'd certainly lost some sleep over the days.
Usually, it was Eric who made the first move when he was attracted to someone. What was different about this? Ryan had always known that Eric was constantly searching for someone he could love on a more permanent basis, but all of his relationships seemed to fall through. The possibility that Nick was the person who could make him truly happy added a huge weight of difficulty to Eric's predictable plan. The distance between them, the possibility of it working… was it easier for Eric to go back to the beautiful women he dated in Miami? The simplicity of calling it off when he knew it wouldn't work? It couldn't be. Ryan knew the loneliness Eric felt; the only thing that comforted the Cuban were his friends and family. In the beginning, Calleigh had tried dragging he and Ryan out, attempting to get Eric to connect with someone. However, they quickly learned that this was the worst thing they could do for him. Clubs offered too much of what he didn't need.
It was a complete reverse; Ryan, who was the epitome of prudence, had fallen for Greg anyway. Eric, who was flirtatious and charming, would have (in any other instance) certainly struck up a more-than-professional relationship if offered. But Eric, despite his evident attraction, had distanced himself. He didn't want to get hurt because he felt too much for Nick. Ryan watched the Cuban from across the room. He was laughing with Brass but had a manner of unhappiness that he simply couldn't mask from Ryan.
Nick really had tried to get Eric to realize the possibilities the two of them had together, but Eric simply wouldn't allow it. Ryan couldn't blame the Texan; how much rejection could a man take before they realized that it simply wasn't going to go anywhere? Wasn't there a point where you were forced to give up? To face reality?
Ryan's tumbled thoughts were cut short when he felt a soft touch on his elbow. He blinked; the team was filing out the door and Greg was trying to shake him from his stupor.
"And hey," Calleigh said, hoping to brighten the somber, hasty disposition of the group as they began to trudge out of the building and towards the parking lot. "Maybe the television crews haven't beaten us there yet."
Ryan silently winced.
Those were famous last words.
…
Despite Calleigh's hope, the camera crews and journalists had not only beaten them to the scene, but had set up camp as well. Large station vans littered the outside of the perimeter while sound men fiddled with their equipment and what looked to be harassed assistants patted down the noses of numerous reporters with powders, making sure they looked glamorous enough for television even as they clutched clipboards and spoke into their cell phones, juggling numerous calls all at once. In short, whatever privacy the CSIs had hoped they might receive was destroyed. They were, once more, the focus of the evening and would continue to be so until they finally closed the case.
Greg groaned and leaned his head back, resting it against the backseat dashboard of the patrol car as Jim slowly drove up to the scene, the mob making it difficult to go any faster than a mere crawl. "Aren't there any other crimes in Las Vegas these people can cover?" he asked, wrinkling his nose at the vultures waiting outside. Ryan grinned and squeezed his boyfriend's hand encouragingly while Jim glanced at the blonde through the rear view mirror, his lips forming a small smile at the exasperation in Greg's voice.
"A word of advice, gumshoe: they'll always be at the scene that needs isolation and they'll never cover the crimes that need attention. It's the way of the media."
"Amen to that, bother," Calleigh replied from the passenger's seat, turning towards the hard-boiled detective and holding up her right hand in an expecting manner. Jim simply cast her a funny look.
"It's a high five," she explained. Ryan laughed at the expression the usually sardonic man was wearing.
"I think he knows what a high five is, Cal," he supplied, amused at her antics. "I just don't think he wants to do it."
"Who doesn't want to do a high five?" she asked, faking hurt. "I was just trying to add some "oomph" to the moment."
"Fine," Jim said, sighing as he parked and shut off the ignition, ignoring the muffled voices of the crowd. "I'd hate to be the one responsible for destroying your "oomph" dream."
Calleigh grinned and held up her hand again. Jim rolled his eyes but silently agreed to her juvenile plan and they high-fived, Ryan and Greg laughing from their place in the back.
"Calliegh Duquesne, only you could convince Jim Brass do a high-five. You're my hero," Greg declared, unable to stop the embarrassingly girl-like giggles from escaping his lips.
The beautiful woman merely gave him a bright smile and silly wink before three more patrol cars pulled up behind them, the mob immediately catching sight of the vehicles and hollering out their questions. Jim sighed.
"Do I need to cover the rules?" he asked, giving the eager journalists a disdainful look from his place at the steering wheel.
"Don't talk to them, don't answer questions, and don't even look in their direction," Ryan recited.
"Good. Ready to make a break for it?"
"I was born ready, Jimmy," Greg replied, clutching his door handle. After a pause, the captain gave a short nod, signaling for them to exit the automobile and get under the crime scene tape as fast as they could manage. It was a race, really, because once those four emerged, the rest of the team did as well, Horatio and Gil shouldering their way through, Yelina between them. David, Nick, and Warrick bolted from the third car while Eric, Sara, and Catherine dashed out of the fourth. The tape was supposed to act as a force field; once you got under there, you were away from the prying eyes of the horde and able to do your job with minimal ruckus. This was just in theory, of course. It usually took a few armed officers and a well-put threat to make sure the plan actually worked.
As predicted, the moment Ryan's feet touched the ground was when the blizzard of voices began. "Sir, when do you expect to close this case?" "Sir, can you offer us any information on the case so far?" "Sir, what does Christopher Jenkins have to do with any of this?" It seemed like an entire chorus of 'sirs' were surrounding him; he grabbed Greg's arm and they made tracks towards the tape, narrowly avoiding the bulky, dangling microphone of a particularly persistent news crew. They hurriedly ducked under the yellow strip, thankful for the room to breathe.
"I'm totally used to this kind of behavior from people," Greg jokingly divulged, shooting Ryan a playful grin. "Random strangers see me and they can't help but freak out. You have a lot of competition, you know. The ladies love my air drum solos."
"From what David tells me, your musician skills are crappy with a side of average," Ryan replied, grinning at his boyfriend's lighthearted look of offense.
"How dare he! He's just jealous of my romantic entanglements while he sits at home, brooding."
"He's a good brooder," Ryan admitted.
"The best. No one compares."
Ryan caught sight of their group, assembling together about thirty yards away from the airport itself, allowing them more than enough space to work.
"You guys get through the stampede?" Sara asked, casting a glance towards the two approaching men.
"It was difficult," Greg cheekily replied. "Everyone kept asking for my autograph. This really hot chick wouldn't stop pestering me for my phone number, but I was purely professional about it."
"I'm sure Ryan finds that very reassuring," Sara replied. Ryan felt his face heat a few degrees, but didn't try to cover up the fact that Greg wasn't allowed to take phone numbers from beautiful women or gorgeous men anymore.
"I was able to resist," Greg informed her, sending a mischievous wink Ryan's way. "I got a better offer from someone else." David rolled his eyes and made a gagging noise; Greg stuck out his tongue in response and Calleigh snorted with laughter at the entire exchange. If they were going to be stuck here all night, they were going to make the best of it and Calleigh's laughter was always an uplifting sound to hear.
Sara said something –probably sarcastic, because Calleigh gave her a quirky little smile- but Ryan wasn't paying attention. He had caught sight of something behind her; there was a movement and some telltale reporter equipment. He took a few steps forwards, trying to make sure he was seeing what he really thought he was seeing. Reassured that his eyes weren't playing games with his mind, he let out a little groan. The yellow police tape obviously needed to be infused with a twelve foot steel gate; that, or officers needed to cover every inch of the perimeter 24/7, 365.
A tall, dark haired journalist was ducking under the crime scene tape, ushering for his crew to follow him. What was this guy thinking? Every reporter who wanted to keep their job knew they were to never cross the tape under any circumstance whatsoever. Ryan took a quick look around, knowing perfectly well that Horatio and Grissom were dealing with other matters that were probably colossally more important than that of a reporting vigilante. However, no one seemed to be making a commotion over it. Quite the opposite; no one seemed to have even noticed. Ryan paused a moment, several scenarios playing through his head; there were always options, but there was only one correct choice when it came down to the line. He sighed and turned to his four co-workers.
"I'll be right back," he promised. They glanced up from their conversation and gave him a curious look. Ryan pointed towards the offending news gang's direction, explaining himself without words.
"They've got guts," observed Greg, raising his eyebrows as he watched the camera crew follow after. "All of Las Vegas knows you don't mess with Grissom's scenes."
"Maybe he's new," Ryan replied.
"Or an idiot," responded David. "And in my experience, it's always been the latter."
"You would know a lot about that, wouldn't you?" Sara quipped.
Ryan laughed a little before he held up his index finger, indicating he'd only be gone a minute and then turned and jogged towards the reporter and his squad. He took a deep breath.
"Excuse me, sir?" he called, quickly approaching them. "I'm sorry, but you can't cross the tape."
The reporter merely shot him a disinterested look. "Whatever. I need this story." The man made a motion for his camera crew to follow him, obviously ignoring Ryan's remark.
Ryan felt an embarrassed flush rise to his face; he'd never been so rudely blown off. "Sir," he began once more, this time with more authority to his voice, "Listen to me. You can't cross this line, so I'm going to have to ask you to move back."
The reporter seemed bored, as if Ryan was some sort of annoying mosquito buzzing in his ear. "Kid, what level are you? I've been dealing with scenes for years. If the big guys don't tell you to back off, it's fair game."
Ryan's jaw clenched and he gave the man a level look. This guy was really starting to piss him off; who did he think he was by acting like that? An active crime scene was just that: active. You didn't mess with it unless you wanted contaminated evidence and a tossed case. "I'm an investigator on this scene, got it? I'm telling you to back off. We'll tell you when it's open to the news."
"Oh yeah? What are you going to do about it?"
Their voices were rapidly escalating, grabbing the attention of the surrounding crowd. Ryan took a self-conscious look around; he didn't want to start anything, but he couldn't let the reporter through. He noticed David shooting him a concerned look and knew the lab tech would never have had this problem in the first place. One of his patented sharp remarks would have sent anyone else running in the opposite direction with their tail between their legs, but Ryan couldn't seem to make the man blink.
"I'll have you charged with destroying evidence," Ryan hissed quietly. "Now please get outside the perimeter before I have an officer escort you."
"What happened to freedom of the press? Besides, you aren't making any progress on this case anyway. You've had this airport on lock-down for a friggin' week. It's our right to know."
Ryan was all for the constitutional rights and he certainly believed in freedom of the press, but the reporter was out of line and Ryan's blood was slowly beginning to boil. The man made a move forward and Ryan stuck out his arm, blocking his path.
"I'm two seconds away from arresting you myself."
"Is that a threat from an officer? Lay a finger on me and I'll charge you with assault."
It was the final straw.
"You listen to me, got it?" Ryan furiously began, no longer caring who was within earshot. "This is an active scene and if you step one more inch and screw this case over, we'll charge you with everything we can get away with, including accessory after the fact. Now you had better get back under the tape or I'll make goddamn sure you won't get another anchoring job in the state of Nevada. Am I clear?"
The reporter was silent and gave Ryan a cold look. It was apparent he didn't want to back down and lose the battle, but the future of his career was hanging precariously in the balance. He muttered a string of curses before finally going back under the tape, his cameramen wisely following suit. Ryan took another deep breath, keeping his cool demeanor until he turned and walked towards his group, all of who were looking appropriately stunned.
David gave a small whistle. "I've taught you well. Congratulations on scaring a man half to death."
Ryan felt himself smile a little until he met Greg's eyes. The other man leaned forward and David quickly looked away, pretending to immerse himself in something incredibly simple.
"I didn't know you could be like that," he whispered, his hot breath tickling Ryan's ear. "It was kind of hot."
"Greg,'' the darker haired man began, giving him an embarrassed look. "I don't think this is the appropriate place to-''
Greg cut him off with a sly grin and wink before turning with his camera and hurrying towards Nick and Catherine. Ryan sighed, wishing he could be exasperated, but the truth of the matter was that he wasn't even slightly annoyed with the younger man.
David could only shoot him an arched eyebrow and shake his head, gathering his supplies.
"What?" Ryan asked, the beginnings of embarrassment flushing his pale face.
"You two are going to make me sick. Too much lovey-dovey crap and I'll lose my breakfast."
"Why David, it's almost as if you're our friend."
The two men walked towards the cluster of investigators, Ryan watching as Greg fiddled with the inside of one of the Tahoes. He was going to ask Sara or Catherine what in the world the young man was doing, but he knew he'd find out soon enough. Greg was always full of surprises, constantly changing and altering his day with jokes, music, and questions in which he would be quick to find the answer. He wanted to know things, to be the smartest person in the room and, without even trying, he usually was. Ryan waited a moment before the sound of music burst out of the speakers. Why had he even questioned what Greg was doing? Of course it revolved around music somehow; he paused a moment, listening to David mutter under his breath while trying to figure out what was playing. He grinned, immediately recognizing their CD. It had a mix of Greg's favorite rock songs, The Beach Boys, and some swing music that always made everyone want to dance. Greg jumped out of the truck and practically waltzed over to them.
"Are you sure you're allowed to do that?" David asked, shooting an irked look towards the younger man.
"Sure," Greg replied. "I do it all the time. Besides, Gris actually asked me to. I don't think even he can stand another quiet night." He casually stuck his hands inside his pockets before frowning a little and looking down, digging his hands deeper. When he didn't find what he was looking for, he began with his jacket and vest.
"Did you lose something?" Ryan asked, giving him a concerned frown. It wasn't like Greg was disorganized –okay, so it was- but he was still professional and tried not to appear incompetent on the job.
"My film," Greg replied, furrowing his eyebrow as he stooped down to flip open his field kit. "Wonder where it walked off to?"
"Call me crazy, but I don't think film canisters can just grow legs and make a break for it," David replied. The blonde stuck his tongue out and David scoffed, muttering something about childishness.
"Want me to help you look for it? I have some extra anyway," Ryan offered. Greg shot him a sweet smile but shook his head.
"No, you guys go on. I'm sure it's in the patrol car."
"Okay, but if you don't find any, I really do have some spare rolls."
"Ryan, I believe you. As a matter of fact, how can I not believe you? You're the man who carries around entire packages of pens."
"Hey, you never know when one's going to run out."
"I think we've had this conversation before. Tell them I'll be right there," Greg replied. He watched as Ryan turned and walked with Calleigh, Warrick, and Nick into the airport, the rest of them soon to follow. Yelina was fighting with another camera man while Horatio and Gil tried their best to answer as many questions as they could before inevitably giving up and completely ignoring the constant voices of the media. Sara and Catherine were securing the perimeter, making sure that absolutely no one else could cross the tape, taking a lesson from Ryan and getting no-nonsense with those who felt they had the right to break the rules. Greg allowed himself a small smile before turning back to David.
"You had better give me my supplies," the blonde threatened, crossing his arms and arching his eyebrow, his back to the airport.
"Sanders, as amusing as it is to watch you get upset with me, I don't have your film."
"Are you telling me I forgot one of the most important provisions in a CSI's field kit?"
"No, I'm telling you I don't have it. Besides, I can't believe you put it in your pocket anyway."
"I was in a hurry," Greg defended. "And anyway, what am I supposed to do now?"
"Steal Nick's. You do it all the time."
"Wait, how do you know that?"
"We work with glass walls, Sanders. When you go through someone's kit, people can see. Besides, I'm sure Ryan has ten extra canisters hidden away."
"Yeah, yeah. I just wanted to show him I was responsible."
"Why would you want to lie to him like that?"
"Shut up, Mr. He Who Is Single.''
"Making fun of my marital status. That's a low blow, Sanders."
"You just make it so eas-''
Greg's teasing words were cut off by a sudden and violent Earth-shattering boom.
It was a foreign sound that was not, by any stretch of the imagination, supposed to be an element of their evening. Greg knew what it was; he recognized the hums and echoes. The way the glass shattered, like uneven and sharp snowflakes, deceptively beautiful and painfully fatal. He didn't need to smell the smoke or feel the heat to know what had just happened behind him.
At first, his body turned to concrete and all he could do was numbly stare into David's eyes, the technician's own blue orbs fixed upon the sight thirty yards away. His expression was indescribable; there was worry, panic, and stunned disbelief all rolled into one. Greg, the beginnings of sickness attacking his stomach, slowly turned at the commotion. His body had morphed from concrete into a ball of spastic nerves, his mind running a million miles an hour and his breathing coming out in swift, fearful bursts.
In front of them, the Las Vegas Airport was burning, huge billows of smoke rising into the sky, land marking the moment Greg's heart officially stopped. He was frozen, struck by a horror that spread within his entire being, making it so he was two seconds away from emptying his stomach contents. Fire. Explosion. Smoke. There was only one thing he could truly grasp despite the sudden severity of his surroundings; where there had been a bored lull of officers there was now a sudden panic. Where there had been basic chatter among the camera men, there was now loud shouting and orders being barked from the reporters.
But more than anything, where there had been four CSIs standing right beside him not two minutes ago, there were now four CSIs trapped inside the building.
Greg took a step forward, his mind still trying to catch up with the veracity of the situation. He dropped his kit and gloves but didn't hear them hit the pavement. All around them was a frantic rush and he seemed to be in slow motion; his own actions were robotic, unable to comprehend the circumstances and only managing to grasp the fact that his best friends and lover could be dead. He had to get in there. He had to help Ryan and Nick and-
"Sanders."
The voice brought him only partially back to reality. David had spoken.
"Hodges," he began, his voice sounding lost, as if he wasn't sure whether or not he was dreaming. When had his voice gotten so high? When had he suddenly begun sobbing uncontrollably?
"Sanders, listen to me," David began, his tone stern. "You can't go in there."
Behind the lab technician, camera crews were catching the action on film while Greg was attempting to grasp the meaning of the phrase "can't go in there." Who was David to stop him? Who was anyone to stop him? Staying safe and away from the blast area wasn't an option; he had to get inside. He made another motion to go forward and David's arm snapped out, his right hand clutching Greg's shoulder.
"Sanders, don't even think about it!"
"I have to! I have to help them! Why the hell aren't you trying to help me?"
Greg was screaming by then, sobbing, wishing he had been in there as well, wishing he could somehow save it all, rewind to the moment before the four CSIs had left David and Greg and gone inside. He wanted to return to when there was no fire, where they were all still alive and well.
"Listen to me, Greg. The paramedics and firemen are coming and they'll get them out." Greg heard the un-reassuring words as he struggled to free himself out of David's vice grip. In his mind, he knew the other man was right; Greg could only make it worse or hurt himself. It was probably even illegal in some shape, way, or form to actually go inside, but in his mind, this didn't matter. He needed to be close to them.
"Let me go! God damnit, Hodges, you'd better let me get in there!" He didn't recognize his own hysterical screech even as he bellowed as loudly as he could.
"Greg, would you just listen to me? You can't. If it collapses and you're inside…" David grappled for the words and Greg was suddenly hit with the fact that David Hodges was human- that he cared. In the back of his mind, Greg idly told himself to make sure and tell Ryan about how upset the technician actually was.
"You won't believe how worried he was. He was almost as bad as me."
"It's against procedure," David finally managed, finding his words. "Grissom would have your head. I'm sure- I'm sure they're fine."
"Fuck procedure! A bomb just exploded and they're fucking trapped!" Greg felt another surge of wild energy attack him and he began hitting David was his fists, fueled by only one truth: Ryan and Calleigh and Nick and Warrick were in that burning building and he wasn't with them, couldn't help in the least.
But David didn't let go. The harder Greg punched, the tighter David seemed to hold him, aware that if he were to release the other man, Greg would willingly head towards his own death without a single thought. No one would catch him then. No one would even notice he was missing until the flames were put out and his charred body was found in the wreckage.
"DAVID!" he screamed, protesting his confinement. "Please let me go! Please- I have to get in there! What if he's- he's caught under a wall or something? What if he's burning? God, please just let me go! I swear I'll be fine!"
David was suddenly thankful for his supposedly uncaring heart. He was just as worried for his co-workers and friends as Greg was, but there was no way he was going to allow the young man's emotional outburst to change his mind. His scientific, apathetic mentality recognized that there were so many possibilities and variables linked to their current situation, but only one certainty seemed to shine through: Ryan would never want Greg to come chasing after him, especially if it was in a dangerous condition. The technician also understood that if Ryan were to ever find out David had permitted Greg to try and save him, there would be hell to pay. David's sudden mantra was They're safe. They can take care of themselves. He watched the flames engulf the walls and it was all he could do to not agree to Greg's plan, to blindly attempt a suicidal rescue.
"Please let me go," Greg whispered, running out of energy and breaking into another bout of relentless sobs. David's body hurt where Greg had hit him with more force than he ever imagined the younger man had, but Greg was unmoving and boneless, crying on his shoulder and begging with words David didn't even understand. He was breaking down. And the other man, inexperienced in the subtle art of comfort, did all he could to soothe the Level 1 CSI.
The sirens pierced the air as the fire raged on and Greg could hear Gil's cell phone ring even over the music of his CD.
Is it like a fairy tale? True love and fighting off dragons?
The dragon had breathed its fire.
TBC.