He called in sick because he was actually sick. Not because he wanted to take a day off. Staring at the ceiling of his room, Greg would have rolled his eyes if they weren't hurting so much. He didn't have family to check on him, and would his team even remember he worked there if he didn't show up for a few days? Sure, they would have someone else covering, and as long as he didn't actually die, they would just expect him to return to work once the snot stopped choking him and he could breathe through his nose again.
It didn't take very long for Greg to get very much tired and bored of his room, and his little apartment, that already felt small on a feeling-good day, felt as if he had been squashed into a doghouse that had air conditioning and a refrigerator.
If only he felt like getting anything out of that refrigerator. Every muscle ached, and his head was pounding. The flu was no joke, and while he had taken every precaution to avoid it, somewhere along the line he had slipped up and touched something with a germ on it. He very much didn't like that something he couldn't see could make him feel this bad.
His fevered brain scrambled around his emotions, and the insecurities he normally dealt with washed over him in unrelenting waves of self pity. All of his efforts to impress Grissom came back to him in a mockery of disappointment, and he groaned. How could he have been so stupid? Surely it had been obvious that Grissom only cared for the results that he could give. Without so much as a 'you're doing a great, Greg' Grissom would walk in, give him that tilted head expression that clearly read "Can you be any more immature?" and would walk out after he got his information. Interrupting his monologuing, turning off his music. No, no one would notice he was gone. Perhaps they would even be glad if he never came back. What if he just died, right here, strangling on his own snot, cooked to a crisp by an unrelenting fever? Would the team be called to the scene? Would he have his moment in the sun? Would they feel sorry that they hadn't paid any attention to him? Would they be sad that Greg was gone?
The unrelenting barrage of thoughts spun wildly in his addled brain, as he tossed and turned in a restless, fevered sleep. Although his fears were unfounded, he was not able to rationalize the scenes flitting through his head, and the thought that no one cared about him as he lay there sick and getting worse by the minute drove him deeper and deeper into a fever-driven depression that pulled him into a never-ending nightmare that Grissom was firing him over and over and over.
"He hasn't answered his phone in hours," Nick said conversationally to Grissom, as they walked up the front pathway toward Greg's apartment complex. "He's always pretty good about picking up, so I thought we could check on him. Nice of you to come, Gris, but I don't know if he is going to want to talk about work. He called in sick last night with this flu going around, so he isn't expecting company."
"I just wanted to ask him about that last sample. If he tested it before he was sick, we are in the clear. If it was after and he sneezed on it, then we could have contamination."
Nick paused at the front door and half smiled at the older man. "That's the dumbest excuse I have ever heard."
Grissom threw Nick one of his famous eyebrow raises. "Don't tell him that."
Nick chuckled and knocked on the door. "Mum's the word."
No one answered, and Nick knocked again, then tried the knob. To their surprise, it opened, swinging inward on creaking hinges. Immediately they were hit with a blast of freezing air from an air conditioning unit that was on way too cold of a temperature for actual comfort, and the faint, distinct sound of painful groaning.
Nick glanced at Grissom, whose furrowed brow matched his own, and Nick pushed the door open further, hand on the gun at his hip, Grissom right behind him.
"Greg?" The younger CSI called firmly, stepping into the dark kitchen. "Greg, it's Nick and Grissom. We are coming in."
The weak groaning did not stop, and both CSIs carefully made their way toward the sound, in the back bedroom.
"It's freezing," Nick muttered, glancing at the unit on the wall. "Didn't know Greggy liked it that cold."
"He doesn't," Grissom rumbled behind him, flashing his light toward the unit. "Have you ever been in his lab? It's always a steady 72 degrees."
"Didn't know you noticed things like that," Nick replied softly, moving toward the bedroom door that was shut.
"I notice everything," Grissom replied quietly, his tone slightly insulted.
"Did you notice how Greg has been all over you lately?" Nick whispered, leaning against the bedroom door to listen. "Kid practically worships the ground you walk on." Grissom raised his eyebrows in annoyance.
"Hero worship is hardly something to approve of, Nick." Nick shook his head and held up a hand.
"I wasn't approving. Sounds like he's definitely in here." He raised his voice from a whisper as he knocked on the door. "Hey, Greg, it's Nick and Grissom. Front door was open so we came on in. Wanted to check on you and Grissom had a question. Is it okay to come in?"
The groaning did not stop, seemingly unperturbed by the newcomers, and Nick laid a hand on the doorknob, nodding at Grissom. Grissom returned the nod, and Nick shoved the door open, flipping on the light switch by the door, illuminating a single beside lamp.
The sight that met their eyes was both disturbing and pitiful. Greg was lying sprawled in bed, his typically neat, spiky hair was tousled, and his face was crumpled and red.
"Ah, Greggo," Nick muttered long-sufferingly, holstering his weapon. He moved to the side of the bed and laid a hand on the lab tech's forehead, looking over at Grissom who stopped at the foot of the bed, his normally calm face a mask of concern. "He's burning up, Gris. Looks like maybe he got the same version of the flu that Sara had."
Grissom sighed, and began rolling up his sleeves. "Look around for some Motrin or ibuprofen, and I'll run a tub of water."
Nick nodded. "Alright. Should be something around here." He patted Greg's shoulder as he walked away, tugging his flashlight from his vest to shine it around the room, and into the various cabinets, looking for medicine.
"Medicine cabinet in here, Nick," Grissom called from the tiny bathroom. The sound of a faucet being turned on drowned out anything else the CSI might have said, and Nick followed the sound.
"Pretty small place," Nick observed, tugging open the small cabinet above the sink and by habit flashing his light into it.
"Studio apartments weren't made for parties, Nick," Grissom noted, poking a hand into the flow of water, then adjusting the knob to warm up the water. "Lights on, you don't need the flashlight."
Nick glanced at the flashlight and shut it off, pocketing it, and half turned to watch Grissom. "You look like you've done this before."
"A time or two," Grissom replied noncommittally, shoving himself upward from his crouch by the tub and he sighed heavily. "Don't make any jokes or you could be next. Got any Motrin in there?"
Nick shrugged and shook his head. "Nah, just some Claritin, berry flavored Tums, and Melatonin. Wonder if he took any of that?"
"Doesn't really matter." Grissom sidestepped around Nick and returned to the bedroom where Greg still tossed and turned, his fists clutching weakly at the bed sheet. Grissom studied him for a moment. "He looks like he's in pain." His voice was suddenly soft, and Nick exited the bathroom, coming to stand next to the supervisor, a wide grin on his face.
"Ahhh, so the tough, bug-loving Gil Grissom has a soft heart in there after all."
Gil gave him a dark look and Nick took a deep, awkward breath, and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "I'm - just - gonna run down the street to the drugstore and grab some Motrin real quick."
"Please do," Grissom replied flatly, his raised eyebrows clearly indicating his slight disapproval.
"I did find a thermometer," Nick added, trying to redeem himself from his facetiousness. What was wrong with him? This was his boss. He wouldn't dare tease Grissom in the field, but man to man, this was normal camaraderie.
Only it apparently slipped his mind that Grissom wasn't good at normal camaraderie.
"I will take that. Thank you Nick." Grissom plucked the thin glass thermometer from Nick's fingers and settled himself at the side of Greg's bed. He tried to poke the thermometer between the young man's thin, dry lips, but the tossing made it hard to do so effectively, and he grunted in annoyance. Carefully, he gripped the thin jaw, chin cupped in his palm, fingers wrapping around the narrow jawline. This gave him the leverage he needed to get the thermometer into the lab tech's mouth. A muscle in Grissom's jaw twitched at the desperate whimper that came from the young man at the touch of the CSI. Gil remembered Sara saying that her skin hurt, and he was sure Greg was in the same situation.
He heard Nick leave, and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. He wasn't naturally an affectionate person, but based on the reactions of those around him he felt like they all thought he was a Scrooge or something. He couldn't imagine why they thought that. He always had their back, never sent them into the field with cases they couldn't handle, and always approved their overtime and days off, even if he did have to call them back in on said days off if the need arose. He wasn't good at praise or affection, but he was never mean, at least he didn't think so. And he did say 'good job' every so often.
He sat there in silence, as the broken fevered moans from Greg's lips still drifted in the air. The typically animated young man looked so young and small and fragile, his skin unusually pale in the dim light. His CSI team was dropping like flies, Grissom observed, and he wasn't sure what to do about it. The flu was the flu, it wasn't a perpetrator that you could tackle to the ground and handcuff.
He reached over and took the thermometer from the young man and studied the red line in the glow of the lamp. 105.1...what was it with his team and high fevers? Had to be one nasty virus.
"Well, Greg," Grissom commented aloud, half smiling at the young man. "It's time to take a swim." Had Greg actually been conscious, he would have rolled his eyes at the attempt at humor. Grissom imagined him doing so anyway, and it was a little comforting.
He tugged the layers of covers off of the young man, wincing slightly at the tech's involuntary retreating to the fetal position, and it wasn't hard for the bigger man to scoop up the sick Greg and carry him to the waiting tub of lukewarm water. He was surprised, however, at the way that Greg subconsciously gripped the front of Grissom's shirt, tugging himself close to the CSI, much like a child would, his head resting heavily on the supervisor's shoulder. He could feel the burning heat from the fever filtering through his shirt, and he shook his head. Vulnerability was something Grissom protected at all costs, both for his team and for the victims he encountered. While he had the ability to deflect his own emotions when facing the confessions of some of the most heinous criminals, he cared the most about the innocent ones that never asked for the pain and tragedy that was handed out to them. Sick people were in the same league in his mind. Sure, he wasn't a mushy, emotional man, but he cared whether his team was okay or not, and today, Greg was definitely not okay. He smirked a little as he thought about how mortified that Greg would be if he could see the way he was clinging to his boss, and something akin to affection bloomed in his chest.
He carefully knelt by the old white tub, slowly lowering the sick man into the water. He had already been through this with Sara, so he knew the change in temperature would feel to the fevered man like he was being submerged in ice water, although the water was about 95 degrees. He expected a reaction, but wasn't prepared for the desperate cries for help.
The moment his skin touched the water, Greg reacted, instinctively clawing his way toward the one spot of warmth he could subconsciously feel, and that was Grissom's chest, his weak fingers pawing at the man's shirt, even as Grissom tried to capture the flailing hands with his own without letting Greg's head slip below the water.
"Greg, Greg," Grissom soothed him, although the sick man couldn't hear him. "It's okay, it's okay, I've got you. Don't panic, it's okay. You aren't going to fall."
Quickly exhausted by his feeble attempts to fight the strong arms around him, Greg fell back in the water, Grissom barely cupping a hand behind his neck in time to keep him from smashing his head against the edge of the tub. The thin figure shivered violently at the cooler temperature, as Grissom carefully rested his other hand on his slim torso beneath the water to keep his core submerged. He carefully pulled the t-shirt that Greg wore upwards slightly, trying to decrease the layers between the cooling water and Greg's fevered skin. The CSI's own face was crumpled in both sympathy and a little bit of regret at the small amount of suffering that he was inflicting on his lab tech, but it could not be helped. It had to be done, and Grissom did not regret that he was doing it, merely that it even had to happen at all.
He released the tech for a moment to reach for a towel to put behind the young man's head, tucking it carefully between the tousled hair and the tile backsplash. The young man had fallen silent, although the groans still echoed in Grissom's ears. Greg's face was still crumpled in pain, and Grissom instinctively brushed a dripping hand across the furrows in his brow comfortingly. Flashbacks of loud music drowning out all other sounds in the lab, the carefree smile, happy-go-lucky Greg always taking anything they threw at him, eagerly awaiting that emotional pat of approval when he gave them good news. Grissom wondered how many times he had left the young tech hanging, never quite giving that 'atta-boy' that the tech obviously needed. Grissom just didn't do the mushy stuff, and if Greg wanted to be in the field someday, as he had hinted so many times, then he needed to be tougher, think on his own, and not live for a high five from everyone else.
Grissom found himself wondering if there was anything in Greg's childhood, like Sara's, that had left him emotionally needy. It occurred to Grissom that he was the only person that Greg actually acted that way toward.
Daddy issues? Grissom wondered, remembering that Greg's mother had left their home country while pregnant and perhaps Greg never had that father figure in his life. Grissom's mind flitting back to that one time when he had asked Greg why he chattered so much and gave lengthy introductions into his discoveries.
What had the boy said?
I guess I should stop trying to impress you.
Grissom sighed. His response of 'That would impress me' wasn't meant to be facetious or snobby toward the tech. He was being completely honest, even if it came across blunt. He wanted Greg to stand on his own two feet, be proud of what he could do on his own, and own it in his own lab, instead of panting after approvals and the need to feel needed.
It also occurred to Grissom that perhaps he should have said it in those words instead. It had sounded better in his head.
He reached a hand up to lay the inside of his wrist against Greg's forehead, mentally forecasting if there had been a drop in temperature. It didn't feel much different than before. He pulled a washcloth off of the towel rack by the tub and plunged it into the lukewarm water, pulling it out and draping it over the tousled hair. The water trickled down Greg's face, and Grissom swiped away any drops that headed for the closed eyelids with the side of his hand. If only Nick would get back with that medicine.
As if on cue, he heard the apartment door open, and Nick call softly, "Grissom, it's me."
Heavy footsteps echoed through the kitchen, softening against the carpet of the bedroom.
"Hey." Nick appeared in the bathroom door, a white plastic bag dangling from his fingers. He reached into the bag and pulled out an orange box, as Grissom half twisted, wiping his wet hand on his pants leg and reached for the box. "How's he doing?" Nick nodded at Greg.
Grissom turned to glance down at the tech then studied the fine print on the box in his hand. "He's stopped groaning in pain, so that's something. Nick, this is children's Motrin."
Nick shrugged helplessly. "It's all they had. I went to three different pharmacies and eventually got that at the gas station. The flu's bad right now, it's sold out everywhere. I got some ibuprofen too, but it's in pill form."
Grissom sighed, handing the box back to Nick. "He can't take the ibuprofen until he wakes up then. Calculate the dosage by the weight on there, put him about 130. He's probably a little heavier, but let's start there."
Nick nodded, tossing the bag containing the bottle of ibuprofen into the sink and ripping open the box. He studied the measurements for a moment, then twisted off the cap and poured the orange liquid into the provided cup. "Think he will swallow it okay?"
Grissom shrugged slightly. "Greg," he called loudly, his voice echoing in the tiny room, making Nick startle, nearly dropping the bottle.
"Geez, Gris," he hissed, but the CSI ignored him. Grissom called Greg again, shaking him firmly.
"Greg, come on, man. Open those brown eyes, come on."
Greg's eyes opened slightly, unfocused, and his head wobbled from side to side, endearingly like a baby giraffe trying to take a step. "Gr-Grissom?"
"Yeah, it's me, Greg, and you better open those eyes before I open them for you," Grissom grunted. He wasn't going to let on that he was relieved to see the tech somewhat conscious, his earlier cries starting to fade in Grissom's memory.
A slight glimpse of fear crossed Greg's face, still addled by the fever, and he tried to sit up. Grissom immediately settled a hand on his chest, carefully pushing him back. "No, no, stay there, Greg, just open your eyes. I need you to drink this."
"Drink - drink it?" Greg mumbled, his eyes fluttering. Grissom took the small cup from Nick and held it to the tech's lips, pleased when he managed to down the orange liquid without choking on it. The young man's face wrinkled and he grunted, "Burns."
"You're throat?" Grissom asked, to which Greg nodded. "Okay, that's to be expected. You have the flu, Greg. Like half of Vegas right now. I've got you sitting in some cool water, alright? Your fever was really high, and we are trying to get you cooled down before it cooks that intelligent brain of yours."
Greg's face twitched in slight frustration at Grissom's sarcasm, but Nick grinned. Sarcasm was Grissom's love language. Greg just hadn't learned that yet.
"Cold," Greg mumbled, a sudden coughing fit seizing him violently. It was a painfully congested sound, and Grissom pounded firmly on his back until the coughing ceased.
"Are you trying to knock my lungs out?" Greg mumbled wetly, and Grissom laughed shortly. That sounded more like Greg.
"No, Greg, just their inhabitant. How do you feel?"
"Hurts," Greg mumbled, wrapping his arms around his torso. "Every'thin hurts. Too hot. Too cold."
Nick murmured, "I'm going to go turn the air off."
Grissom nodded, and brushed a hand across the young tech's hair. "Give me a second, Greg, and I will take your temperature again, alright?"
Greg nodded miserably, his shoulders hunching forward, looking slightly comical, fully dressed in his pajamas in the tub. Grissom shoved himself to his feet, limping slightly as the feeling tried to return to his feet, and trudged to the bedroom where he had left the thermometer on the nightstand.
"Boss," Nick said, returning from the living room where the air conditioner had fallen silent. "I'm going to run back out and get some appropriate food for him. Soup and jello and stuff like that."
Grissom nodded. "Thanks, Nick."
The CSI returned to the tub where Greg had his elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands, shivering slightly as the cool air chilled his damp upper body that was no longer submerged in the water.
"Lean back into the water, Greg," Grissom instructed, carefully pushing him back. "The water will keep you from chilling until we can get you out. Now open your mouth."
Greg's head rolled slightly to look Grissom's direction, but his eyes were still fevered and too bright, and Grissom wasn't sure he was actually comprehending anything that was happening. His lips parted slightly, allowing the thermometer to be poked inside. He gingerly closed his lips on the glass stick, while Grissom watched him carefully to make sure he didn't chew on it, unaware of what it was.
A few moments passed in silence, Greg's harsh breathing the only sound, other than the drip of the tub faucet that leaked slightly. Grissom took the thermometer out again and studied it. 103.1...that was better.
Combined with the Motrin, the young man's temperature should still keep dropping.
"Alright, Greg," Grissom called again, patting the side of the young man's face firmly. "Come on, wake up, up and at 'em, time to get out."
"Too cold," Greg muttered, giving Grissom a pitiful puppy dog face.
"Just for a minute, then you'll be dry again," Grissom replied reasonably. He stood, reaching out a hand to Greg. "Now, up you come."
He knew from his experience with Sara that Greg would be weak and wobbly, but he hadn't counted on exactly how weak the tech was. He could barely stand, and Grissom had to basically hoist him out of the tub, onto the toilet where he propped himself up by balancing an arm on the sink beside the toilet, head resting in his shaking hand.
"Don't move," Grissom grunted, wiping his wet hands on his pants again and retreating to Greg's bedroom, where he dug through several drawers until he found clean pajamas and boxers for the tech. "Can you get these on by yourself?"
Greg wobbled slightly and focused his half closed eyes on the pile of dry clothing that Grissom held out to him. He nodded once, glancing from the clothing to his boss's face.
"Greg," Grissom cautioned suspiciously. "If you need help please tell me. I'd rather give you a hand than have you crack your skull on the tub by toppling over."
Greg considered for a second, and he shrugged slightly. "Could use - some help."
Grissom's eyebrows raised and he nodded once. "That's what I thought."
By the time Nick returned with soup and jello, Greg was tucked in bed, his temperature down to 102. 6, and he was much more alert, although his expression was perpetually bashful as he watched Grissom sorting out the mess he had made of the twisted covers.
"Greggo," Nick exclaimed, walking into the bedroom. "Hey, man, how ya feeling?"
"If you have to ask then you already know the answer," Greg replied dryly, dissolving into another coughing fit. Nick wrinkled his nose.
"Fair enough. Man that sounds rough. Hey, I got you some soup."
"Thanks, Nick, but I'm not-"
"I'm not going to get dehydrated," Grissom finished firmly, eyeing the tech over his glasses. "You need the hydration, Greg. Soup. Now."
"Nauseated," Greg replied as means of explanation.
"I know," Grissom replied, tucking the corner of the blanket under the mattress. "That's because I gave you Motrin on an empty stomach. At least drink some of the broth. It is noodle soup, isn't it Nick?"
"Well, I got that and egg drop soup," Nick replied, setting the paper bags on the nightstand. "Didn't know which one you'd want. Also got some ginger ale, orange juice, and strawberry jello."
"The parfait kind?" Greg asked hopefully, and Nick smiled.
"Well, I didn't know that's the kind you wanted, partner, but it just so happened to be the only kind that the gas station had. Everyone's out of jello too," Nick said to Grissom, when the older man raised his eyebrows at the source of the jello. He turned back to Greg. "Do you want some jello, G?"
Greg nodded, the childlike eagerness causing a small smile to quirk the corners of Grissom's lips. "After the broth, Greg," he reprimanded gently. Greg very nearly put out his lower lip in a pout, before his brain reminded him that this was his boss and such a move would be very much frowned upon, as well as never lived down. Grissom saw the slight motion of Greg's lips, as well as the moment he thought better of it, and Grissom turned away to go let the water drain from the tub, using his reasonable exit to hide his amusement.
He squeezed as much water from the pajamas as he could, then draped them over the curtain rod to dry before they could be thrown in the hamper, and he dried the floor using the towel he had helped Greg dry with. He took his time, trying not to think about what might have happened if they hadn't dropped by to check on their DNA tech. It was a thought he didn't want to dwell on.
When he returned to the bedroom, Nick was sitting on the edge of the bed, regaling Greg with slightly exaggerated stories of the case they had just finished overnight, while Nick held a paper cup of broth to the tech's lips. Greg's hands still trembled slightly from weakness, and he glanced thankfully at Nick.
He couldn't have a better team, Grissom thought to himself, leaning against the bathroom doorframe, watching the tender scene with a slight smile. Sometimes it felt like he had a bunch of kids to take care of. Even with all of their differing emotions and weaknesses and strengths, they were all family.
And all the money in Vegas couldn't buy that.