Author's Note: A long chapter to kick off your week. Kind of a sidetrack, but a relevant one. Enjoy.

Chapter Three: Before the Bad Days

It was a long time ago.

Nick and Greg were at the Las Vegas Sun with Brass, trying to solve the murder of one of the reporters there. They were talking to everyone. It had been a long day, and they had talked to fifteen people who already told them how much of a bitch Erika Swanson was, which was probably why the first reporter who complimented her was also their first suspect.

"What can I say, she was always nice to me," Neil Cooper told them with a shrug, his eyes an arctic shade of blue. Those same eyes fell upon Greg and he smiled.

"You write for the Features section, is that right?" Brass asked, his eyebrows raised.

Neil nodded. "Sure do. Erika was always asking me what it was like to go out on assignment." He looked at Greg and said, as if speaking directly to the young CSI. "I used to be a freelancer. Traveling the world and reporting back at my leisure. I'd applied for fulltime work here, but they kept denying me. That is, until the New York Times offered me a job. Then the Sun was tripping all over themselves to get me. It's funny what a little competition can do for you."

"Where did you go?" Greg asked in spite of himself, earning a stern glare from Brass.

"That's not important," the detective said. "What was your relationship with Erika Swanson?"

"Relationship?" Neil blinked. "We were colleagues."

"Well you're the only one in this office who has nothing but nice things to say about her," Brass pointed out. "Maybe you were getting a little somethin' something?"

Neil laughed. "Oh no," he said, insistently. "Oh, no, no, no."

"Are you lying to me, Mr. Cooper?" Brass asked pointedly. "Because we'll find out if you are. My boys here got a lab that can tell me the history of anyone in this room. They leave no stone unturned, and they always find out your deepest darkest secrets."

Neil's eyes flickered back to Greg and he smirked. "I'll bet."

"So exactly how well did you know Erika Swanson?"

"I told you, we were colleagues," Neil insisted. "She's not…" He glanced at Greg again. "Well, let's just say she's not my type."

"Then how close were you, for colleagues?" Brass pressed.

"Erika was sweet to me," Neil said. "We got along at work, but didn't see each other at all outside of it. But I can't say she was nice to everyone."

"What do you mean?" Brass asked.

For the first time in the conversation, Neil seemed ill at ease. "Erika was ambitious. I mean, can you blame her? She was way overqualified for a simple columnist's job. She may have… usurped a few stories from some of our headliners. To get her foot in the door. But that's just the business."

"Did she ever scoop you?" Brass asked.

Neil shrugged. "She never had to. I'd throw a story her way every so often, if I didn't have time to cover it."

"Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Cooper." Brass nodded at Nick and Greg and moved to the next desk. Nick followed immediately, and Greg was about to do the same when Neil caught his arm and he turned.

"I'm sorry," said Neil with a broad grin. "Do you have a number I can call? In case I… well, you know, remember something about Erika?"

Greg put on a doubtful expression. "You don't seem too upset that your friend is dead, Mr. Cooper."

Neil's smile turned slightly sad. "The thing is, Erika was only nice to me because I was nice to her. Everyone in this business is a cutthroat liar, that's just how it is."

Greg chewed on his lip and cocked his head to the side. "And are you a cutthroat liar?"

He blushed, but just slightly. "Me? I kill with kindness." He took a step closer to Greg and cocked his eyebrows. "So about that number…"

"Listen," said Greg, unable to keep the smile from his lips now, even though he was trying to be serious. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing."

"Oh, I would hope that you do," Neil replied.

"And I'm flattered," Greg said. "But I—"

Neil's face fell. "Oh," he said, cutting Greg off and taking a step backward. He was suddenly flustered as he went around his desk and looked at the papers on it. "I'm sorry, I was too forward." He refused to look at Greg at all, now. "I usually have a great instinct when it comes to this sort of thing, but I've never just… I'm not the kind of guy who generally just comes up and, you know, asks like that, but I thought…" He looked up again and then looked sharply away, as if it had been a mistake. "I mean, I saw you, and I just…"

"What?" Greg said, slightly confused.

"I hope I didn't offend you," Neil muttered, putting some of the papers in a drawer.

Greg reached out and covered Neil's hand with his, making Neil look up. "Believe me, I'm not offended," he insisted. "On the contrary. But I can't get involved with a witness in an ongoing investigation. It's a conflict of interests."

Neil blinked at him, and slowly, that classic, confident smile returned. "Oh… Oh!" He laughed. "Oh, so you're not… mad or anything?"

Greg pursed his lips, then turned the hand he held over and began to trace the lines in the skin with his index finger. And then, after a moment, he smiled. "Ah, I see…"

Neil was confused. "What do you see?"

Greg looked up. "You're not involved in what happened to Erika Swanson."

"My hand told you that?"

Greg ran his finger along the line that cut below the bases of his fingers. "This is the heart line," he explained to Neil. "Yours is deep and well defined."

"What does that mean?" Neil asked, almost breathless.

Greg let go of his hand and pushed a card face down on the desk towards Neil. "It means when we close the case… Call me."

And then he went to catch up with Nick and Brass, with Neil watching his retreating back.

When he reached them, Nick cast him a curious look. "What was that about?"

"Hm?" Greg asked. "Oh. He just wanted to know who to call if he remembers anything about Erika."

Nick smirked at him. "Oh, is that all?"

"What else would it be?" Greg snapped, almost defensively.

Nick shrugged, suddenly timid. "Funny he asked you for the number," he said as they followed Brass out of the building.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Greg returned.

"Nothing…" Nick mumbled, slightly coldly. "Nothing, it just looked like he was…" He couldn't seem to bring himself to finish the sentence.

Greg tried to keep his cheeks from flushing red and kept his eyes on the door. "Yeah, I know," he said, laughing. "Funny, isn't it? No wonder Erika Swanson wasn't his type, right?"

Nick said nothing, apparently ill at ease with the conversation he had started himself. "Collected the prints sheets from HR while you two were chatting," he muttered. "All employees are required by the paper to be printed."

"Oh…" said Greg. "That saves us the messy process of printing everyone then, doesn't it?"

"Mm," Nick said simply, and climbed into the car, slamming the door on Greg, who stood there a moment, baffled, before walking around the car and getting in the passenger's side.

Greg received a phone call sometime later while he was watching TV in his apartment. He turned down the volume and looked at the caller ID. He didn't recognize the number so he answered with his full name.

"Greg Sanders."

"So I was wondering…" came a playful voice on the other end. "If you've found out who killed Erika Swanson yet. Concerned minds want to know."

Greg didn't need to ask the voice to identify himself. "Hello, Mr. Cooper," he said, reclining in his couch.

"Hello, Mr. Sanders," Neil mimicked. "You know, the funniest thing happened. I somehow ended up with two tickets to the movies this Friday, and wouldn't you know it, I don't have anyone to take me. What are you up to?"

Greg sighed. "Well, you know, we have narrowed down the suspect pool," he said.

"Fantastic," said Neil. "Was it our editor? He's a real douchebag."

"Is this for the paper, Mr. Cooper?" Greg said with a smirk. "Because I have to say that I'm not allowed to talk to the press at this point in the investigation."

"Am I in your pool of suspects?" Neil pressed, trying to sound casual but failing.

"Is there some reason you should be?"

"Will we stop returning questions with questions?"

"You have an alibi," Greg said, trying not to laugh. "You were in Boston when the murder took place."

"So… can I take you out now?" Neil pressed.

Greg knew that it was against protocol. "I don't want to risk it right now… Mr. Cooper."

"When are you going to stop with this 'Mr. Cooper' crap?" He paused. "Try a first name basis, maybe… Greg."

On the other end of the phone, Greg was beaming. "How about I call you when the case is closed, Mr.—"

"If you say Cooper, I swear to God I'll hang up this phone right now."

Greg choked back a chuckle. "Neil," he said, amused.

"Good," said Neil. "I guess that means you don't want me to hang up just yet."

And the truth was, Greg didn't. "You know… there's no rule against talking," he said, laying down on his couch and staring up at the ceiling. "Do you have any plans for the next hour or so?"

"For you, my night is wide open, babe," said Neil.

An hour was a poor estimate on Greg's part. Then again, he hadn't known at that point just how many things Neil had to say. Or how many questions Greg wanted to ask him.

Greg tried to focus on his breathing, and the feeling of the morphine flooding his veins. Every once in a while he would open his eyes to an empty room. Sometimes, there would be a doctor. Once, there was Grissom. Twice, he saw Sara, though the second time she was asleep, her head near his lap. Other faces flickered in and out of his memory, because he wasn't conscious enough to remember them.

The recovery was long, hard, but most of all, lonely. His friends had to work, after all. They couldn't be there all the time, as much as they tried. Catherine left him care packages of brownies and comic books, which made Greg smile. Nick came every night and asked how his bruises were healing only once before changing the subject, as if he refused to dwell on Greg's infirmities.

And then, towards the end of it all, when he was about to be discharged, he saw Neil in the doorway, his face very pale, his expression grim. But he held a bouquet of calla lilies which he placed in a nearby empty vase by the window.

"Those are the flowers of death, you know," Greg pointed out, his voice scratchy and dry.

Neil nodded. "But they're prettier than yellow roses."

"Are you trying to curse me or something?"

"What, because I brought lilies?" Neil put on an exaggerated expression of horror. And then, he smiled again. "I didn't have you pegged as the superstitious type anyway."

"What are you doing here, Neil?" Greg asked.

Neil's smile faded. "I heard you got hurt. I was… worried."

"We barely even know each other," Greg whispered, humiliation creeping up his spine as if Neil had seen him naked.

"I think we do," Neil said. "That night on the phone… that was the longest I'd spoken to anyone in years." He cast his eyes downward. "And… I know you solved the case. They arrested Erika's boyfriend."

Greg looked away. "I was going to call you…"

"Look, Greg," said Neil frankly. "If you're not interested, just come out and say so. It's the polite thing to do."

Greg turned to Neil, his eyes sincere. "No, really, I was going to call you. But lately, work's been crazy. There's this new serial killer, and he makes these tiny little crime scenes, and on top of that I just made level two like… right before I got my ass handed to me on a platter, and my friend Catherine, her dad just died and I—"

"Busy, I get it," Neil interrupted. But he forced a smile. "Look, I'm sorry, I didn't come here to accuse you. I shouldn't have even mentioned it." He reached out and placed a tender hand on Greg's sore forearm. The touch was welcome and warm, and it made Greg relax a little. "I brought you something to make you feel better."

Greg was intrigued. "You mean other than the death lilies?"

Neil snorted and reached into his bag before he pulled out a Nintendo DS and handed it to Greg. "When I was fourteen, I got my tonsils out. As a get-well present, my folks bought me a Gameboy. It had just come out, and they were going to wait until Christmas, but they saw how bored I was. For days, that's all I would do. Sit there in bed playing my Gameboy. Nintendo's gotten me through some pretty tough times. I thought it could help you."

Greg looked at the DS in his hands, then shook his head. "I can't accept this."

Neil grinned. "It's not a gift, it's a loan." He got to his feet and shouldered his bag. "Besides. Now, you'll have to call me, right?"

He cast Greg a wink, and then he was gone.

Greg rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling of his bedroom with a dopey grin on his face as he breathed deeply. There was a rustling of sheets, and he felt soft, downy hair against his shoulder as playful fingers began to trace the lines in his sweaty chest. Greg leaned forward and kissed the head of blond hair that rested beneath him, closing his eyes as he melted further into the bed, completely at ease.

"You're wilder than I expected, Tiger," Neil breathed, and Greg didn't need to see him anymore to know that he was smiling.

Greg said nothing. He often found it difficult to form words in the post-coital haze that enveloped his mind. So he simply said, "Mm…" and wrapped his arm around Neil's shoulders.

The blond man began kissing a line down towards Greg's naval, which made the CSI giggle.

"That tickles," he said.

Playfully, Neil exhaled into Greg's bellybutton, making the latter laugh out loud. He gripped the journalist by the shoulders and flipped him onto his back, looking down into his ice-blue eyes, ready to devour him all over again. And for a moment, they both thought that he would, but instead, Greg settled for a quiet, gentle kiss, far from ferocious, which Neil returned, his hand reaching up and resting on the side of Greg's cheek.

Greg pulled away, then collapsed on the bed beside Neil again, burying his face in the nape of the journalist's neck. "Tell me again all the places you've been…" he whispered, his breath dancing across his lover's collar bone.

"Mm, Morocco," Neil began, recalling the memory fondly. "Bangladesh… Sri Lanka… Tibet…"

"Tell me about Tibet," said Greg.

"I was doing a piece on the Chinese Occupation," Neil explained.

"What was it like there?"

"Cold…" Neil said, shivering at the memory. "But the landscape was just awe-inspiring. The mountains shot up into the crystal sky, and the clouds hovered around them like mists. The air was so crisp, and the people were so generous…"

"Sounds great," Greg sighed. "Maybe we should go sometime."

"You would prefer Sri Lanka," said Neil, nuzzling Greg's hair. "The beaches, the sweet, clean moist air, and the rainforests with all of the spices, oh my god, I don't think I've ever seen so many spices in one garden before. And they have this dessert, it's yak's milk yoghurt and honey—"

"Sounds gross," Greg interjected.

"No, it's incredible." He paused, then he twirled a strand of Greg's hair around his finger. "Maybe one day, I'll take you around the world."

"Oh, I'd love that…" Greg confessed, closing his eyes and picturing the Himalayas and the Sri Lankan rainforests.

"Paris, Rome, Athens, Cairo, and Timbuktu…" Neil said reverently, as if they were holy words. "I'll take you anywhere, Greg." His hand meandered across Greg's back. "Do you remember when we first met, and you read my palm?"

"Mm…" Greg intoned.

"What else did it say?"

Greg turned onto his side and shrugged, then smiled. "I'd have to see it again," he said.

Obediently, Neil showed him his palm and Greg traced the lines he found there, tilting his head to the side. "You have a big heart," he said after a moment.

"Really?" Neil asked, looking at his palm and trying to see what Greg could see. "See, I thought when you said that before, it was just some sort of pick-up line."

"Says it right here," Greg said, pointing out a deep line in his palm. "Strong and intact, not a break in it. You give your heart and you give it fully. And so far, it has served you well."

Neil grinned. "I'll say."

Greg glanced up at Neil and rolled his eyes before his gaze returned to the palm he held. "You're stubborn," Greg said. He looked up at Neil again. "Which I could have guessed by the way you kept pursuing me."

"Is there a problem with being a little head-strong?" Neil returned. "I'm a journalist, I have to be to get my story."

Greg looked back at the palm. "This is your head line," he said, tracing the crease in his palm. "See how it doesn't connect with your life-line? That means you do things spontaneously, without thinking about it."

"Like flirting with you?" Neil suggested.

Greg couldn't help but grin. "It means you're adventurous. Your life isn't bound by caution. That's a good thing."

"Well, I do play a lot of Legend of Zelda," Neil confessed.

Greg rolled his eyes again. His finger traced the last of the three main lines. "And this… is your life line."

Neil hit him playfully. "You're my lifeline."

"Don't be corny," Greg threw back as he examined the line of Neil's hand. He frowned. "That's peculiar…"

"What?" Neil asked, suddenly nervous. "What's it say?"

Greg looked up with a mysterious smirk. His fingers wrapped around Neil's hand and he tugged, pulling the journalist to him where he claimed his lips, lingering there a moment before moving to Neil's ear. "It's unmarked, your life line. You're going to have a long and uneventful life."

"See, now I know you're full of shit," said Neil pushing Greg away teasingly. "I had malaria when I was eight."

"Well there may have been a few tiny marks," Greg admitted, with a shrug. "Wait, you had malaria?"

"My parents were with Doctors Without Borders in Ghana," Neil explained. "I recovered, but my mother says my brain will never be the same."

"Ah, so that's why you're so weird," Greg concluded.

Neil fell back on the bed, making the mattress shake as he looked up at Greg without a word, just a quiet, smug smile. It made Greg nervous.

"What?" he said after he couldn't take the staring anymore.

"I think I want to race you," said Neil.

Greg laughed. "Well at least let me put on some pants first."

"You don't need pants," said Neil, deadly serious.

"A naked race?" Greg asked, intrigued. "You really are spontaneous, aren't you?"

"Yes, a naked race," Neil said, throwing the sheets off to prove his point. He got out of the bed, and then Greg was suddenly anxious.

"You're not serious…" he began, forcing a laugh.

But Neil stopped in front of the TV by the bed and turned it on before flipping the switch of some ancient consol. The words MARIO KART rotated on the screen and Greg burst out laughing.

"Oh, I get it," he said as Neil tossed him a control. "A naked go-kart race."

Neil nodded. "Mm hm. And I'm gonna kick your ass."

Greg smirked. "Bring it, naked boy."

"She's gone…" Greg was saying into the phone, leaning against the locker. "There's no point, she's just gone…"

"Can't be gone," Neil's soothing voice said on the other end. "If she were gone, you would have given up by now."

"I want to…" Greg said, shaking his head. "I want to, I believe it, she's dead, I know it… Does that make me a bad person?"

"It ain't over 'til it's over," Neil said seriously. "You know how it goes, Greg. You have to wait to hear the fat lady. Have any fat ladies been singing?"

"Nobody's been singing…" Greg said absently. "Not since she was taken from us."

Neil sighed. "You have to think of something. I know that brain of yours, Greg. You have that little mini crime scene, right? Maybe there's something—"

"There is nothing there, Neil!" Greg screamed into the phone. "Grissom would have seen it. Grissom knows… he knows everything, and if he can't figure this out, then… then she must be dead. Because in a world where Grissom doesn't know what to do… Hell has frozen over, Neil, and we're caught in the blizzard."

"And your kidnapper's not talking?"

"Not a sound."

"There's more that you can do," Neil assured him. "There's always more that you can do, something you haven't seen yet, you just have to keep working the case, Greg."

"That's the thing about evidence, Neil," Greg said quietly. "Sometimes it just isn't there."

"No, it's always there, Greg," Neil insisted. "It's just like when I'm working on an exposé. Sometimes, there are things that people don't want to be found, Greg, but if you keep digging, if you press hard enough, then you will find them. Have you extensively searched your kidnapper's apartment?"

"Nick is there now," Greg breathed.

"OK, Greg, then listen to me," Neil demanded.

"Neil, I can't, we just aren't good enough to find her…"

"No, Greg, listen to me," Neil hissed. "Your friend is alive. From the things you've said about her, I can tell that she's a fighter. And from what you've told me about Nick, he doesn't miss anything. I can guarantee that he will find something at that apartment, and when he does, Greg, when he does, you have to promise me that you won't doubt it. You will get over this brief psychotic break of yours and you will go back to work and you will find her. All of you will find her, and then everything will turn up roses, understand?"

Greg's breath was shaking. "But what if he doesn't find anything?"

"Have faith in your friends, Greg," Neil said. "Sometimes, you just have to believe."

"But I can't—" Greg jumped as the door to the locker room opened and he saw Catherine there, looking wild.

"Nick found out where she bought the Mustang," she said simply. "Brass just went to figure out where the guy towed it."

Greg simply stared at her. "So what now?"

Catherine pulled on her baseball cap. "Now… We look."

She dashed off, leaving Greg standing dumbstruck in the locker room.

"Did I hear that right?" Neil asked on the other end of the phone. "Have you found her?"

Greg sobered up instantly. His eyes narrowed and he straightened, and suddenly his breath wasn't shaken anymore. "No," he said. "But we will."

"That's my boy," said Neil, proudly. "That's my boy."

Greg stood on the doorstep and knocked on the door impatiently. Several times. Until finally, it opened.

At first, Neil smiled to see him, but that quickly disappeared when he saw the state Greg was in. Instead, he opened his arms wide and let Greg fall into them.

"What happened?" he whispered into Greg's ear as they held each other.

At first, Greg didn't say anything. His eyes were closed as he inhaled Neil's tartly sweet scent that reminded him of only the best kind of candy. The warmth that emanated from his lover's body was stronger than any blanket and he wrapped himself inside of it, just to chase away the sudden loneliness he felt at her absence.

"Sara's gone," he said, when he was comfortable enough.

"What do you mean gone?" Neil asked, the concern clear in his voice. "She hasn't been taken again, has she?"

Greg shook his head. "She just left. Not a word. And I tried, Neil. I tried to talk to her. But she hasn't been talking much since Natalie took her. And now she's left, and I can't help but feel a little bit… pissed off."

He felt Neil laugh. "She didn't abandon you, you know."

"Whatever she did, I know you never will," Greg returned, burying his face in Neil's neck.

He felt Neil's hand in his hair. "Greg… I don't know about you, but if I went through everything that she went through, I'd be really messed up. It wasn't about you. It was about her. You know that, right?"

"Not just about her," said Greg, shaking his head. "Her and Grissom. It's his fault too."

"No, it isn't," Neil returned. "It's nobody's fault. Not even Sara's. Maybe she just felt like leaving was the right thing for her right now."

Greg's grip on Neil tightened, his hands gripping his shirt. "Don't leave me like that," he whispered, terrified. "If you have to leave me, then at least say goodbye. At least talk to me. Don't just turn away and forget about me. Don't forget about me, Neil."

Neil struggled to put an inch or two of distance between them, because Greg did not want to let him go. Neil looked directly into his eyes. "Why would I leave you?" he asked. "You're…" He stopped, then seemed to rethink his words. He cupped Greg's face in his hands. "I would never leave you. Not voluntarily."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Greg said, his eyes serious, and strangely vulnerable. "Sometimes, things happen that we can't control. You might leave me. And that's OK. But just do me the courtesy of being honest about it."

Neil pushed Greg's hair away from his forehead. "Greg, I… I can't figure out how to explain this to you. But know that I don't want to leave you. I probably couldn't, even if I tried. You're my sun, Greg. My world revolves around you."

"And I rise and set on you…" He blushed. "Oh Jesus." He smiled. "Get me a cold beer, before I melt from all this sappiness."

"I'm a writer, Greg," Neil said after a quick peck on the lips. "I know all the clichés." He shrugged as he turned to get the beer Greg requested and added, as an afterthought, "Hell, I'm living one."

"Which one?" Greg asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Neil cast a look Greg's way and smirked. "The fairy tale. It's all ours, babe."

Greg waited on the doorstep, his knees drawn up to his chest, a cold beer already clutched in his hands. He looked up when he heard a car pull up and Neil got out. His lover stopped, then frowned as he looked at Greg, who didn't move.

"Hey, babe," Neil said, coming closer. "I thought you were in LA for your book…"

"Something's happened," Greg whispered, barely audible, but it was clear that Neil already knew that. The journalist crouched down in front of his boyfriend, and tried to look him in the eye.

"You gonna tell me what that was?"

Greg shook his head slowly, his eyes unseeing. "Can we just… do something else?"

Neil nodded slowly. "What do you want to do?"

Greg's eyes slowly came into focus. "Let's race."

Neil took his hand. "OK," he said, simply.

"No," Greg said, changing his mind, his grip on Neil's hand tightening. "No, let's just… fuck." He closed his eyes. "Just fuck until everything is gone."

Neil's brow furrowed, his eyes deeply disturbed. "That bad, huh?"

"I don't… deal with death very well," Greg said, blinking and allowing his eyes to focus on Neil again.

"But you work with it every day—"

"I know," Greg interrupted. "I know. But when it happens to me… Just because I know it, just because I always see it, doesn't mean that I know what to do when it happens to me."

Neil seemed to understand then, and his mouth closed, his face forming a grim but determined expression. He reached out and took the beer bottle from Greg, who let him have it, his fingers uncurling as if they were dead. "Babe. This is what we're going to do. We're going to fuck. Not have sex. Not make love. We'll fuck. Because you feel fucked. And then, when it's over, and your memories and self return to you slowly… Then we'll race." He tried to smile. "We'll have a naked race."

Greg looked at him, gratitude written as plainly across his face as if it were scrawled in permanent ink. He said nothing, he just nodded, and allowed Neil to pull him to his feet. He stumbled slightly, tipsy from the alcohol, but he stumbled into Neil, who caught him, who would always catch him, and he followed his boyfriend into the house where they locked the door and left all the bad things outside on the step.