Nick's apartment was quiet. There was no loud, weird music; no chattering aimlessly for hours; no video games on the TV; and there was definitely no laughter. Greg was in Los Angeles meeting with publishers, and Warrick was in the ground, meeting his Maker. So Nick sat alone, nursing a beer as he sat on the couch, in silence. It was where he'd remained for the past three days, when he wasn't at work. He didn't know what else to do. It felt wrong to be going about his daily routine when Warrick was never going to be able to do the same again.

That wasn't his only excuse. It was hard to function when all he could think about was what had happened. Warrick was gone, and Nick should've done something. What did McKeen say? As Nick was waving a gun in his face? Trying desperately not to shoot his fucking brains out?

"What kind of friend are you?"

Oh, yeah. That was it. And it really made Nick think: What kind of friend was he? He'd just told himself days ago that he'd seen the changes in his friend's attitude, in his behavior, in his face, and he had done nothing. He'd been so focused on his own life -- on Greg -- that he'd failed miserably in doing anything to stop Warrick from spiraling downward. And even after the fact, even after admitting that to himself, he'd let Warrick walk out the door of the diner alone. Let him walk out into the street all by himself when he knew -- Nick knew -- that there were people out there that wanted him dead. And all he'd thought about was how he wanted to go home with Greg, not Warrick and his safety.

He leaned back against the couch, sighing heavily as he closed his eyes. He remembered the last time he'd see his friend. Grissom cradling his body in his arms, shirt drenched with blood, eyes focused on the man beneath him, begging him to hang on, please just hang on...

The knock at the door startled him, breaking his thoughts. He stood up and crossed the room, although he really wasn't up for visitors. Catherine had been calling him constantly, needing someone to talk to, and while he had appeased her for the first couple days, he had begun to ignore her for the past two. He couldn't handle it anymore, and he didn't care if it was rude. He just hoped it wasn't her at the door.

It wasn't. He could see Greg through the peephole, looking somber. He looked up, saw the dark void from where Nick was watching, and raised his eyebrows expectantly. Nick sighed. The young man wasn't supposed to be back for another week; the meeting with publishers was supposed to extend further, to visiting his family and spending the weekend. But here he was, on Nick's doorstep, looking weary and tired.

Nick pulled open the door. "Hey."

"Hey," Greg replied, offering him a smile. He looked away for a moment, shifted uncomfortably. "Um...can I come in?"

"Of course."

Nick stepped aside, allowing Greg to pass. Noticed his wrinkled clothes, his dingy jeans, the mess of hair on his head. Greg turned to look at him, must've realized the attention he was getting because he attempted to smooth down his hair. He stood there, in the living room, didn't sit maybe due to the fact that Nick remained standing.

"I came straight from the airport," he stated, as if to offer an excuse for his unkempt appearance.

"What are you doing here?"

Greg shrugged, smiled almost sheepishly -- adorably. "I missed you."

He wanted to tell him that he missed him too, that he couldn't wait for him to come back to Nick's apartment, to come back home. Wanted to lay down on the couch with no television, no music, no video games, just wanted to hear Greg talk. He'd never been able to believe that Greg's incessant talking could be comforting, but it was, and it allowed him to take his mind off of everything else and focus on the words coming at him.

He wanted to tell him all of that. He wanted to say anything. But he kept hearing McKeen in his brain, kept hearing those words over and over again.

What kind of friend are you?

So instead, he said nothing.

Greg cleared his throat, looking around the apartment. "How, uh...how have you been?"

"I can't do this anymore," he blurted out, catching the look of surprise on the young man's face. "I can't."

"What?" Greg asked, confused.

"Greg, Warrick is dead, and it's my -- "

"Don't even say that!" Greg interrupted, moving closer to Nick. "It isn't your fault! How can you even think that?"

"I abandoned him!" Nick shouted, hands held out in desperation. "He was my friend and I abandoned him. I knew what was happening and I let it go. I saw him...change and I did nothing! I've been so wrapped up in my own life -- so wrapped up in you! I can't stop thinking about you, and I let this happen, Greg. I can't do it anymore. I can't!"

Greg was quiet for a moment, his eyes aimed directly at Nick's. "So what...does that mean?"

"I just need my space, Greg," Nick said, leaning against the dining room table, casting his eyes to the ground. "I need a break from this."

When Nick looked up, he wished he hadn't. He could see the hurt in those large, brown eyes. The young man looked away, nodding, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. And, for once in Greg Sanders' life, he was without words. He just made his way towards the door, and Nick should've let him leave, should've just let him go out the door, but instead, he added:

"I think you should take your things."

Greg's mouth formed a perfect 'O' as he looked back at Nick, before closing it with a snap and clenching his jaw. He saw that pink tongue skim over white teeth, and he could almost see the words in Greg's head fighting to stay there. They lost.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" Greg said simply, before moving into the kitchen and grabbing a trash bag from under the sink. "I can't believe I came back for you."

"Nobody asked you to," Nick replied, tersely. "I just need some space, Greg. Can't you respect that?"

"I'm getting my shit, aren't I?" Greg asked, making his way to the bathroom. Nick remained in the living room, listening to the clattering and banging, hearing the anger drifting down the hallway. He heard the noise, wanting to take it all back but McKeen kept talking to him and he needed to get his head empty of all of this, especially that damn voice. He couldn't do that with Greg here, distracting him until night time, when he would lay down and be left with his own thoughts after Greg fell asleep. He needed to deal with this, alone.

Greg returned to the living room, breathing hard as he clutched the trash bag full of his things in his fist. He looked at Nick, and the pain in Greg's face was felt in Nick's chest.

"When you're done with this pity party you're having," Greg stated, his words edged with unadulterated hurt and anger, "try remembering who was there for you through all this, even when you treated me like shit."

Nick didn't say anything. He couldn't. Instead, he only winced as the door slammed closed. Sat down on the couch and resumed his position, nursing a beer in silence, alone.

--

To be continued...