And the White Knight is talking backwards…
--
Oddly enough, it was a text message that tipped them off, eventually taking them to a hotel a couple of miles outside of the Strip. Nick thought it was stranger still or maybe even appropriate that Greg was the one to receive it. Artisan and 402 was all it read, but Greg had somehow managed to connect it to the hotel off Sahara Avenue.
Needless to say, the tip was legit, and 402 turned out to be a room registered to a name Nick knew all too well.
He recognised the fact that there was more than one Stephen White in existence, probably more than just a handful in Vegas alone. The name was common, no less rare than Nick's own name. For all intents and purposes, finding a Stephen White in a hotel could be nothing more than another blind lead. Not to mention they didn't even have a picture of White to work from.
However, five days ago, this White checked into the Artisan.
Five days ago, the White they were looking for killed two officers and attacked Greg.
Aside from Nick's reluctance to jump the gun, he could admit that it wasn't really that much of a stretch. Perhaps convenient, though: the kind of convenient that led up to the incident in Mesquite. Then again, Nick had trouble trying to think of anything pertaining to the case that wasn't. What they stumbled upon so far seemed to miraculously put itself together in a way Nick couldn't believe was anything but deliberate.
Even the timing fit. White didn't check in the hotel until after midnight, around the same time Nick returned to Vegas. There was a six hour window between the time Nick left for the hospital and the time Nick got to the lab, and it was more than enough for White to make the trip from Mesquite to Vegas.
Although, White didn't seem the type who would want to get caught, much less flaunt any exploits to the authorities. Killing Evans and Meyers seemed more spontaneous, and didn't match up with the man who'd been able to dodge the FBI for the last ten years. But if White was careless enough to leave the murder weapon at the crime scene, Nick wasn't sure he could rely on his reasoning.
Yet, it brought him back to the only constant in this case, the one person who'd been under their noses the entire time and could probably answer more than just a few questions – Alice Davis. They were still trying to trace the phone that sent the text message and hadn't exactly confirmed it came from Davis, though Nick would be more surprised if it wasn't. It had to be. Following the logic of this case, there was no one else it could be, no one else it should be.
Maybe it was narrow thinking, a sense of paranoia that was steadily building, but Nick believed whatever role Davis was playing, she was far from being the innocent bystander or some hapless victim. It was obvious she was a key contender in what was going on and in Nick's eyes just as culpable as White the moment she brought Greg into it.
Her interest in Greg, regardless of its impact on the case, posed a multitude of problems and played upon too many of the potential fears that Nick thought he already buried a long time ago. But his concern about how much Davis did know easily became concern about how much she didn't know, and, by association, if any of it came back to White. Because it scared Nick that she was able to get a hold of Greg's cell number, a number that was listed as private and not one Greg gave away freely – definitely not something Davis should have known.
Circumstances aside, it was more than enough to rub Nick the wrong way, and he was glad he wasn't alone in the sentiment.
"I don't know," one of the officers in front of Nick said warily, Rogers if Nick remembered correctly. "The whole thing sounds a little too clean if you ask me."
Nick silently agreed, but he wasn't in the mood to participate in the ongoing conversation. He was breathing hard, fast, chest swelling in anticipation. His body was taunt, the grip on his gun tightening while the thought of finally coming face to face with White continued to fuel the sudden onslaught of adrenaline.
Footsteps echoed throughout the stairwell, loud and harsh sounds reflecting off the walls of confined area secluded from the rest of the hotel. They were only on the second floor, on the verge of passing the third, but Nick felt like he'd been going up and down all day.
"Good thing no one is," Parker said lightly, but the attempt at humour didn't cover the hesitancy in his voice. He paused behind Rogers, Nick stopping right behind him as Sofia opened the door to the leading to the fourth floor.
She let Rogers and Parker go before her, grabbing Nick's arm when he tried to follow them. "I'm not going to say you're not supposed to be here."
Nick kept his expression on his face neutral but didn't say anything. His relationship with Greg wasn't public knowledge, much less something the majority of his colleagues needed to be aware of. Only a few people from work knew about it, which had more to do with Greg being kidnapped than Nick and Greg being overt in front of others. To his knowledge, Ecklie didn't even know, and Nick wanted to keep it that way.
He wasn't sure if Sofia picked up on it – not that he'd been doing a good job keeping his emotions in check lately – but as long as she didn't ask about it, he wasn't going bring it up.
"I don't want you in the room until we clear it," she warned, squeezing Nick's arm and then letting go. "If it is White, then–"
"Got it," Nick said tersely, following her gaze to the gun in his hand. A thin layer of sweat was the only barrier between his finger and the trigger. And considering Nick already took the safety off, she trusted him a hell of a lot more than he trusted himself right now.
He sighed when Sofia nodded at him, her weapon already drawn as she made the short walk to room 402, where Rogers and Parker were waiting. Side pressed against the adjacent wall, Nick listened for anything inside the room as Sofia knocked on the door.
"Stephen White. Las Vegas Police, open up!"
Sofia waited a moment, Parker and Rogers tensing on either side of her, and knocked again, her fist more or less pounding against the door.
There was a rustling noise, someone on the other side not exactly trying to hide their presence. She frowned at the lack of reply. "Always have to do things the hard way," she said offhandedly, somewhat irritated as she backed away and nodded at Parker, who used a keycard to open the door.
Nick pushed himself off the wall when Sofia entered the room.
"Freeze!" she yelled as she made her way into the room, catching sight of someone Nick assumed to be White. "I said freeze," she repeated. "Put your hands in the air!"
"Get them up, now!" Rogers said coarsely, Nick following his movement as the other man rushed past Sofia.
Gun still in hand, Nick trailed Parker into the room. He expected to see a struggle or an attempt to escape. Instead, he was met the sight of a tall man facing the window. There was none of the typical resistance or shock that usually followed when the police came through the door – the one that followed because everybody had something to hide, regardless of whether the person was innocent or not.
And they were supposed to run when they were guilty.
Nick waited for him to do something, turn around at the least, but he stood still, his hands raised as Sofia and Rogers approached him from behind.
"Stephen White," Sofia said, putting away her gun and reaching for a pair of handcuffs. "You're under arrest for assault and battery and the murders of Derrick Evans and Adam Meyers."
White didn't protest when Sofia began to read him his rights, still quiet when she grabbed his hands and cuffed his wrists behind his back. He had more than a few inches on her and probably a couple inches on Warrick, too, but he seemed strangely cooperative as Sofia turned him around and maneuvered him out of the room.
Nick frowned when he saw White's face, the man's expression blank, and Nick unable to place him. He left the room, moving backing into the hall as Sofia ushered White through the doorway.
Then White turned to him, eyes locking with his, surreal and so brief a moment Nick could have easily imagined if it weren't for the smile that didn't leave White's face. Haughty, knowing, Nick's eyes hardened at the corners of the other man's mouth curling slightly in a way that Nick found disturbingly familiar.
"Not that you had a much of a choice, but I think it's better to err on the side of caution," Sara said plainly, unknowingly repeating the words Nick relayed to Greg earlier this morning.
Since Greg received the text possibly giving the location of Stephen White from the unknown number, Nick had been more wary than usual, even checking the house for what Greg suspected to be evidence of some type of hidden surveillance. But Greg didn't say anything about it because he couldn't dispute experience, not the kind Nick had that pretty much warranted the behaviour.
And maybe, even if he could only admit it to himself, just maybe the idea that someone outside of the circle of people he knew was able to reach his private number scared him more than he was willing to let on.
"But really, it's just a phone," Sara continued, trying to placate Greg.
"I don't think that's the point here," he replied as he followed her down the hall leading to Archie's lab, moving a little faster to walk beside her.
"Well, I think it's nice. Definitely better than the piece of junk I have." Sara looked at the phone in her hand appreciatively. It was one of the newer models, black, sleek, and part of an introductory plan that Greg could actually afford.
Or at least he could actually afford it as soon as that rebate worth half the phone came in the mail.
Of course, he probably wouldn't get it until sometime next year, maybe by December if he was lucky, but he could wait a few months for a hundred dollars because that kind of money went a long way.
Greg made a noncommittal noise as Sara gave the phone back to him. "Not as nice as my old one, though."
"Your old one wasn't even a month old."
"What? I can't like nice things now?"
Sara snorted. "Sure, but a few years ago, I'd never picture you as a phone junkie."
"Like I said, I like nice things, especially when they're new and shiny," he said jokingly, laughing at the expression on Sara's face as he put his phone in his back pocket. "Plus, things change. And I was going to switch carriers, anyway."
"They why are you so upset about it?" she asked, stopping right outside of the A/V lab. "Better yet, what's more important: your life or your phone?"
Greg pretended to hesitate. "…my phone?"
"Your phone," Sara said flatly.
"And I mean that somewhat truthfully."
"Do I even want to know why?"
"It's because he's lazy and thinks CDMA phones are better," Archie said from inside the lab. "And unless he has a list of contacts saved on his computer somewhere…"
"Which you know I don't," Greg said, looking at Archie pointedly.
"Then he's going to have to put all of the numbers back in, one by one."
"But I don't think I should have to put myself through something so tedious again."
"Really?" Sara scoffed, sparing a glance to Greg as they walked into the lab. "And how long is keying in five numbers going to take?"
"Thank you, Sara," Greg began dully as he took a seat, "for putting me down every chance you get."
"It means a lot to me, too."
Archie laughed as he sat in the chair between Sara and Greg. "GSM, man. Portable information all the way."
"Whatever." Greg rolled his eyes. "Anyway, could you get anything of the tapes Tyler and Perry gave us?"
"Uh, yeah," Archie said quickly, immediately sobering as he turned his attention to the computer. His fingers trailed across the keyboard, prompting a video file to appear on the screen. "Honestly, it would have been a heck of a lot easier just to interview the Harrisons again."
"Too much for you?" Sara asked.
"Don't put words in my mouth, Sidle." Archie snorted, opening another window on the monitor. "The other was the old file. This one," he said, pointing to the screen as the video began to play without sound. "I starting trying to salvage what I could from you gave me, but it's going to take longer to clear up the audio. The mic they used to record didn't pick up much sound. Did you have a transcript of the interviews to hold you over?"
Sara pursed her lips. "Supposedly, they don't have one on record, somehow lost it."
"I already extracted the audio. Cleaning it up won't be an issue. I can remove most of the excess static and bring out individual voices, but again, it's going to take a while."
"How long are we talking about?"
"More than just a couple of hours."
"What about the picture?" Greg asked. "Can you brighten it without too much blur?" The video itself seemed no more than of an assortment of shadows crowded around a dim light hanging over a small table, with the Harrisons on one side and two FBI agents on the other. It was a long shot, but if they were able to make out the Harrisons' expressions, it could give them some idea of what was going on.
"And then you'll lose pixel quality," Archie replied. "The original lighting is just that bad, and I can't do anything about that. The problem isn't the tape. It's the original feed."
Greg looked at Archie in confusion. "We know it's a copy. Perry told us they weren't giving us the original."
"Other than files we already had, it wasn't the only physical evidence they'd give us," Sara added.
"Oh, that wasn't hard to figure out," Archie said. "The overall quality's pretty crappy, even for a VHS. When I was a kid, I used to have three VCR's hooked up to my TV, and this one make my old dubs look like high-def."
Sara frowned. "Okay, so what's the problem? If it's from the same source, it shouldn't matter, right?"
Archie shook his head. "Think of it like this: Let's say you're making more than one copy of a photo. You put the original on the copy machine and make a copy, right? Now instead of using the original again, you switch it with the first copy to make another copy. Then use that copy to make another copy."
Sara and Greg nodded slowly.
"Now, when you're making copies from copies, over time the quality gets worse since with each copy you gradually begin to lose the detail from the original source. Unless it's digital media, which is something else entirely."
"So, what does that tell us about the tape we have?" Sara asked.
"Two things: This isn't the first copy, but in this case, the copy aspect doesn't matter as much because it's basically what the original looked like anyway."
"What's the other thing?"
"That this tape was tampered with."
Greg tilted his head slightly. "What more could you do to it?"
"Apparently many things," Archie said reasonably. "See the small bar in the lower right-hand corner," he continued, enlarging the bar on the screen. "It's kind of distorted, but that's the original time code. Watch this." He paused the video, skipping ahead a few frames and then letting it play.
"Pay attention to the time code, and…" The video on the screen wavered. "There, did you see that?"
Greg blinked. "Somebody edited the tape."
Sara looked at Archie. "This one?"
"Probably one, or one of the tapes made before it. But yeah, the time jumps from 1:34 to 1:52."
"Eighteen minutes, gone just like that." Sara sighed. "Do you know how much time is missing altogether?"
"How many hours, you mean," Archie amended.
"Hours?" Greg repeated.
"Hours," Archie confirmed. "Out of twenty tapes."
"I don't like the way this looks." Sara crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. "I definitely don't like where this is going."
Greg shared a look with Sara. "I guess the question now is what will they tell us?"
Archie shook his head. "If you're missing hours from the twenty interrogation tapes they gave you – not a lot."
"Yeah," Sara agreed. "And I'm starting to think it's not the people on the outside we need to worry about."
It was amazing how fickle time could be, ironic how the mere concept of it seemed to elude Nick on a regular basis. Whether it meant a fleeting thought or a fruitless reminder of something he wasn't supposed to forget, there was always too much, always too little, and never enough to figure it out. Sometimes, it would leave him feeling stuck in the middle, trapped in some kind of mental purgatory only because he'd overlooked something he already should have known.
Or something he already knew but couldn't remember.
It hit him the moment he saw White in the hotel, nagging at him during the ride back to the station, and he still couldn't shake the feeling when he sat across from White in the interrogation room.
And now that White was in custody, Nick wasn't sure what to do with him, so much going through his mind he didn't know where to start. The eagerness and adrenaline he once had now deflated, he found his thoughts trailing to Rogers' words from earlier.
It did seem a little too clean. Albeit silently, White came willing, neither denying nor admitting to any of the changes. If he was even remotely worried about them, he wasn't showing it, apparently more than happy to go along with the ride. It made Nick think White expected it to happen, almost as if he planned to get caught.
The way White carried himself, stretching his arms above his head carelessly like he was at home rather than in a police station, the idea was becoming more plausible. Either way, Nick was tired of being dragged around by this case and hoped it would all end with answers from White – hopefully before the Feds tried to take him, too.
"Comfortable, yet?" Brass asked smartly, the translator beside him repeating his words to White in Mandarin.
White shrugged. The only time he'd spoken was while he was being led into the station, only a few words coming out, but none of it was discernable. They already knew White's background and that he had beyond a basic grasp of the English language, but it was more a matter of whether or not he would speak it and letting White believe he had the upper hand.
It wasn't likely White would divulge everything he knew, and it would be in their favour if White underestimated them and his overconfidence caught up with him.
White reached for the plastic cup in front of him, taking a few sips of water before placing the cup back on the table. "Really don't need her," he finally said as he gestured to the translator, but she made no effort to move. "My English is pretty damn good, you know."
Brass feigned surprise, though Nick had some difficulty differentiating it from one of the other man's more common sarcastic faces, which seemed to cover the scope of Brass' emotions. "And to think you were going to be considerate enough to humour us."
"It's easier to let people make their own assumptions," White replied simply, and Nick picked up something from his voice, something drawing his attention that had little to do with the fact White seemed to have lost his accent over the course of twenty years.
That nagging feeling was coming back.
Brass opened the thick folder in front on him, "Wei Han, aka, Steven White."
Nick thought he saw a flash of panic on White's face, but it was gone by the time he blinked. White looked carefree once more, too relaxed for someone in his position, and appeared much younger than the 47 year-old he was supposed to be.
"It's easier to pronounce," White said calmly, not backing away from Brass' gaze.
Brass smirked. "Anything else you care to enlighten me with?"
"Oh no, you caught me." Stephen held up his hands in mock surrender, the rattling sound of the handcuffs mingling with a deep chuckle. "What am I going to do now?"
Nick bit his lip, making a fist with the hand hidden beneath the table.
Scoffing, Brass shook his head. "You don't even care, do you?"
White casually leaned against his chair. "There you go making assumptions again. I care about a lot of things," he said evenly.
"Okay, I'll go for that," Brass replied. "But you see; it's your prints on the knife that killed two cops, your DNA we found around someone's neck." He tsked, sliding the picture of the knife across the table to White. "I don't know. If I were in your shoes – of course I wouldn't be in this situation – but I guarantee you that these charges would be some of the things I cared about."
"I never say I didn't care."
"Mr. White," Nick said firmly, speaking to White for the first time. "We have more than enough evidence to put you away."
"Maybe you do, maybe you don't. For all I know, it could be circumstantial."
Nick sighed, uncurling the fist at his side. "We have your DNA and fingerprints not only placing you at the crime scene, but also corroborating your role as the perpetrator."
"You do?"
"Listen," Brass said, trying to cajole White. "We're all nice people here. You help us, and we'll make sure the DA doesn't put you up for the death penalty because, you know, we still have that."
White looked at Brass warily, narrowing his eyes. "We both know the input is always less than the output."
"Even if it's your life?"
"Who said that was the input?" White countered. "But since you're going to need me more than I'll need you, let me really humour you this time. For what?"
"Information on those little girls you're passing around, your running buddies, anything and anybody caught up in it. Those are lives you're playing with, not commodities."
"And can you prove, in your words, that I'm passing little girls around?"
"The Harrisons, Peterson, Baitu – we have names and know you're a big player in all of this."
"That's not what I asked. You're throwing accusations at me, and I want to know if you can prove it."
"Mr. White," Nick began, but was interrupted by White snapping his fingers, the other man turning his attention to Nick.
"I knew I saw you somewhere," he said triumphantly, as if he solved some sort of puzzle. "I almost didn't recognise you because you're actually talking to me and more than three words this time."
Brass looked at Nick, but Nick had nothing to say in response. He couldn't remember meeting White before today.
"Oh, how's he doing by the way?" White asked, gaze still on Nick. There was gleam in his eyes, a rich kind of hunger that made Nick unconsciously back away from the table. "I'm actually kind of curious."
Nick shook his head in confusion. "What – Who are you talking about?"
"If I remember you, you have to remember me." White sighed wistfully, a small smile on his face as if he were enjoying a memory. "I didn't have time to finish the job, otherwise I wouldn't be here. Still, he was like them, you know. They're all like that, eyes wide and scared when they know they're going to die." He put two fingers to his mouth, taking them away and then releasing a puff of air – like he was smoking.
Suddenly, it clicked in his mind, and Nick looked at White with wide eyes. "You're the…you're the guy I saw at the hospital."
The recognition only seemed to heighten the now crooked smile on White's face. "Are the bruises still on his neck?"
Nick wasn't sure when he moved, only that it was somewhere between the sound of his chair scraping across the floor and the sound of White's resonant laughter in his ear. "You sick son of a bitch," he whispered harshly, tightening his hold on White's shirt.
Brass was yelling his name, shouting at him, but Nick was too preoccupied with the man he was holding against the wall to care.
Because somehow White was still laughing, the rumbling and vibrations Nick could feel from beneath his fists reduced to a demented cackle that was somehow even more grating.
"How precious, he means something to you, doesn't he?" White said mockingly, voice soft enough for only Nick to hear. "You should have seen him squirming under me, begging me with his eyes to let him live. Good times with Greg."
"Stop it," Nick snarled, forced the words out of his mouth as his body trembled in anger.
"I almost had the heart to stop, too. Almost, but then I couldn't afford not to stop."
"Shut up."
"Although, you know what they say about those who wait…" White laughed again, the smile on his face turning into something more sadistic, more vicious, and reflective of the cruelty in his eyes. "Then I thought maybe I could follow him home to see that look on his face again, just to see if he remembered me. You wouldn't mind if I dropped by, would you?
White began to wheeze when Nick slammed him against the wall. "I said shut–"
The conversation with White couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds, had to have been less than a minute, and suddenly Nick felt himself being yanked away. But the sound of Brass' voice didn't replace sound of White's laughter still ringing in his ears.
"Back off, Stokes!"
Brass had him by the arm, the fingers pinching his skin past the verge of being painful by the time Nick was shoved across the room.
"I'm all right." Nick raised his hands in the air, backing away from Brass and the sight of White trying to catch his breath as his body slid down the wall. "I'm all right," he called out, ignoring the stares from Brass and the translator and the small crowd of people gathered outside the door.
"I want you out of here, Stokes!" Brass snapped.
"I said I was–"
"Now!"
Greg always saw Warrick as a man of conviction, always sure in his decisions and rarely indulgent in what he tended to refer to as self-pity. Warrick was confident in a way even Nick wasn't, in a way that uncovered the cracks Nick struggled to prevent anyone from seeing. It was a confidence that was bordering on arrogant, but Greg still hesitated to think of Warrick as cocky except in the not so uncommon occasion when Warrick took too much pleasure out of being right about something where Greg would be wrong.
But even then, any satisfaction on Warrick's part was more or less teasing Greg and often took place after a bet that rarely fell in Greg's favour.
So, it was strange to see a more subdued side of Warrick, a Warrick who looked defeated as he hunched over the table, and Greg continued to lean against the doorway, trying to make sense of it.
Greg knew it had to do with what happened in Mesquite. They hadn't actually seen each other since last Tuesday, but Greg knew Warrick was putting himself at fault, or at least beating himself over it. He could tell that much by the two phone calls they shared, Warrick asking Greg how he was doing and prolonging the conversations into intermittent and awkward silences that eventually led to Greg complaining about the need for good daytime TV and rambling about to the urge to write a book on the untold stories of Vegas, respectively.
Though, he had a feeling Warrick's lingering guilt had more to do with Holly Gribbs and his responsibility for her. Greg was close with Warrick. Not as close as Grissom, Catherine, or Nick, yet over the years he and Warrick developed something that was maybe a little bit more than friendly, brotherly, if Greg wanted to be optimistic. While he was aware of the details surrounding her death, Holly was something Warrick never really talked to Greg about it, much less seemed like it was a subject he wanted to breach.
Inhaling deeply, Greg stepped into the room and collapsed into the seat next to Warrick. "Hey," he said softly, watching Warrick's eyes scan the various papers spread over the table. "Sorry I missed you yesterday."
Warrick brushed away the apology but didn't look at Greg. "How was the day back?"
"After four hours of being stuck in a small room with Grissom, Tyler, Perry, and Ecklie?" Greg snorted, earning a small smile from Warrick. "But yeah, I just forgot how much paperwork's involved in rejecting the recommended sick leave. You'd think it would be easier when actually you want to come back."
Warrick nodded his head absently. "You doing okay?"
"I'm fine," Greg answered quickly, embarrassment colouring his features when he realised the high pitch of his voice. "I mean, fine," he repeated. "Better than what I was at anyway rate."
Warrick closed his eyes, sighing heavily before turning his attention back to the papers on the table. "I'm…that's good."
"In fact, I bet Grissom's going to clear me for the field by tomorrow," Greg said playfully, grinning despite the disbelief on Warrick's face when the other man finally looked at him.
"Yeah, right. You're lucky he didn't put you on mandatory leave."
A comeback on the tip of his tongue, Greg paused when he realised he didn't have one. He'd concede to Warrick if it meant breaking the uncomfortable tension between them. He just wouldn't say anything about it out loud.
After a brief lapse into silence, Greg coughed in his hand. "Um, Sara said you had something for me?"
"Yeah," Warrick sail slowly, raising his eyebrows at Greg. "Need you to take a look at this picture of Davis and tell me if it's the same woman you saw."
"The one you guys found yesterday," Greg said thoughtfully. "Right, since I'm the only one who knows what she looks like at this point."
Warrick reached for a pair of photos in a separate folder on the edge of the table and gave them both to Greg. "Here…the one the right is from the first Polaroid. Nick had it blown up to match the one with Davis. It's not recent, but it's the only one we could find."
"It looks like Davis, a younger version, yeah, but that's not…" Greg frowned, trying to think why he didn't see the resemblance earlier.
"Look familiar?"
"They can't be the same person." Greg looked at Warrick. "Can they?"
"No. The pictures were taken ten years apart."
"It's scary how much they look alike, though. Do we know if the first girl is Davis' sister or something?"
"Anything short of getting a hold of Davis, no, but White is probably our best bet."
"You…you found White?" Greg asked tentatively, ignoring the fact that his hands started shaking. His voice faltered and it felt like the composure he'd been trying to regain the past week was being taken away from him.
They had White and that was – and that was good. It was really good, maybe even better than really good. Or maybe good was okay because good meant that White was detained, meant that he couldn't hurt anyone else and Greg didn't have to worry anymore.
A lifetime ago, five days passing more like an eternity, and Greg tried to convince himself it wasn't too soon. Five days was enough time to get over this, enough time to move on. It had to be.
But all he could think of was the hand around his neck, the voice in his ear, and heavy weight on top of him that wouldn't move.
There was a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently, and Greg peered up to see Grissom standing over him and Warrick looking at him expectantly.
"Nick and Sofia picked him up this morning," Grissom said, sharing a glance with Warrick before turning back to Greg.
Greg nodded, grateful neither Grissom nor Warrick mentioned his panic attack. It still wasn't as bad as the ones he used to have. "Nobody told me."
"You didn't ask," Grissom said simply, letting go of Greg's shoulder as his eyes lingered on Greg's hands, which were no longer shaking. "If it makes you feel any better, you're not the last one to find out."
"Now you're just patronising me," Greg said lightly, relaxing in his chair.
"Is White talking yet?" Warrick asked, looking to Grissom and reaching to pick up something from the floor. It was one of the pictures Greg had been holding, the one of Davis he must have dropped.
Greg nodded at Warrick. "Thanks," he said softly, putting the other photo still in his hand on the table.
Grissom shook his head. "He's not saying anything we want to hear."
"Of course," Warrick agreed. "He knows he has what we're looking for, and he's going to hold it over our heads until we cave in."
Greg frowned. "At least he's still willing to talk, though, right?"
"If it's on his terms," Grissom said hesitantly, almost reluctant t to continue. "And there's only one person he's willing to talk to."
"Who?" Greg asked, wary of the way Grissom and Warrick were looking at him.
"You."
Nick heaved a frustrated sigh, grateful for even the smallest respite offered in an empty locker room.
This whole day was wrong, everything gone down the drain. Abruptly and literally in the span of a few seconds, Nick lost it. He crossed that line between personal and professional and was selfish enough to forget he wasn't the only one who could face the consequences for it.
It wasn't just Greg, either. Even though there was a chance someone could connect the dots, look more into Nick's concern for Greg and see their relationship for what it was, Nick hoped the majority of people would either dismiss his confrontation with White or chalk it up to stress caused by the case and putting too of himself into it. But Grissom and Brass would be the ones who would cover for him, taking the brunt of any backlash and exposing themselves because Nick messed up.
Nick was lucky he only came out with a two day suspension, and considering how Grissom chewed him out, Nick was even luckier his supervisor didn't kick him off the case. It was more than Nick expected, and honestly, the leniency was more than he felt he deserved, probably more than what Greg would give him.
But maybe he'd pick up some Chinese food on the way home, use it to help break the news about his suspension to Greg. Somehow, Nick thought explaining to Greg why he was suspended would be less laboured with the temptation of shrimp fried rice on his side.
He scoffed at his own wishful thinking, leaning against his locker, eyes closed and head lowered as his bare arm rested on the cool metal surface.
As long as it didn't interfere with the job or the dynamics of the team, Grissom didn't really care much about Nick's relationship with Greg and was more than willing to turn a blind eye and look the other way. It wasn't necessarily a conscious decision when Grissom found out, something Nick admitted to in haste before Grissom inevitably found out another way. Since then, it hadn't really come up in conversation where work was concerned, and Grissom gradually became a kind of quiet support, offering his own means of understanding when either Nick or Greg needed it.
It made it that much harder for Nick to swallow the look in Grissom's eyes, the palpable disappointment that was in some ways more damaging than his short conversation with White. But Nick couldn't let White carry on like that, not about anyone he knew and especially not about Greg.
He just wished there was a way to take back that one moment, erase those blank stares and White's ominous laughter.
Fear, anger, it didn't really matter why Nick did it since White got what he wanted. He was able to get a rise out of Nick, and more importantly, Nick allowed him to do it, played right into White's hands. He should have known better, anticipated something like this. It was the kind of thing rookies got caught up in, egged on by some guy waiting to trip them up on a stupid mistake, but Nick hadn't been a rookie in a long time.
It was just…
The things White said about Greg, the way White objectified him like Greg was some kind of…toy at his disposal, manic in his ability to treat another person so carelessly. How he enjoyed taunting Nick with the fact he'd almost killed Greg, that self-satisfied grin etched on his face. And coupled with the amount of strain he was already trying to deal with, White's jeering was enough to push Nick over the edge.
He saw exactly what buttons to press, what to say to get under Nick's skin. White wasn't just playing off Nick's reactions. He knew. A chance meeting with Nick outside the hospital, the way he said Greg's name, somehow White knew about his relationship with Greg.
It was the daunting look in White's eyes, the changing demeanor following the snap of his fingers when he recognised Nick. It only made Nick uncomfortable at the time but nevertheless sparked an anxiety that was beginning to eat at him.
White was smart. He was shrewd, well aware of it, and Nick didn't need White's records and files to prove it. Spending a few minutes in a room with him was proof enough, and Nick was terrified of what a man with that kind of intelligence and a clear lack of remorse was capable of.
Nick laughed bitterly, ignoring the sharp pain running down his arm as his fist made contact with his locker door. White had something up his sleeve, and all Nick could think about was making sure Greg wasn't anywhere near White when it was revealed.
"Talking to yourself, again?" came a voice from behind Nick, startling him.
"Damn it, Warrick," Nick said gruffly, taking a moment to catch his breath. "Don't sneak up on me like that."
Warrick raised his eyebrows as he opened the locker next to Nick's. "I thought you left already," he said coolly, picking up on Nick's less that amicable mood. "Heard about what happened."
Nick moved to sit on the bench, back towards Warrick as he rested his head in his hands. "I'd be more surprised if you didn't."
"See? This is the kind of crap I was talking about, the same crap that always gets you in trouble." Warrick took his shirt off, folding it and putting it in his locker.
"You didn't hear how that bastard was talking about Greg," Nick said defensively.
"That's bull, Stokes. Try another one." Warrick pulled a new shirt over head, fitting his arms through the sleeves. "That's why Grissom tore your sorry ass a new one."
Nick turned around to face Warrick, hands gripping his knees. "If you were in my place, you would have done the same thing."
"No, I wouldn't have gone in there."
"What – all of a sudden I'm the only one with flaws? Forget how you helped Phelps and how it felt when Grissom took you off that case?"
Warrick looked at Nick sharply. "Don't go there."
"Can't go against what's true."
"Yeah, but this is different because I know better now – we both know better," Warrick said tightly, shaking his head then scoffing. "Keep this up and you're going to take it out on the wrong person."
"You trying to imply something about me, Warrick?"
"No, I'm telling you need to calm down."
"Yeah, you should talk. You're the last person who needs to tell me anything," Nick said roughly, voice steadily rising. "If it wasn't for you…well, at least Greg's still alive, right? The panic attacks are coming back, but at least he's not dead. That's what really matters. So, maybe you were good for something. But poor Holly. She didn't even stand a–"
Nick jumped when Warrick slammed his locker door, the banging metal resulting in a crash that resounded in the room, still loud in the tense silence that followed. It was effective in stopping Nick in his tirade, the useless string of words that were said with the intent to hurt and made him no better than White. But it was the punch stopping just short of hitting his face that caught his attention, the cold look in Warrick's eyes and the slight waver in the other man's voice that made Nick finally take notice of what he was doing.
It was exactly what Nick told himself he wouldn't do and exactly Warrick warned him not to do – pointing fingers and putting the blame where it didn't belong.
"Go home, Nick." Warrick lowered his fist with a resigned sigh.
"Warrick…I didn't," Nick tried to say, but Warrick was already gone.
There's a fine line between clichés and jumping the shark, and I think I just about crossed it...a long time ago. But sue me for loving an angry Nick. I seriously spent some time trying to build up to this moment without saying it outright. This entire fic, and everything else I wrote in this universe was for this chapter and this chapter alone.
Or not really, still, it was fun to write, crappy transitions and all. Tedious as I don't know what, but knowing I'm almost finished with this monstrosity once and for all...such a welcome relief.
And as always thank you for reading and thank you to QueenOfTheUniverse for reviewng.