6. Grissom the Supervisor
Nick hadn't been this drunk since his frat days. He tripped over the coffee table, landed on the sofa, laughing.
He'd turned his cell phone off after he'd pulled out of the parking lot, Grissom had called him twice before he'd started the engine.
Gil Grissom. His boss, his supervisor…co-worker, and at one time, not long ago, his friend and father figure, mentor, the person he most admired and respected. Until last night. He supposed his anger was misdirected, in a way. It should have been directed at Walter Gordon, at the idea of Walter Gordon, or perspex boxes dug into the ground, or the bad guys, perps in general. He hated bugs; the thought of anything crawling on his skin made him nauseous. He hated small spaces (no one noticed him sweating in the elevator at work; he took the stairs whenever he could get by with it). He had a hard time sleeping if he was alone. Being with Sara had calmed his nerves, made him feel normal again, made him feel like things were okay, like he could get through it okay. Like someone actually understood, actually gave a damn.
Nick guzzled the last of his beer, almost stood up to get another, instead fell back down again. He tried a second time, fell again and missed the sofa, sat on the floor and decided to stay put for a few minutes.
He glanced around his apartment, lay his head on the coffee table, relished its coolness, and closed his eyes. Everywhere he looked he was reminded of a bad memory. Even his own apartment was tainted with the prospect of death, empty and cold and forgotten.
The phone rang again and Nick tossed an arm up, letting the empty bottle fly across the room. It hit its mark, the receiver knocked out of its cradle, landing to the floor with a thud. The voice was faint on the other end of the line, but Nick knew whose it was, held his breath a moment until the line clicked off.
Gil Grissom, his boss, his supervisor. His supervisor, who'd just so happened to profess his love for his girlfriend. His head swam, thoughts floating in his mind during his drunken stupor, and he laughed. He laughed until he could barely breathe, and then raised his head up and began crying, like he'd never cried before. The rage that he'd felt earlier in the day, the rage he'd felt when he realized he was in that Godforsaken hole in the ground, trapped, helpless, afraid and alone, all came to him at once, dissipating, turning into hurt and pain, burning a hole in his gut, pounding a fist in his head, and he let it all out right then and there, in the emptiness of an apartment that he rarely called home. There in the forgotten, with the memory of a gun pointed at his head, seeing his life flash before him, sure he was taking his last breaths at that very moment; the first dinner with Sara, the first kiss, the first touch, her eyes, comforting, calming, searching; her lips, soft and wet, warm against his; his tears, alone.
And now, his tears, alone.
When Nick finally stumbled to the door, his head pounding, the sound of it mimicking the pounds of the door, wanting to stop the incessant noise, he hadn't yet realized that he'd passed out, slept through the rest of shift.
He opened the door with brows furrowed, his eyes squinting from the too soon light, the pounding in his head still pounding. Sara said nothing, stood there motionless, and it took Nick a moment to register who it was.
Her eyes were red and puffy, fresh tears threatened to spill over at any second, and when Nick asked her what was wrong, they did.
She said the words while her body moved into his, arms wrapped around him tight, tears wetting his shirt. He held her, tried to piece together what she'd said, tried to stop the pounding.
Grissom's been shot.
Nick held her, whispered, "Ssshhh" to no one in particular.
The pounding stopped.