He doesn't know how much longer it was, it could have been seconds, minutes, hours, maybe even days since he had last checked his watch but nothing had changed. The ants were still crawling all over his body, penetrating his skin and injecting venom. He could still feel his skin bubble after each bite, could feel the swelling all over his body. His body was as still as he could keep it, although it uncontrollably shook with each ant bite. The air was still thick, he could still barely breathe. His nostrils were stuffed with fabric, and his ears plugged with latex. His right hand was still clutching the gun resting on his stomach.

The fan was still on...until it wasn't.

He knew it was coming, but it still doesn't make it any easier to hear as the whirring starts to slow, and then stops altogether.

It doesn't make it any easier, as he starts to let out a soft sob, muttering pleas through dry, cracked lips. Ants begin to pour into his mouth, he spits a few out.

It doesn't make it any easier as he struggled to move his right arm holding the gun. His throat burned as he started to scream. After being still for so long, he had almost forgotten how weak his body has become, along with the increasing pain as the ants frenzied across his now moving limb.

It doesn't make it any easier to think about how long he had lasted, over twenty four hours confined in absolute hell, holding onto a shred of hope that maybe, just maybe the team-his family-would find him before the fan died out. He had made the calculations, without the additional air supply, he would maybe have an hour before he runs out of air. With the hundreds of ants now occupying the same space, the amount of dirt that had poured in, and the pieces of fabric stuck up his nose, he had even less than that.

His right hand finds itself pointing the gun at his chin, the nuzzle digging into his skin. His left hand instinctively tries to move the gun away, he continues to scream as the voice on the tape kept taunting him to do it…

"Put your gun in your mouth, and pull the trigger."

Maybe he should wait. Just a little longer. Another voice enters his head, telling him what would happen if he pulled the trigger.

"Nick, you know what a nine-millimeter slug does to a skull at close range? You know? Blow it right apart, right? Brains like strawberry swirled. Whipped cream, everywhere."

He wouldn't have to be the one to clean it up, though. His finger twitches on the trigger. He begins to squeeze. It would all be over soon.

He begins to wonder, who would be the one to clean up the pieces of skull and bone and brains?

"Hey!"

Would it be Warrick? Or would he flip a coin with someone for the luxury of doing a more simple task, like doing the crime scene sketch? Light begins to wave past his face, and the tension in his eyelids begins to release.

"Hey! We got you, man! Hey, Nicky!"

He can't believe it. The mass amount of dirt is being pushed away, he can see a dark blurry figure behind the condensed and scratched glass. Even though can't exactly see the figure's face, and the noise outside of the box is muffled, it sounds a hell of a lot like Warrick.

"Nicky! Yeah! Hey, hold on there!"

He uses his left hand to wipe away the condensation on the glass, and a sob of relief escapes his body. His best friend came for him after all.

"Hey, put that down! Put that down, put that down. We got you. We're gonna get you out of here, hang in there!"

He had almost forgotten the gun, he removes it from his chin, and then his hand spasms in pain, throwing it aside. The sudden movements spiked up the pain once again, feeling like a thousand needles all over his body.

He can't make out what Warrick is yelling, something about a fire extinguisher? He shuts his eyes again in pain, but can still see light dancing around behind his eyelids.

A cool wave of air enters the box on his left side, it feels relieving at first, until a more intense wave of air accompanying by a loud whoosh entered the box. The mass of ants covering his body cease their crawling, the burning sensation begins to subside, but in its place, his skin feels like it's being covered by a thin layer of ice.

A couple more bursts of this pressurized air enter the box, this time from the other side. He can hear a commotion of voices and movement outside of the box, but Warrick's voice is loudest of all.

"Hang on, buddy. Hang on. Almost outta there."

He must have shown some sign of pain or discomfort, because Warrick increased the volume of his voice, as Nick raises his arms against the lid. He's itching to just get out already, what's taking them so damn long?

"Hang on. Hang on. We'll kill those ants, okay?"

Now the air burst are coming in from the bottom of his box, near his feet. He takes a few breaths in between bursts, trying to be careful not to choke. He's almost out, he sure as hell wasn't going to die by suffocation now.

Warrick's now giving instructions, telling various people-Sara and Brass's names pricked his ears up in particular-to grab corners of the box. He can see more blurry figures surround the lid. Warrick begins to count, and Nick feels like he's on the ascent of a roller coaster. The box begins to creak-for a split second his heart stopped, thinking it was going to just collapse-he braces himself for the fresh air and freedom, and suddenly-

"ARE YOU KIDDING?" Warrick shouts, but his words are not directed towards Nick. All of the figures left the perimeter, except for Warrick, who's head is turned, looking behind him. Silence for a moment, before he shouts again.

"I'M NOT LEAVING WITHOUT NICK!"

No. No no no no no. Please don't, please don't leave me.

"I'M NOT LEAVING HERE WITHOUT HIM!"

Nick feels a burst of affection for Warrick, whatever's causing this hesitation to open the box, he knew Warrick wouldn't leave. He's going to get Nick out of here, just like he said.

There are multiple voices shouting, one female and another male. Then, time seems to freeze as the shouting stops. Nick can only hear his own shaky breathing. His limbs writhe and shake, his body is in so much pain, he's so cold, he can barely breathe, he just wanted to get out .

Warrick turns back to look at Nick, but the look on his face is the opposite of encouraging. He's looking at Nick like he looks at the corpses at crime scenes.

Maybe he's already dead.

Nick begins to scream, as if to snap Warrick out of whatever was causing him to step aside, but it's as if Warrick didn't hear him. His throat is so sore, his vocal chords strung so far to their limits, he wonders if any sound even left his body.

"Help!" he cries out. He prays that they heard him, that they were going to come back over the box, maybe even lift it out of the ground. He weakly pounds his hands against the glass, maybe they had already opened the lid, maybe all he had to do was sit up-

But the lid is still sealed tight. And nobody came.

They're leaving him.

He shuts his eyes tight, and his screams once again dissolve into sobs and whimpers. He continues to pound the lid with weak fists, expending energy he no longer has. Maybe he's hallucinating again, maybe the dirt is still on top of him, and his brain is conjuring up some final images before running completely out of oxygen.

A light dances in front of his closed eyelids again, there was a voice-a familiar, fatherly sounding voice, but he can't seem to make out who the voice belonged to, or what it said to him. It doesn't matter now. Nothing matters. His life definitely doesn't matter, not to the team, not to his best friend, not even to him.

"Pancho!"

Cisco?

His eyes snap open, his heart stopping for a moment once again. There's another blurry figure on top of the box, with white skin, it looks like his-

Dad?

"Listen to me."

The tears slide out of Nick's eyes as a hand slams down on top of the lid, Nick jumps slightly. The figure's features clear up, and Nick finally recognizes the face. It's not his father, but he's as good as a second one to him.

Grissom...

"Put your hand on my hand," Grissom encourages him. Nick forces every muscle in his hand to move closer to Grissom's, it's oddly soothing even though the hands are separated by the glass of the box.

"Good. Now, listen. There may be explosives under the box. They're probably set on pressure switches."

His thoughts echo Warrick's words from earlier, are you kidding me?

"We need to equalize your body weight before we can pull you out, okay?" Grissom's speaking loud and slowly, Nick hangs on to every word of the plan, struggling to picture how they are going to accomplish the task. Is someone going to sacrifice themselves for Nick, switching places with him in the box? No, he wouldn't let that happen. Neither would Grissom. "Pancho, nod your head if you understand me."

He slowly nods his head, it's getting harder and harder to move his body as exhaustion settles in.

Grissom momentarily disappears, and Nick's heart pounds faster and faster. Grissom releases his hand, and Nick's suddenly feels empty.

Oh no, not you too. Please, Grissom, don't leave me…

But Grissom returns quickly, replacing his hand on top of Nick's.

"All right, Pancho, we're gonna open the lid and get you out, but I need you to stay lying down. Okay? Or else you'll blow us all up," Nick is reminded of the way his father talked to him as a young boy, soft, encouraging, comforting. "You understand that?"

He nods his head, but feels like he needs to give Grissom a verbal confirmation.

"Yeah, yeah," he tells him. He tries to suppress his crying, it's time to put on his brave face.

"Do you promise?" Grissom asks him. Nick nods again at him, but it doesn't seem to be enough for Grissom. Is anything he does ever enough for that man?

"Pancho, say 'I promise.'"

"I promise!" Nick cries out, giving up the fight against the tears that flow down his face once again. He can hear a loud humming in the distance, Grissom moves to the side, positioning himself where Warrick was before he left. Another figure appears next to Grissom.

"Don't move," Grissom reiterates, shining the light in Nick's face one last time before all Nick can see is the darkness beyond the lid.

"Okay," he chokes out, bracing himself for the fresh air and freedom he was previously robbed of. He tries to fight back the sobs once again, big boys don't cry, Pancho.

Finally, he hears a click, and a cool breeze descends from the night sky. It's a huge shock to his system, which was already cold from the fire extinguisher bursts. Grissom and Warrick are perched to the side, they didn't leave him after all.

He doesn't bother to stop the crying, he forgets his promise to Grissom, and reaches for him, searching for that connection they had moments ago through the glass. Grissom places his hand back down towards the lid, but the lid is gone. Nick's arm shakes as he grabs hold of Grissom's arm, he could really use a hug right now and doesn't care who it's from.

"I got you, I got you," Warrick whispers to him, extending out his own gloved hand. Nick nearly rips the glove off of Warrick's hand, looking at the faces of two of the closest men in his life, his mentor and best friend, and continues to cry. They found him, and were going to get him out of this box once and for all.

But Grissom holds his hand against Nick's chest, pushing him down, preventing him from sitting completely up.

"Please," he cries out. Why haven't they got him out yet? Why are they holding him down?

"Lay still. Lay still. It's okay. It's okay." Warrick soothes him.

Oh. Right. The explosives. Under the box.

He takes a few deep breaths, his crying fades away. Brave face, Nicky.

"Okay," he pants. "Okay, okay, okay. "

He nods to Grissom, ready for whatever crazy plan they have to get him out. His arms drop to his chest, bumping against the confines of the box.

"All right, bring that over!" Grissom beckons. He looks down towards Nick again, then nods to Warrick, who finally lets go of Nick's trembling hand. As Warrick turns around to grab something, Nick sees what Grissom called over.

It's a backhoe, dirt spilling out of the cradle.

"I'm sorry, buddy, but it's the only way," Grissom's voice whispers to him, softly.

A sickening wave of nausea churns in Nick's stomach as he realizes the plan. They're going to spill dirt on top of him to equalize his body weight.

They were going to truly bury him alive.

He shut his eyes tight, turning his head, bracing himself for the feeling that didn't come quite yet. His hands hugged his chest, still shaking. There's still the slight chance that this wouldn't work, that he would end up like that body they found months ago, asphyxiated from the dirt in his lungs.

He heard a jingling sound, then a click. He opens his eyes out of curiosity, maybe they already did whatever they were going to do, and he was being buckled into a stretcher?

No, it was just Grissom, attaching a rope to Nick's belt.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers once again, and then steps out of the hole. He turns away, calling over some people for help, telling them to pick up the other end of the rope. He turns back towards Nick, standing close to the edge of the hole so that Nick could see him.

"All right, Pancho. I want you to close your eyes, and hold your breath."

Nick gives him one more nod as he tries to calm himself, they're doing this to save him, they're not going to leave him, they're not going to leave him…

He sees the dirt begin to pour from the backhoe just as he takes in a deep inhale of air, and shuts his eyes tight.

It only takes a few seconds, but soon enough dirt is blanketed over his entire body. There's a slight pressure, and he can almost feel himself sink down past the box, further into the earth. The dirt isn't just on top of him now, it surrounds his sides, lies underneath his back, he thought the confines of the box was tight, but this is tighter.

Time seems to stand still, he wonders how long they've left him under the pile of dirt. Were they testing him, to see if he could last another twenty four hours? Or did they decide he wasn't worth the trouble, and were just going to leave him to suffocate quickly in the dirt?

His hands tremble, he blindly begins to search for the rope, maybe he's supposed to crawl his way out?

His fingers nearly touch the rope when suddenly, he's yanked out of the earth. Brought back from the dead.

He flies through the air, everything moves so fast he can't take in his surroundings, there's lights flashing all around him, and he's suddenly slammed, face first, back onto the dirt. But this dirt is hard, firm, only present on one side of his body. The impact knocks his head upward, and briefly he sees Grissom, falling back into Warrick, their faces bracing for something heading to-

BOOM