Chicken Little said the sky was falling. His mother had always told him he was the sweetest, happiest boy in the neighbourhood, even though the tone she said it in changed over the years. It was affectionate at ten when he was still exclusively hers and with recrimination at fifteen when he had started to pull away from her with the unconscious brutality of a teenager. Finally she said it with resignation, when they'd both been forced to admit he was an adult, who made decisions that occasionally lead to beatings and hospital beds. But the truth of it never changed; his grandparents said it too and the mothers of the childhood friends he'd long since lost touch with, even when they saw him walking down the street as a grown man, still waving to him from their front lawns like they had when he was six years old. He'd read a lot of books as a child, from the moment he'd learnt to decipher the words he'd read voraciously and as if, his mother said, he was afraid if he didn't read fast enough the words would disappear. He'd read everything he could get his hands on and some things he probably shouldn't have done. His Grandmother delighted in teaching him to read Norwegian words, watching him form the strange sounds even as his mother looked on with her mild disapproval for the old. For all he read to himself however, he had always loved being read to. Everyone in the family knew he was perfectly capable of reading the story books from cover to cover yet they kept up the pretence of a nightly story, English from his mother and Norwegian from his Grandmother. Even when he could recite the stories under his breath as they were read to him, because it was never really about the words. It was about the sense of someone near him as he fell asleep, of the soothing lilt of a voice by his bedside.
Sleeping beauty slept for a hundred years. Now he was sitting by a bedside, but his throat had closed up and he didn't honestly think he could speak. David had cleaned up well, after they had got the dust off him. His skin had been thick with it, grimy and oily like he'd been tinkering under a car. Once it was gone they could see that most of the bruises and cuts he must have received in the crash had begun to heal, except the one above his eye. The cut there was inflamed and angry, the swelling just beginning to push his eye closed. They cleaned and dressed it, giving him antibiotics and an I.V. of the non-specific fluids they seemed to hand out like sweets. Salt and water and nutrients Greg knew, a butterfly in his arm feeding him nectar. Now they were just letting him sleep and Greg sat beside him, waiting for him to wake. He wanted it for his own reassurance; even though he knew it was selfish.
She went to the castle to the east of the sun and west of the moon to rescue the prince. As it turned out, he had never been that far away. Greg had a sneaking, sinking feeling that he might have even driven past the building at some point in the week, although he couldn't be sure. His memories were jumbled and fused with a panic that mired his thoughts, the whole experience infused with an unreal quality that made it bearable. Irrationally he was sure he should have known, should have sensed him and brought him home sooner. His eyes darted to the figure in the bed, still sleeping soundly. He knew that if David had been awake and listening he would have told Greg to stop being stupid, before probably scoffing once again at his absurd belief in some kind of sixth sense. He also knew that regrets were a luxury that he was lucky to have. Just seeing him breathe felt like a luxury at this moment, the regret of not having rescued him sooner was erased, obliterated, by the relief of having him back at all. He would let the memories of the week unravel; he would be content to never fully have them back. There would be enough reality for both of them soon.
The magic mirror could only ever speak the truth. He opened his eyes first for just a few seconds, blinking owlishly into the room as he tried to focus. Greg smiled at him and he smiled back slowly, ponderously, before his eyes drifted closed and he slept again. The second time he woke was a few hours later, with a violent start that frightened Greg, who was dozing himself.
"Hey, hey, hey." He whispered, leaning towards him, his hands hovering over his body, unsure of where to lay themselves to soothe him best. His confusion was ended when one of David's hands reached out to grasp his, so hard it hurt. David's eyes still darted back and forth across the ceiling, glassy and terrified.
"Hey." Greg said again, apparently unable to say anything else. He leant further over him, into his line of vision. David's eyes slid past him, then returned, the pupils twitching and dilating as he focussed.
"Safe?" He asked, a pitiful edge to his tone that made Greg's heart constrict.
"Safe." Greg replied. He moved his other hand to stroke his cheek but David jerked away, looking towards the wall and then finally back at Greg, the glassy look in his eyes receding and brightness edging back, like sunlight across a mirror.
"I'm sorry." He said softly. Greg held his hand out again, a breath away from his cheek and David turned into it, rubbing his face gently across his palm. He curled himself up into a ball on his side and Greg could feel the warmth of his breath on his hand, dragging out into long even sighs. His hand was numb, the other one ached from being held so tightly, yet he stayed there until he was completely certain he was asleep.
Dick Whittington returned to be Lord Mayor of London. More people had been to see him than he had been expecting. Greg had known that they could come, but then he had always been a better judge of people than David. More importantly had had seen them when he was gone, seen them work and sweat and worry in a way he doubted David would have ever imagined they would. But then David was never very good with people, like the faerie child his brother had described, and he had spent almost every visit reinforcing that comparison. Grissom had lasted until his own natural compulsion to speak the socially awkward truth had gotten the better of him, Sara had the sense to leave before that happened. Warrick spoke more to Greg but made the effort at least, even if the conversation had degenerated into an argument on the precise method for analysing the paint chips from the car. David had at least looked animated then, sitting up and engaging more than he had done since they'd found him. Of the CSI's, only Nick and Catherine seemed immune to David's particular brand of charm. The techs, who were more used to dealing with him, simply ignored or insulted him in return; seemingly disregarding the situation they were seeing him in. Catherine employed a broadly similar tactic, knowing by instinct that David would respond better to her hard-assed approach than her maternal one. Nick was the only one who confronted the issue head on, charming answers to questions Greg hadn't even dared to ask. His eyes had flicked between the two of them, watching David as he spoke and Greg as he listened. He also stayed longer than the others, talking with Greg once David had fallen asleep, looking at him with earnest eyes and telling him to ask if he needed anything at all. Greg had heard the same entreaty at least eight times that day, but Nick's offer was the first he thought he might take. Finally he left and Greg was alone again with David's sleeping form, the steady rise and fall of his chest highlighted by the white hospital blankets. They said he could take him home tomorrow once the doctor discharged him and Greg was both elated and terrified by the prospect, disturbed by the thoughts of what had been changed by this experience. It seemed too fantastic to hope that things would stay the same, yet as he watched David sleep the permanent feeling of panic in his gut was replaced by the aching comfort of love and familiarity. Maybe everything wouldn't cave in after all; maybe he was giving everyone less credit for strength than he should. Chicken Little said the sky was falling but it was only an acorn. It was only an acorn.