This takes place during "For Gedda." The next chapter will possibly follow "For Warrick" or take place immediately afterwards, so if you haven't seen either yet, please don't read this, it'll seriously ruin it for you. Obviously, I haven't seen "For Warrick" yet either, so the ending to this may change slightly after it airs. Or probably not because I'm lazy and I feel that my ending will match closely to what actually happens. We'll see.
Also, this was incredibly difficult to write. If it shows, I apologize.
--
A few months. It had been a few months since Greg Sanders had come into Nick's world like a tornado, and he didn't show any signs of leaving. The young man was always here at his apartment, sleeping on his bed and stealing his covers, taking over his bathroom counter with gels and waxes and whatever the fuck putty was, crowding up his fridge with exotic foods and wine, blasting weird music from the stereo, and committed to driving Nick crazy.
He wasn't really sure how it happened. Well, he was pretty sure it involved a home-cooked dinner followed by an intense make-out session, but beyond that, he wasn't sure how it happened. Greg just...came over one day. And the next. And every day after that. They started driving to and from work in the same car. Shopping at the same grocery store, at the same time, pushing the same buggy. Sleeping in the same bed. And Nick never asked Greg to leave. So Greg never left.
He was currently snoring away on the couch, his feet splayed out over Nick's lap as the senior CSI watched television after a long shift. It still amazed him that Greg could fall asleep almost on command. It was something he didn't have to work for, just a decision he could make and he was out like a light. Nick's mind was still racing after the long shift they'd had, and he prayed it would calm down so he could sleep before the next one. He leaned his head back against the couch, his beer sitting in his lap. Traced his fingers over the hair on Greg's legs, a sensation still unfamiliar to him. The thought that he could still be so immensely attracted to another man like he was Greg was still hard to grasp.
But he couldn't really think about that right now. All he could think about was Warrick sitting in that interrogation room, scared and alone, accused of a murder Nick was sure he didn't commit. All he could think about was coming into that crime scene and seeing his friend sitting in the back of the cop car, eyes wild, covered in blood and God-knew-what-else. They had been ordered to go, told that day shift was taking over and there was nothing they could do. And while it seemed logical, it certainly didn't seem right.
He briefly wondered how he could've let his happen. Warrick was his friend -- his best friend -- and he had abandoned him over the past few months, spending all of his time with Greg. He should've seen this coming, he did see it in hindsight, could see the self-destructiveness, the obsession, the changes in his personality and habits, and yet he'd done nothing.
"What time is it?" he heard from next to him, Greg murmuring quietly, looking at him through half-opened eyes.
"Noon."
"You should get some rest," Greg said, sitting up and turning around so that he was leaning against Nick's side. Nick placed an arm around his shoulders, his hand trailing over the fair skin of Greg's back. He fingered the pajama bottoms, slipped his fingers into the seam and rested his hand on Greg's hip. Greg wrapped an arm around Nick's waist, hand traveling up his shirt and resting on his heart.
"Yeah," Nick said, looking down at the man beside him. Greg smiled and it was like his eyes said everything. Nick's heart raced and he shifted uncomfortably, before getting up and walking towards the kitchen to get another beer. He didn't like this feeling, he didn't like being so...out of control. He didn't like the tornado in his life, messing with his space and leaving everything in disarray. It was scary and maybe a little bit thrilling, but mostly scary. It was starting to grate on his nerves, and the events with Warrick were starting to make him realize what he was abandoning to have...this. Whatever it was.
"Are you okay?" Greg asked from the doorway, startling Nick. He stood upright from the fridge, another beer in his hand. "Do you mind?"
"Sure," Nick replied, handing Greg the beer, reaching into the fridge for another one. "I wish I could just fall asleep like you. How do you do it?"
"I just clear my head," Greg replied, shrugging as he popped the cap. "No use in worrying about things I can't control."
Nick almost scoffed, catching Greg narrowing his eyes and knitting his brow. "Sorry, man. It's just...nothing. Just can't stop thinking about Warrick."
Greg seemed to accept that as he went back into the living room, laying back on the couch and cradling his beer on his belly. Nick sat down and they resumed their positions, resumed their current roles.
"What are we doing?"
"Drinking a beer," Nick replied, but he knew that wasn't what Greg was asking. It was something that had been weighing down their relationship lately -- or, whatever you wanted to call it. He closed his eyes in frustration, images flashing through his mind:
"Do you want to come out tonight?"
"Where?"
"To Tanqueray's? I'm meeting my friends there."
"No, I'm pretty tired. I think I'm just going to hit the bed."
"Come on, the night is young for us!"
"Really, Greg...I'm beat."
Another:
A brush of his hand on the way home from work, startling Nick. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, ignoring the fire on his skin, the heat from those eyes focused on him.
And another:
"Hey, Nick!"
"Mrs. Whitaker! How are you?"
"I'm fine, honey. Who is your friend? I've seen you around here a lot lately."
"I'm Greg, Nick's -- "
"New room mate. This is my new room mate."
And while Greg had seemed to take it all in stride, he could see it in his eyes that it was something that was in his head constantly. Nick wasn't trying to be rude or mean, he was just trying to be cautious. After all, it had only been a few months.
"That's not -- " Greg, now, interrupting his thoughts, but Nick interrupted him.
"Warrick is in jail and you want to talk about something else?" he spat, and Greg removed his legs from Nick's lap, sitting up quickly, spilling some beer onto his lap. "We can't just sit here and do nothing."
"Nick, we can't do anything," Greg reminded him, wiping at the beer with his hand. "We aren't allowed to."
"The hell with that," he said, putting his beer on the table heavily, springing up from the couch and walking into his bedroom. "I'm going back to the crime lab."
"To do what, exactly?" Greg asked, following him down the hall. Nick moved to his closet, seeing not only his clothes but Greg's, the bright colors and crazy patterns. The long jeans and weird zip-up jackets with buttons and patches and logos. "If we investigate anything, it's not going to hold up in court. You know that."
"I have to at least try!" he nearly shouted, turning to face Greg. "At least then maybe I'll be able to sleep at night knowing I did what I could."
Greg sighed, his eyes cast to the floor. "Then do what you have to do."
"I am," he replied tersely, grabbing a new set of clothes and throwing them onto the bed. "I'm gonna shower."
"Can I join you?" the young man asked, his eyes now meeting Nick's, a small smile on his lips.
"Can you think about something else right now besides sex?" he asked, his anger flaring, possibly misdirected but he didn't care. He was upset and Greg was the closest thing to him right now.
The young man opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it with a snap. "I was going to go with you," he finally said, his hands help up in surrender, perhaps defense.
"I don't think that's a good idea right now," Nick stated, saw Greg's expression change from annoyance to confusion to hurt in split-seconds. "I just need to do this, Greg. Just go home, okay? You have your trip to worry about."
Greg nodded, his jaw set so hard Nick could swear he was going to grind his teeth. Then, with audible irritation: "Fine."
"Thanks," Nick replied, with as much force. He turned towards the hallway, calling, "Have fun on your book tour!"
"It's a meeting with publishers!"
"Whatever!"
He heard the door slam, and Nick finally had silence. Yet somehow, it wasn't the solace he'd expected.
--
It seemed as if Nick hadn't been the only one with the idea to come in during his time off. Grissom and Catherine had never left, the night technicians were swarming, and even Brass had stuck around. Nick was almost ashamed of himself for waiting this long to come back, but he knew the short respite he'd had at home was a welcomed recharge for the day and night ahead of him.
They'd gotten a lot done before nightfall. The numerous high velocity blood stains had all been typed and matched to Lou Gedda thanks to Wendy. The five expended cartridge cases recovered from the body and the scene had all been processed by Bobby and learned to have come from Warrick's service pistol. And Dr. Robbins had concluded that the victim had been bound an beaten approximately an hour prior to death.
"Okay," Grissom was saying, as they sat around one of the conference tables -- including Greg, who had somehow managed to pull himself away from packing long enough to lend a hand. "If this were any other suspect, what would be our conclusion?"
The table was silent. The answer hung in the air, looming over them like a dark cloud, but no one wanted to say it. Grissom looked at Catherine, Catherine looked at Nick, Nick looked at Greg, and Greg said, "That he did it."
Nick set his jaw, anger boiling in his blood. How he could say it so casually, just sit there looking so indifferent, as if this wasn't their friend, just some coworker that --
"Which is what Warrick told internal affairs," Grissom stated, interrupting Nick's train of thought before it could seriously derail. He looked at his superior, startled and surprised, his expression reflected in his coworkers' faces.
"He confessed?" Catherine asked.
"No," Grissom clarified, "but he didn't deny it. He says he can't remember."
"Yeah, we've all heard that one before," Greg said, quietly, almost under his breath.
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Nick asked, his eyes afire with disgust.
"It's not supposed to mean anything," Greg shot back, and while his tone was calm, Nick could see the annoyance in his eyes. "We're just talking."
"We can't just sit here and watch him go down!" Nick exclaimed.
"We're not going to," Catherine interjected. "He's asked for an attorney, we'll give him a shark."
"The only thing the jury is going to see is a rogue cop with a vendetta," Greg continued. "I've been there before. They're going to crucify him."
"Hey, guys." Henry -- thank God, Henry. Nick focused elsewhere besides the smart-mouthed punk sitting across from him, trying to listen to the toxicology technician but all he could hear were Greg's comments, cutting into him over and over again. "There was chloroform in Lou Gedda's blood and tissue. Chloroform gets metabolized in the body pretty quickly, and it's excreted by breathing. So Gedda must've been killed soon after he was dosed."
"Warrick went there with a gun," Catherine pointed out. "Why would he use chloroform if he was going to shoot him?"
"Maybe to subdue him into the barber's chair?" Greg asked.
"So he intended to torture him?" Catherine blurted out, her expression showing her confusion.
Greg opened his mouth, about to say the unthinkable when Nick spat, "No. No, not Warrick. No way."
"You know," Grissom said, "chloroform exposure can result in short term amnesia. Warrick says he can't remember anything after going into Gedda's office. Where's the tox on Warrick?"
Grissom's eyes were focused on the print-out in front of him as he held out an open hand to Henry, expecting another one. Instead, Henry said simply, "His blood wasn't drawn."
"Why not?" from Catherine, eyes wide.
"The arrest report didn't notice any intoxication at the scene," Henry replied, shrugging. "I guess nobody saw any reason to do it."
"Well, there's a reason now," Grissom stated. He looked at each of them from above wire-rimmed glasses. "Good work, guys. Let's get back to it."
Nick stood from the table, making haste towards Greg's retreating form. His chair scraped loudly against the floor, stumbling back so hard it nearly toppled backwards. He caught Catherine and Grissom's curious eyes, ignored them as he walked quickly down the hallway, watching Greg walk away from him just as casually as he'd said those sharp words.
"Hey, Sanders!" he called, giving Greg pause. The young man turned to look at him, his expression displaying irritation.
"Stokes," he replied, a tight smile on his lips.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" he asked, pulling him aside by the sleeve of his jacket. Greg pulled away from him roughly, moving closer to Nick, who stood up straighter in turn, instinctively trying to make himself seem taller, preparing himself for a fight. "You might be mad at me, but it's no reason to take it out on Warrick."
"What are you talking about?" Greg asked, waving a dismissive hand in his direction. "I wasn't taking anything out on Warrick, I was just talking."
"Oh, please! You were practically booking him for murder!"
"Whatever, Nick," Greg spat back, taking a step away from Nick. "Get over yourself. I was just. Talking."
"Maybe instead of all this 'talking,'" Nick continued, taking a step forward, "you can do a little more helping."
"Helping?" Greg nearly shouted, followed by a scoff. "Wendy and I have been working our asses off trying to process every piece of DNA in that room! What have you been doing, Nick?"
"What have I -- ?" he began, but stopped, irate, stepping impossibly close to Greg, getting in his face. "Do you really want to do this right here, Sanders?"
"Oh, I'll do this right here, Stokes," Greg replied, returning the sentiment.
"Guys!" Catherine put an arm out in front of Nick, stepping in between the two men, forcing space between them. "Guys. Calm down. This isn't helping Warrick. Greg, get back to DNA, work your magic. Okay?" The two men stared at each other from over Catherine, eyes wild with anger, muscles tense, fists clenched, ready to fight. "Okay??"
"Okay," Greg conceded, relaxing, turning slowly and walking away. Nick watched him leave, his eyes following the young man until he turned the corner.
"Is there something going on between you and Greg?" Catherine asked, startling Nick back to the present. He looked at her, surprised.
"Something going on between me and Sanders?" he managed to ask, his voice thick in his throat.
"You've been avoiding each other like the plague since you got here," she stated, her brow furrowed. "I thought you two were getting close."
"Getting close?"
"If you're going to repeat everything I say," she responded, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, "then this conversation is going to be twice as long."
"Sorry," he apologized, shaking his head, shaking the fog from his brain. "Just...stress."
"Warrick doesn't need us fighting right now," she said, placing a comforting hand on his arm. "I know it's hard, but we have to work together. Just calm down, go take a walk. Come back with a clear head. Warrick needs it."
"Yeah...you're right," Nick confirmed, nodding in agreement. He indicated the space Greg used to inhabit. "That kid just drives me crazy sometimes."
"That's his job," Catherine replied, smiling. "He doesn't get paid more for it, it just comes with the package. In fact, I think it was on his resume when he applied for the job."
Nick rolled his eyes. If only she knew how right she was.
--
Nick's day didn't seem to be getting any better. He clutched the toxicology report tightly in his hand, searching through the halls for his boss. His heart had been ticking erratically while waiting for the results, standing over Henry's shoulder as the man ran Warrick's blood. He was hoping, praying, that he could resume normal sinus rhythm when the print-out hit his fingers, but the beating remained the same, only this time, his heart sank to his stomach, and now that was reverberating in his body too.
"Here, put this on," he heard Grissom's voice saying, following it into one of the evidence rooms.
"Henry did a comprehensive drug test for chloroform, as well as a head space run for volatiles and solvents," Nick interrupted, stepping into the room, watching Grissom's expression, seeing it as full of hope as Nick's had been. "Everything came back negative."
"The half-life of chloroform in a human being is 1.5 hours," Hodges stated, every the buzz-kill. "It's virtually undetectable in seven to ten hours."
"We drew the blood too late," Nick added, running a hand through his hair. "It's still possible Warrick was dosed, we just can't prove it."
He was grateful when Grissom gave him something to do, asking him to help with their experiment of explaining the spatter patterns in Warrick's shirt. He couldn't get his mind around all of this; he was running himself ragged, he just hoped it wasn't into the ground. At least he could take some amusement out of assisting in spraying Hodges with red paint.
"Similar void in the spatter pattern," Grissom deduced, examining the extra shirt with a magnifying glass.
"Consistent, but not conclusive," Nick said, hearing the dread in his own voice. "There's probably a dozen different ways to explain those voids. Doesn't rule out Warrick as the shooter."
"But it gives us an alternative explanation of the evidence," his boss stated, his eyes sparkling. "And if we're right, Warrick was framed."
Nick nodded, satisfied for the time being, but he wondered when the next hurdle was going to hit him as he stepped back into the hallway. He felt as if his heart should be soaring, but he was so tired of jumping through hoops, he just wanted to go home and drink a beer and lie in bed with --
With who? With Greg, the same man who was trying to throw Warrick in jail? Okay, maybe he shouldn't go that far, but he was upset, and rightfully so. Negativity wasn't going to help anyone, especially now. They had to be positive and think progressively, not sit there and tell them what they already knew.
The fact that he even thought about finding comfort in another man was a whole other can of worms, and he chose not to focus on that, at the present time. He had plenty of anger to keep his brain occupied for the moment.
He smiled with incredulity at himself as he walked through the crime lab, catching Catherine's fleeting form.
"Hey, Cath, wait up," he called to her, trotting to catch up to her. "I talked to the detective of organized crime. He's sending over a list of all the people that wanted Gedda dead. It's a long list."
"Well, cross-reference it with any of Warrick's convictions that have it out for him," she said, and he could see the desperation in her face, trying to think of anything that could help. "He could be trying to kill two birds with one stone."
"You -- "
"Hey!" Greg Sanders, chirping cheerfully, the one person he could hope to avoid right now, but it was a small world around here. Nick quickly turned and walked in the opposite direction, unable to look at the young man without wanting to yell at him, tell him that he was angry, that Greg shouldn't say such nasty things about Nick's best friend, that he should be working harder, that he was sorry and he didn't mean to --
He rubbed a weary hand over his eyes, leaning against the wall, trying to get his head on straight. For Warrick, he thought. He had to keep going for Warrick, and that meant not thinking about Greg Sanders for five whole minutes of his life.
"Hey." Softer this time, from beside him. He opened his eyes, looking at the younger man, standing there with his hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes cast to the ground. "I don't want to fight with you anymore."
"So, that's it?" Nick asked, eyebrows raised. "The fight's over?"
Greg offered him a small smile, shrugging. "Yeah. Is that okay?"
Nick rolled his eyes, tried to fight the smile tugging at his own lips. This kid was really incredible. "Yeah."
Greg looked up at him, coming closer, but not too close. "Are we okay?"
Nick nodded. "I don't know a lot about processing DNA, but I can try to help if you and Wendy need a hand."
"You sound like a man with a plan," Greg said, patting his shoulder playfully. "I got a pair of gloves with your name on it. Besides, Wendy likes looking at you."
"I hope she isn't the only one."
"Not a chance."
--
It was over. It was all finally over, and Nick was able to sit down with his family away from home, glad to let out a deep breath and put this all behind him. Warrick was free, and while he didn't exactly look his best right now, his friend looked a lot better than he had in that interrogation room. A rogue cop with a vendetta, as Greg had explained earlier, but not Warrick. Someone else that they were sure to catch, eventually, but now wasn't the time for that. Now was the time for runny eggs and burnt bacon and greasy hash browns amongst friends.
"It's pretty lame, I know," Catherine was saying, laughing. "It just reminds me: What does it take for them to server turkey bacon in this place?"
"Turkey bacon's not gonna make the food better here," Nick stated.
"Well, fortunately," Grissom said, "we don't come here for the food."
"No," Catherine admitted, looking at the plate in front of her with disdain.
"Well," Warrick interjected, shrugging casually, "as far as I'm concerned, there's no place I'd rather be."
"Aww," Catherine said, grinning.
Nick felt a smile on his face. He looked at Greg, watching him, hardly able to wait to get home and be with the younger man. He didn't even want to have sex with him, although that would be nice too, to let off all of this steam he'd been bottling up. But, more importantly, he just wanted to lay on the couch next to him, just wanted to feel warm skin against his own, hot breath on his neck and long, slender fingers tracing patterns over his skin idly as they watched TV. He looked at the man seated next to him, the man seated next to him looked back. A smile was all it took for Nick to know that Greg was sharing those exact thoughts, and he wondered when they'd become those people that could have a conversation without saying a word.
"Anything else?" the waitress asked, a pretty redhead in a pink uniform, and Nick couldn't help but be distracted by her, taken off guard by her interruption
"That's it," Nick replied, feeling her eyes on him, and while he should've remembered the man next to him, he was flattered.
"See you next time?"
Nick felt a hard kick in his shin, jumping in his seat, eyes wide. "Yes. Thank you."
"Still there?" Warrick asked, beside him, as he grabbed the check. "I'll take this."
"Thank you, Warrick," Grissom said, as Warrick glanced at the bill, his expression surprised for a moment before he smiled. "Okay, I'm going home." The older man stood and placed a hand on Warrick's shoulder, leaning close to his CSI, one of several. "Get some sleep tonight."
Catherine stood next, her face soft, flawless even in this fluorescent light. "If you ever need anybody to talk to, you know how to get a hold of me, huh?" She kissed his face very sweetly before waving at Greg and playfully punching Nick's arm. "Goodnight, boys."
"Well, it's just us," Nick said, leaning back in his chair. "What do you say, Serpico? Let's get a beer."
"Oh, no," Warrick protested, holding up his hand.
"Come on, you're a free man now," Greg said, grinning.
"This free man needs a free shower," he stated, pushing his chair back to stand. "I think, uh, you need to take a hard look at that blond."
"She's not blond," Nick replied, his brow furrowed.
"I know," Warrick said, winking, giving Nick pause. "Goodnight."
"Hey," Nick began, wanted to say more but the words caught in his throat, unwilling to roll over his tongue. Instead, he took Warrick's hand. "I'm really glad you're okay. I'll call you later."
He watched him go, his heart racing, unwilling to ask himself just what Warrick had meant by that. Surely, he hadn't meant... He felt another kick in his shin, this one playful, gentle. Looked at the man next to him. Couldn't take his eyes off of him to look at any redhead or any other blond in the room.
"I have a plane to catch," Greg reminded him. "Can you please take me home?"
"What's wrong with your car?" Nick asked, and then pointed. "And you'd better watch it. If I get a kick for every dumb thing I do, I don't think I'll be walking for much longer."
"Nothing," Greg replied, grinning. "It's just that, you're taking me to the airport tomorrow, so I thought you might want to save some gas and just take me back to your place instead of coming to get me."
"Oh, I am, am I?"
"Yes."
Just like that. A look and a smile and a laugh, and he was all Greg's. The man could've asked him to drive to Los Angeles, and he probably would've said yes. Then again, Nick knew he had always been a sucker for a pretty face.
--
Kissing. Of course, they were kissing. Nick had him pressed up against the window of the passenger's side, his fingers in his hair, pulling him close and pushing him against the door at the same time. All of his pent up frustrations from the day were begging to be let out, and he knew exactly who he was going to take it out on. He heard Greg whimper from beneath his lips, felt desperate hands tugging at his shirt, felt searing fingers find his skin.
"When I get you home," Nick began, but a tongue down his throat stopped him from voicing his thoughts any further. It didn't matter anyway. Greg knew what was coming. He had to have felt it in the erection against his thigh, as raging like a fire hose.
"When you get me home?" Greg asked, pulling away long enough to smile at him, lips swollen from their fervent kissing.
"You're going to wish you never talked to me like that in the hallway," he finished, his grin wicked, a hand moving to Greg's throat.
"Is that a threat?"
"You bet it is," Nick said, opened his mouth to say more, but a crackling on the police scanner drew his attention. Officer down. All units respond.
"Where is that?" Greg asked, his eyes focused on the radio. As if answering him, the operator responded with the exact location. The two men looked at each other, and Nick was sure the confusion in Greg's face was reflected in his own. "That's...where we are."
Nick sat back in his seat, reaching across Greg's lap to the glove compartment and popping it open, gripping the spare piece he kept there. He cocked the Smith & Wesson, a gift given to him by his father, his free hand on the handle of the door.
"Nick, don't go out there." It was almost a question, but the hand on his arm was definitely a statement. "Let's just wait until backup gets here."
"I'm just going to check it out," he said, opening the door. He stepped outside, looking back at Greg. He was surprised when he saw fright on the young man's face. When had Greg been afraid of investigating? "Stay here."
"Don't be stupid, Nick," Greg pleaded, and Nick realized the fear wasn't for his own life, it was for Nick's. The shock almost felt like a bullet through his own heart, ripping him open and leaving him breathless. "Just wait."
He couldn't say anything. Instead, he shut the door. He swallowed hard, gun drawn but lowered to the ground as he stepped through the dimly lit parking lot, traveling low between the cars, heading for the scene, back through the alleyway. He saw headlights, recognized the car, stopped. Saw the figures on the pavement, saw Grissom cradling another man in his arms.
"Nick."
He turned, raised his weapon. Saw Greg's hands shoot up. He just lowered his gun, his voice caught, his throat dry, his mind racing.
"Nick, just wait," he said, but it was too late. He was running, running to his boss, running to his friend. Running to catch something that was already gone, because it was already too late. He was too late.
--
To be continued.