A/N: This is it, folks. End of the road. Thanks for taking the journey with us - hope you enjoyed. Links to personal author's notes from everybetty and kimonky7 can be found on the everymonkey profile page, if you're so inclined.
Disclaimer: While MS-13 is a real gang, the characters and actions depicted here are fictional. As to our boys: if we owned them, there would be hella more shirtless crime solving.
SPOILERS/Timeline: Takes place during season 6 between 'A Bullet Runs Through It' and 'Daddy's Little Girl'
UNDYING GRATITUDE: To Cristina who supplies all our Spanish translation with amazing insight and skill.
CHAPTER 13 - Lanzamiento
Jim's fingers are clenched painfully around the grip of his Sig. The gun's muzzle doesn't lower a millimeter in the heartbeat it takes to shoot Carbonell through the back of the skull. Before the banger's body can drop, Jim rushes forward and latches on to the collar of his t-shirt. Flings him, like a rag doll, to the side.
Nick's on his back on the floor of the sewer, covered in brain matter, head submerged near to the ear in dark fetid water. He's silent, twitching, gasping for breath, and Jim flashes back to that night in May. Trade blood and water for dirt and it's the same.
"Jesus, Nicky…. Hey, kid." Jim squats, puts his face in front of Nick's, and wonders if the injured man is even seeing him. He scrambles inside his coat for his walkie. "We need a med team! Right now!"
Nick flinches with the words and Jim puts a hand on his shoulder, grips it, squeezes it, leaves it there while he waits for the topside team's response.
"What's your 20?"
What the fu-- He presses the button and practically swallows the radio. "I'm in a fucking sewer! I don't know where the hell I am! What the hell is YOUR 20?" and speaking of where the hell people are..."Warrick? Nicky, where's Warrick?"
Nick raises a hand that glows like cave fungus, and waves toward the mouth of the culvert. "Out," he half-whispers in a scratchy, gusty voice. "Gr-grate."
The radio squawks and Sam's voice bounces through the static. "Jim, how far'd you go back? You take any turns?"
He takes a second to blow out an angry breath, cool himself a little. Presses down on the com button. "Look for Warrick. He...He should be out along the fence somewhere. I'm at the end of a culvert with Nick. We need a bus. Now."
"Ten four," Sam responds coolly. There's another chhk, then Sam's voice is back, softer, closer to the mouthpiece. "What's goin' on there, Jim?"
Jesus. He looks down at Nick, struggling for breath. "It's bad, Sam. I dunno. It's bad. I got Carbonell. Carbonell's dead."
"Madre de dios," Sam whispers. There's the sound of movement, a rubbing against the mike, then Sam comes back, voice brighter. "We got Brown, Jim. We've got him. He's okay."
Jim hears faint shouts, first through the radio's speaker and then realizes he can hear them real-time, too. He scuttles around Nick and leans against the grate. "I can hear you," Jim says into his walkie, then drops it, presses his face against the metal cage and yells out into the night. "I can hear you! Hey! Right here!"
The voices outside start a chorus of, 'Over here! They're here! Pull the medics off the warehouse! Jim! We got ya, man! We see you!'
Jim swivels toward Nick. His hand goes back to its place on the CSI's shoulder, pulling him up, out of the stinking filth, to lean against Jim's hip.
Nick moans, cries out in pain and exhaustion - not enough relief to tell Jim the kid's heard that help is on the way. "They're comin', Nicky. Just hang on. Hang on…" His voice trails away as he pulls the younger man tighter into his arms. He puts his lips to Nick's ear, whispers again. "Just hang on. They're coming."
And they are.
He can hear a crowd gathering overhead, moving closer. There's the 'ping-pang' of bolt cutters snipping through chain link and then Warrick's skidding and tripping in the mucky weeds at the mouth of the culvert.
"Nick!"
Warrick grabs frantically at the grate, swinging it to the side like a pendulum, and Jim sees now how the CSI got out. There are more shouts from outside and above them, and then two EMTs are pushing Warrick to the side and climbing into the crowded culvert. The younger EMT of the two goes first to Jeff's body, laying to the side of where Jim cradles Nick.
"Don't you fucking touch him!" Jim snarls. "He's worm food. Leave the shit here where he belongs." He knows he needs to let the medics work on Nick, but he perversely pulls him in tighter.
The EMT draws back from Jeff's body - half because of Jim, half because he sees the body doesn't have a face - and quickly moves toward Jim. "Sir, I need you to let us get a look at him," he says, while the other medic is uncoiling the oxygen tubing and connecting a mask to an O2 tank.
Jim tries to nod, to let the EMT know he understands, but the tendons in his neck have knotted up so tightly the gesture is more of a twitch, pulling his chin to his chest. He starts to uncurl his body from its protective hunch over Nick's form but freezes, recoiling as Nick lets out a whimper like an injured dog.
"We've got major chest trauma," says one of the EMTs, and they both swarm in. Jim's pushed away with a practiced ease, and then it's flying scissors and gauze and blood, and a whole fucking bunch of lingo Jim's brain can't even begin to process. He finds himself, back against the grate, and then Warrick's tugging at his jacket from behind. "Jim! Hey! How's he doin', man?"
Jim can't take his eyes off the train wreck in front of him. One of the EMTs holds aloft a piece of shiny plastic, bright letters on one side, gory, dark blood on the other. "What the fuck? Hey, Travis! You believe this? It's a fuckin' Little Debbie wrapper!"
Jim hears the screech of rusty metal, and the grate's sliding open again. He turns, sees Warrick's wide eyes, and starts to ease himself out of the opening. "He's... They're..."
His pant leg snags on a bent wire at the passageway's edge, and cuts through the fucking cursed brown suit leg and into his calf. He barely registers the sharp sting, rips the pant leg off at the knee, and leaves the amputated fabric clinging to the fence, flapping in the breeze. "Rick... What the hell happened?... His chest... His face…"
Two more EMTs scramble down the steep incline, a gurney in the width between them. They push past both men and shout to the medics already with Nick. Sam's there suddenly, pulling Warrick and Brass from the edge of the action.
Jim passes a hand down his face and, without warning, grabs Warrick in a huge embrace.
Warrick startles with a hiss, then gives in to it. Returns the gesture with a tighter grip before pulling back.
Jim notices the pain that crinkles Warrick's eyes and furrows his brow. "What? You okay, Rick? Damn it, why didn't you say anything?"
The doubled-up med teams are passing Nick through the grate like a crowd-surfing rock star. They get him on the gurney on his side, and before anyone can ask a question or say a word, they've strapped him down and have him moving up the incline toward an open ambulance. Warrick tries to follow, but Jim holds on to him.
The light has gone from orange to blue, typical for early evening in November, but Jim catches a glint off the dark fabric of Warrick's shirt; his shoulder glistens wetly.
Jim tries to pull his attention away from Nick being carried off. "What happened? Is that a GSW?"
Warrick has yet to respond to anything he's saying, and Jim takes a minute to really look at his friend.
It's obvious he's taken his licks as well. His lip is fattened and caked with black blood, and his normally lean jaw line puffs out with an angry purpling bruise. He's hunched over his one hand, the other - attached to the uninjured shoulder - is clenched into a tight fist. He's noticeably shaking in the cool autumn air.
"Rick, you need to get looked at."
Sam clears his throat. "Look who's talkin', short pants. You two both need medical attention. We'll go in the Taurus, lights and siren. Probably get there before the bus and Nick."
Jim keeps one hand on Warrick's shoulder - just keeping track. Not gonna lose you again today - and looks down disgustedly at his pants and bleeding leg.
"Come on," says Sam, "You still owe me a cup of coffee."
Sam makes good on his word; the Taurus is parked and the three of them are tumbling out as the ambulance roars into the ER bay of Desert Palms. Jim and Sam try, but short of a physical restraint, they're not keeping him from the beehive of activity that swarms around the back of the bus as his best friend is unloaded and rushed into the emergency room.
The doctor's rolling Nick onto his back while the rest of the team boogies the gurney to a triage bay.
"Male, 30's, penetrating chest wound. Knife removed--"
"Who's the asshat who did that?"
"That'd be me," says Warrick at Nick's feet.
The doctor, who'd been glaring at the EMT and his partner like she was going to set them on fire, aims her look toward Warrick.
The EMT, relieved to be out from under her eyes, swallows and spits out the rest of the pertinent information. "Make-shift occlusive applied before we arrived on scene. Non-tension open pneumothorax, possible pneumohemothorax. BP is 80/20, no radial pulse, carotid thready and irregular."
There's no reassurance for Warrick in having been right in his diagnosis. He'd rather be wrong.
"Possible head trauma, cyanotic, early stage hypovolemic shock. LOC en route. In and out. Did thoracocentesis in the truck to relieve the pleural pressure, didn't intubate. Wide open on 02, established a central line and have Ringer's and saline on board."
The doctor shrugs off her stethoscope as soon as the gurney is stopped in the room, gives Warrick the once over while a nurse cuts away the remains of Nick's henley, and starts on his filthy jeans. "You his partner?"
"Yeah."
"Type and crossmatch and get O neg up," the doctor barks to another nurse ringside at the gurney. The doc listens to Nick's chest, round pad of the stethoscope dropping and pausing over half a dozen spots. "I've got hyperresonance on the right. Let's get a chest tube in."
The doctor finds Warrick's face again, and he sees her make the decision; knows it'll be more trouble to get rid of him than to let him stay. He's glad Nick's got a smart doctor.
"Nick Stokes, right?" she asks.
"Yeah. Nick. His name's Nick," and Warrick figures everybody in the old protect and serve and save circles has been expecting them to show up at some point. He figures the gossip lines from dispatch, to PD, to FD, to ambulance company must be buzzing with Nick's name. Again.
"What's that smell?" one of the nurses asks, wrinkling her nose.
"Sewer," answers Warrick. "We were… Sewer water."
The doc nods her head, flitting a penlight over Nick's eyes. "Let's push antibiotics IV. Need to irrigate his chest and these cuts on his face," and then she's back to Warrick again. "He have any allergies?"
Warrick shakes his head. "No."
The doctor – stocky, middle-aged, all business – leans over Nick's face. "Mr. Stokes? Can you hear me?"
Nick moans, whether in reply to the doc or to the nurse probing his side, Warrick can't tell.
"Mr. Stokes? My name's Dr. Mercer. You're at Desert Palms hospital. You were stabbed in the--"
"No shit," Nick growls, and a wee smile falls across the doctor's thin lips.
She pats his arm. "Good. I like them feisty. Nick, we're going to take you to surgery. Fix you up, okay?"
"Rick?" he calls out miserably.
The doc looks in Warrick's direction and gives him a curt nod.
Warrick steps around the scrambling nurses and hovers over Nick, trying to keep his eyes off the terrible whistling wound in his partner's side. "Hey, Nicky. I'm right here."
"Rick?"
"Yeah, man. You're okay. Gonna be okay." Warrick sees white roll up between Nick's swollen lids and looks for the doctor, slightly alarmed. "He--"
"He's just passed out," she says reassuringly. "Let's get him upstairs," she says to the gaggle of med personnel. "And call in ortho, too. They can set his nose while he's out."
And then Nick's gone. The gurney's whisked out of the triage bay and through a set of double doors at the far end of the room.
Everything spins and Warrick starts to sag. Dr. Mercer steps forward, helps him ease down onto a rolling stool set against the wall.
"Whoa, whoa. You're not going to pass out on me, are you?"
Maybe. No. He isn't quite sure. "I just--"
"You just need a little medical attention yourself," she says, peeling back the frayed edges of shirt. She prods the bullet wound, eliciting a groan from him.
"He's gonna…"
"Be fine. We'll fix him up. Don't worry." She picks up The handset from the wall phone above his head. Punches a few buttons. "Can you page Jacobs to triage 3. I need some work on a superficial GSW."
She hangs up and crosses her arms over her chest. "So you had a reason for taking out the knife, I assume. What did you use for an occlusive?"
Warrick blushes, feels flush. "Little Debbie wrapper. Was all I had."
The doctor arches an eyebrow. "Well, shit."
Warrick chuckles.
"You know, you probably saved his life."
His throat tightens and he has to blow out a breath. "He's my best friend."
Sam's off finding out about Warrick, and Jim's halfway through a three-year-old National Geographic - some article about jellyfish or mummies or something, who the fuck knows - when a red-haired hurricane blows into the ER. He almost laughs; Gil comes following more slowly at her heels, head down like a man forced to carry his wife's purse at the mall.
Jim stands, drops the magazine in his seat, and starts over to them. He doesn't make it two steps before Catherine's arms are around him, swallowing him up as if she's not 5'5 in heels. He buries his face in her neck. So VISCERALLY happy to smell perfume and shampoo that help clear the sewer from his nose.
"Oh, Jim," is all that she can choke out.
"I'm good, Cath," he murmurs. "We brought 'em home."
She pulls back and holds onto his shoulders. Fixes him with tear-filled eyes. He manages a game smile under her gaze.
"You look like hell," she half laughs, half sobs. "All Warrick said was that Nick's in surgery. What happened?"
Jim waits until Gil has made his way over and the two friends exchange knowing nods. I did it, Gil. I got our guys back.
"You two mind if I, uh…?" He points back at the chair and doesn't wait for their answer. Slumps back down and rolls the magazine in his hands.
They take the seats on either side of him and move in close. Catherine's hand is on his arm, and he's about to pull away when he remembers. Remembers keeping one hand on Warrick's shoulder… just to keep track. So instead he sighs, pats her hand, and rests his head back against the waiting room wall.
"Long story short, bad guys had 'em at the upholstery shop like we figured. A slight case of gang warfare broke out and Nick 'n' Rick slipped out the back. I uh… I found 'em down in a sewer tunnel. Took out the psycho, and called in the troops."
Gil nods. "We got the match back right after you left. The prints from the 420 you were at this morning came back to Jeff Antonio Carbonell. When you say, took out you mean…"
Jim just smiles grimly. "All in a days work, Gil."
"Well, it was good work, Jim," Catherine reassures him with an arm squeeze. "I swear we need to put GPS chips in those two. I had one put into Bob."
Jim raises an eyebrow at her and she smirks. "Lindsay's labradoodle, Bob. Frickin' dog cost me two k- it's not goin' ANYwhere."
"Wasn't their fault," Jim says more seriously.
Gil is already shaking his head. "We know, Jim. We saw the tape, remember? No one blames you."
'Cept for me. "Yeah, except for IAB, but then, what else is new?"
Catherine fights a smile and chews on her lip. "Once word got out that his number one campaign contributor was connected with MS-13? Let's just say Burdick decided to take a little vacation with his family…and the nanny. And he announced he wanted nothing on his desk when he came back. The only open file was yours, coincidentally."
"Word got out?" Jim asks with a raised eyebrow.
"I'm not sayin' who," Catherine says slyly. "But you may wanna buy Conrad lunch when you get back."
Jim turns to catch Gil nodding with a shrug of his shoulder, confirming that Hell has indeed frozen over.
"They say when Nicky's outta surgery?"
"Few hours at least I figure, Cath," Jim says as he wipes a hand down his face, rasping his full day's worth of beard growth.
"Then you have time to get fixed up," she says, tugging on his arm and getting him to rise.
"Fixed up?" he asks stupidly.
"You're a mess, Jim."
He holds his arms out, looks down at himself. Half a pants leg is gone and the other has a dark water stain most of the way up his calf. There's a tear in his jacket and the middle button of his dress shirt is missing. The swell of his white t-shirt clad belly peeks through. Most disturbing of all though is the oily dark stain that mars the lapels and one entire side. Brown coats the shirt cuff there and one jacket sleeve looks like it might have Jeff's--
Jim quickly pulls the jacket off and holds it out. "Not sure if you'll need it for the case, but if you don't? For the love of God, burn the damn thing would ya?"
His second sock peels off and hits the floor next to his shoes with an audible 'splat'. Jim settles himself back onto the gurney with a sigh. The flowered backless gown isn't exactly what HE'D have chosen, but at least it isn't stinking, wet, and covered in blood. Or other even less desirable biological fluids.
The curtain pulls back and a familiar face enters. And he thinks she might have actually brightened at sight of him.
"Hey, Ginny. Isn't your shift over and uh, a couple floors up?"
"Picked up an extra shift in the ER. You come in with the stab wound guy?" she asks as she opens a drawer and pulls out a suture kit and a kidney dish.
"Yeah. You know how he's doin'?"
Ginny snorts derisively. "The Gods of the OR don't deign to keep us mere mortals of the ER in the loop - even those of us who normally work in surgical. But my friend Lottie's up in Recovery tonight. I'll ask her to gimme a ring once he gets out."
Jim nods tiredly. "That'd be good, thanks. How you... How you wanna do this?"
Ginny pulls over a rolly stool and lifts his leg to look at the deep gash on his calf. "Oooh," she says, pulling in a breath. "That's a dandy. What did this? Barbed wire?"
"Wire gate over a sewer culvert."
Ginny's twirling her finger at him, and Jim follows her instructions like a good trained dog, rolling over onto his belly on the bed. He nests his head on his arms. Closes his eyes for the first time in what feels like days. "Hey, go easy on me, would ya? I've had a rough day."
Ginny kneads the skin around his wound, looking for a good place for the Lidocaine. "Oh, yeah?" She affects a sniff in the direction of his pile of clothing. "Does smell like you had a shitty one."
Jim chuffs out a laugh into the pillow. "Yeah." He tenses, sucks in a breath briefly as the anesthetic is injected, then eases back down. "Yeah," he echoes himself. "Killed someone and almost lost two friends."
The hand on his leg stills, then briskly returns to business; he can feel an odd pulling sensation on his calf.
"Well, the almost part doesn't sound bad," Ginny says quietly. "You didn't, right?"
"No. But the, uh, stab wound guy… He was looking pretty rough when they brought him in."
She pulls a lamp over closer. "He a cop, too? And the tall, dark and handsome GSW with him?"
Jim just nods his head on his arms; no reason to go into details. "I, uh, had some shit goin' on. On the job, and they… They got swept up in it. Tryin' to help meout."
"Oh yeah?" Ginny says casually. "You're a captain, right? Couldn't be too bad a problem if you still have that fancy gold shield."
"Yeah. Yeah, that and a dollar might buy you a cuppa coffee."
"Well, it's only fifty cents from the vending machine in the lobby. When we're done here, how's about I buy you a cup?"
"It's a date," Jim says, turning his head to see Ginny smiling as she's swabbing down her work with Betadine.
"Oh, hell no. I'm not that cheap of a date, Detective Brass."
"That's Captain Brass," Jim says smugly.
"Alrighty. CaptainHow's about you lower those shorts to half mast for me?"
Jim half rises onto his elbows, craning his neck to see Ginny prepping a syringe from the kidney dish.
"Come again?" is all he can manage.
Ginny raises an eyebrow and waits, needle in hand. "You can't very well take me out on a date if you've got tetanus, can you?"
He sighs, settles his head back down and closes his eyes. "Can't argue with that logic, ma'am," is muffled by the pillow. He wriggles, maneuvers, does what he has to, and waits for the inevitable.
Ginny leans over and whispers in his ear. "Tell you what, sugar. You buy me a nice enough dinner and you just might get to see my ass."
It's enough to take away some of the sting.
When he wakes up, he's alone.
There's none of that movie bullshit disorientation; he knows where he is, and he remembers how he got here. The room's dark, the window showing nothing but midnight sky. It takes him a second to realize he's only seeing out of one eye - and then he becomes aware of the pain.
He knows the problem SHOULD be in his chest, but it's the broken nose that hurts the worst. It throbs. Aches. The pain runs through his sinuses, up over his eyes, and into his cheeks and jaw. His teeth feel like they're being thrust from their seats in the bone by the pressure; like he has the world's worst sinus infection, and is standing on his head.
His mouth is dry and pasty inside, and he runs his tongue across his lips. The soft flesh of the underside snags and ticks across a row of stitches that climb around the contour of his lower lip. Further investigation confirms his upper lip to be a twin.
Between a nose he figures must be swollen to the size of a cantoloupe, the stitched lips, and the light that's only barely peeking through the swollen lids of his left eye, he can only assume he looks like Mike Tyson in the tenth round of the '90 Douglas fight.
He REALLY wants some water; his throat is parched and raw. He recalls briefly waking up in recovery, them pulling out the intubation gear, telling him he'd had surgery and he was going to be okay. He doesn't FEEL okay. He feels like shit. Thirsty shit.
There's something in his left hand. Might be a buzzer or a button for the pain pump he's probably hooked to. Figures if he presses it enough times he'll either get a nurse or a little more sleep. Six-ah one... He lays his thumb against the button and holds it down.
A few seconds later he decides that maybe his infamous Stokes fuckin' suckin' luck may have finally thrown him a bone, because he gets the rush of cold he recognizes as a little hit of something - please let it be morphine - and the arrival of a nurse wearing an ugly smock and a warm smile.
"Well, hello. How you doin'?" she asks in a voice that probably once bounced around New York haunts. "Kinda thought you'd be up pretty soon. See you figured out the pain pump,"
The hand checking his pulse gives his wrist a gentle squeeze. "My name's Lottie. I'm gonna take your temp and check your chest tube, 'kay?"
Long as I don't gotta move. He lets his lone good eye slip closed, perfectly willing to let her do just about anything as long as he can find his way back to that warm, dark, comforting place. Someplace backward from the pain that's nesting in his chest, a place free of shit-smelling sewer water and tattooed psychos with knives.
He feels the sheets flutter around him, and it sends a little shiver down his spine. He doesn't mean to, but he lets out a little moan when the movement sets off fire in his chest.
Lottie doesn't even pause, just keeps doing her thing. "You okay, hon?"
Don't answer, just sleep. Find it. Find it.
But the comfort he seeks is elusive, slips from his grasp with a sucked in hiss and he feels it back inside him. Like the knife is still inside him. Feels the scraping on the bone that sent vibrations through his entire rib cage.
"I'm--" His voice sounds terrible, all nasal-packed and scratchy. "Water?" he asks, getting right to the point.
"No can do, sport. Sorry. I can get ya a coupla mouth swabs. Taste like lemony-somethin', but at least it's moisture, right?"
She taps him on the chin with a finger. "Open up so I can take your temp?"
'Open your mouth, cop. So I can put a bullet in it.'
He holds his breath. Doesn't move.
Not the same. Not there. You're safe. And he knows it, but it still takes him a second before he's willing to loosen his jaw. His upper lip burns along the stitched split, and a wave of nausea passes over him when the plastic temp strip is forced under his tongue. Thick saliva gathers in the back of his throat and he starts to gag.
"Hey, hey," Lottie says, and lays her cool palm against the side of his face that doesn't feel like a Civil War battlefield. "You're okay. Just swallow. Swallow for me, Nick."
He tries. It takes a couple go-rounds, but he finally manages to force down the viscous spit. "Sorry," he slurs out.
"Nothin' to be sorry about, okay?" she says, and then her hand is gone and so is the plastic temp stick.
A little more awake now, he watches her toss the thermometer in the trash, then quietly bustle about his bedside. She checks the triple decker IV he's rockin', and then a pouch she pulls from a spot at the side of the bed. He feels a little yank at his chest, visually follows the tube running from the pouch. He's pretty sure what's going on, figures the dark mess inside the pouch is blood. His blood. From inside his chest. "Is that...?"
He squints at her and clears his throat, but before he can finish the question she's nodding.
"Don't worry. We put most of it back," she says brightly, tapping a plastic bag filled with what looks like red velvet cake batter on yet another pole. "You're doin' great. You just relax."
She gives his blanket one last adjust. "I'll get those swabs for ya. In the meantime, you gotta coupla anxious friends that wanna see ya. If I move slow, they can probably sneak in before I get a call through to the doctor to tell her you're awake. You feel up to it?"
He feels GUILTY is what he feels. Shit. He sorta kinda thinks he remembers Rick taking a bullet at some point. "My partner was--"
"He's one of 'em that's waitin' to see ya."
Relief washes over him like the morphine had. "Yeah. That'd be good."
She serves him up a warm smile and a wink. "Gimme a sec," she says, and then she's out the door.
So, Warrick's okay. That's good. That's good. And Jim... He doesn't know what he's going to say to Jim, because - Jesus, oh, Jesus - Jeff was going to kill him, and then Jim—
A pie wedge of light from the hallway falls across the room, and then there they both are.
Lottie must have flipped on the light over his bed at some point, he realizes, because he can make out that Warrick and Jim look like absolute shit. They SMELL like shit, too, even to Nick's crushed nose. But he feels the corners of his mouth curl up because - They're here. They're okay. You saved me, Rick. You saved me, Jim. I was rescued. Thank you. Thank you.
His throat constricts and he feels a hot tear topple over his lower lid. It snags up on the tube of the nasal cannula, rides around his cheek, and drips down next to his ear. He wipes it away absently. "Hey, guys," he chokes out.
Jim's the first to move. To smile. "Hey, Nicky."
He walks over to the bed, hesitates for a second, then grabs Nick's IV punctured hand and squeezes it before clearing his throat. "How you feelin', kid?"
"Thanks, Jim, for--" Nick can't say it.
Jim just shakes his head. "Hey. You got my back, I got yours. It's good. We're good."
He gives Nick's hand another squeeze and then Warrick's stepping up, bedside.
Nick can see he's in a scrub shirt, arm in a satiny blue sling across his chest. "You okay, Rick?"
His partner snorts out a laugh and shakes his head. "I'm good, bro." He shrugs the injured shoulder with a little wince, but grins. "Just a flesh wound, right?"
"Yeah," says Nick. "Me too, huh?"
Warrick whistles and tosses his head back to smile at the ceiling. "Man, you gotta be kiddin' me. Dude, you got shishkabobed."
"Gigged like a frog," says Nick, and then winces as he holds back a small chuckle. "Just tell me I imagined the part where you patched me up with a snack cake wrapper."
"Who says junk food kills, huh?" Jim chimes in. "Knew there was a reason I kept Dolly Madison in business."
There's a chorus of light laughter, and then the three fall silent.
Nick sniffs and makes a face as the copper taste of blood rushes to the back of his throat. He's had enough blood for a while. His or anyone else's. But he's a CSI, likes his loose ends tied up.
"Back at the--" he starts, pauses, starts again. "Our evidence from the original scene get processed? Jeff, he said Graciela--"
Warrick's already nodding, thankfully saving Nick from trying to work the words out through his still muddled brain. "Lab already confirmed the prints we lifted from the scene were Jeff's. Seems kinda anticlimactic now... Jim..."
Jim shuffles his feet and takes in a good expanse of floor.
"Saved my life," Nick says, finishing Warrick's dangling sentence for him.
The door to the room pops open, and Lottie breezes back in.
"Okay, gents. You got five minutes tops before the doctor gets here. Don't make me look bad. She can be a real bear."
She maneuvers expertly around Jim and Warrick, pulls the table tray over to Nick's other side. She drops a couple of small square packages on the tray, rips one open, and pulls out what looks like sucker stick with a sponge for a lollipop.
"Brought you the swabs, sport. Just run 'em through your mouth. Like I said, they don't taste great, but it's the best we can do for ya until tomorrow morning, 'kay?"
"I hear those things taste like ass," teases Jim.
Lottie shoots him a smirk. "Speaking of, word on the floor is Ginny got a good look at yours."
Nick's jaw drops open in shock, and the nurse takes the opportunity to shove a foul, wouldn't-taste-like-lemon-if-you-soaked-it-in-Pledge swab into his mouth.
Warrick mutters an 'Oh, no she didn't,' and covers his mouth to hide the smirk.
Jim flushes a brilliant red. "Musta been worth talkin' about," is all he can muster.
Warrick's still shaking his head looking sideways at Jim, when he reaches into the fold of his sling. Nick hears the crinkle of plastic and then sees the colorful wrappers of a fist full of chips, candy bars, and vending machine snacks.
"You'll have to clear it with the doc, of course, but uh..."
Jim chuckles, obviously in on the joke. "We thought you might be a little hungry. Want some...munchies."
"You guys are cruel," Nick mumbles around the swab. "I can't even have water and you're..." It takes a minute as he sees the two men laughing, and he knows he's not tracking, not processing like he should - damn it, I just had major surgery, gimme a break - because it dawns on him then.
The joke. The weed. The munchies. Mari-fuckin'-juana. Ha, ha.
He lets his train of thought run, and when it finally reaches its destination – oh, shit! - he blurts out, "My piss."
Warrick and Jim both bust with laughter.
"Jesus, kid," says Jim. "I think Human Resources is gonna let you forgo the next dribble cup exam."
Nick feels his cheeks heat with blush. "Yeah, I...shit. I'm never gonna live this down, am I?"
Warrick sobers, stops his cackle, but doesn't drop his smile. His hand falls on Nick's shoulder, squeezes, and then slides up to lay against the side of Nick's neck. "You're livin'. That's what matters."
I'm livin'. I was rescued.
"Thanks to you guys." And Nick means it. Knows that once again, he owes his life to his friends, his family.
No man is an island, but he lives pretty damn close to that usually. Especially since last May. And it feels kind of good to lean on someone for a change. He allows that knowledge and the warmth - the comfort it brings - to settle in and make itself at home.
Lottie pops her head in the room, whistles lightly through her teeth. "Sorry, boys. Doctor Mercer's on the floor. Gotta clear ya out, or it's my butt on the line."
Jim opens his mouth to say something, but the nurse is moving quicker than the tuckered out detective. "And we both know you're not goin' there, short stuff, because Ginny's not gonna wanna hear you were referring to my assets."
"What are ya, already married to this woman?" Warrick asks with a snort.
"Haven't even been on the first date," Jim grumbles. He rubs absently at his rump and smiles. "Got further with her already than I did on my last two, though."
"Shit," says Warrick. "Speakin' of wives, I gotta call Tina." His hand pulls away from Nick's neck, and settles briefly against Nick's chest.
Nick can feel the thump of his heart against his friend's palm, and knows it's there because of him.
"Yeah, man. Go. Both of ya look like shit." He smiles weakly. "But come back in the morning, huh? Jim, I wanna hear all about how me nearly gettin' killed is the only way you get lady action."
"Less like action, more like a pain in the ass, kid," Jim laughs. "You sure you don't want one of us stickin' around? I hear these chairs are mighty comfy..."
Nick's head dips a little, he swallows hard. "Nah. 'M good. Gonna make like a Jeopardy contestant in a second here," he says, holding up the delivery button for the morphine pump. "'Sides, I know you'll be back tomorrow. Depatment's probably gonna cut some hours next coupla days."
Lottie sticks her head in the door again. "Don't make me call the cops, guys. Out. Now. Visiting hours start at 8:00 in the morning. Your friend needs his rest."
"A'ight," says Warrick with a final pat on Nick's shoulder. "We better get outta here before it gets ugly."
"We'll be back in the morning. You want us to bring you anything?"
Just yourselves. Just your friendship. Just be here. But he doesn't say that. "Coffee? If I remember right, the stuff here sucks."
"Anything else? I hear the food's not great, either."
"We could swing by Rosie's. Huevos Rancheros?"
Nick pulls up one corner of his mouth. "'S long as it ain't pupusas."
Jim looks confused, but Warrick smiles lightly, acknowledging the joke. He gives Nick's shoulder another squeeze.
"A'ight, man. Get some sleep. We'll be back in the morning."
They're halfway out the door when Nick calls Warrick back. He can't let his friend leave. Not quite yet.
Warrick waves Jim out into the hallway, and crosses the room to Nick's bed. "You okay, bro? You want me to get the nurse?"
"Nah, I just--" Nick's jaw tightens and he exhales with a 'whoo'. Shakes his head and then presses it back into the clean white coolness of the pillow. His thumb runs lightly around the contoured edge of the delivery button in his hand. "I'm sorry."
"What?"
"I'm sorry. Sorry I got us—got you into this mess today and--"
"Nicky."
He's been avoiding looking at him, can't face him through all he needs to say. He feels Warrick's hand wrap around his and squeeze tight.
"Don't apologize for bein' a good man, Nick. Don't apologize for doin' the right thing."
"But I never meant for--"
"Look at me, man."
And Nick takes his eyes off the shadowy ceiling and puts them on Warrick.
"We've both been doin' this gig for long enough to know that woman and her kid would probably be dead if you hadn't done what you did."
Oh, shit. The woman…
And he knows it must show on his face because Warrick shakes his head, squeezes his hand again.
"Both fine. Fine and safe and alive, because of you."
Nick's face feels hot, and tears well in his eyes making everything glare and shine. "But…after, Rick." And his voice cracks. "I was scared, man. And I know you had to be, too. But you…you kept it together and you saved me."
"Aw, Nick…"
"And I'm sorry, man. 'Cause ya seem to keep gettin' put in that position and I'm sorry."
"Nicky."
He can't say it right. Can't figure out how to wrap GRATEFUL in the sorry. How to tell Warrick what he means to him and make him understand. He drops his head back against the pillow and shakes his head. "I'm sorry."
He feels Warrick squeeze his hand tighter. Tightest.
"You're my best friend."
end