By: happy-harper13
Pairing: Nick/Greg & Cath/Warrick & Gil/Sara
Rating: R
Warnings: violence, rape/non-con, character death, WiP
Note: There is a reason that the title and chapters are in Spanish. On that subject, I can promise two things: a) it'll make sense later why so much is in Spanish, and b) you won't have to know Spanish to understand the story.
Summary: Four robbers return to the scene of a casino heist, resulting in a brutal hostage situation for Nick, Greg and Catherine. Only two CSIs make it out, and the entire team struggles with the aftermath, uncovering mysteries -- including a tragic love story of years past -- in the process.
***
Salvar: to save, to overcome, to preserve, to rescue, to cover, to pass
Salvarse: to survive, to escape
.................................
Catherine groaned, looking at the caller ID. It was, really, inevitable that only one person would have this impeccably bad timing. There was one person in Catherine's life who consistently operated on his own time schedule.
There was no need to bother with formal greetings. "What's up, Gil?"
"Catherine. We need to talk."
"When?"
"Now would be preferable."
Catherine nodded into her phone, looking out over the congested road in front of her. "Given rush hour, I should have at least 15 to 20 minutes to talk here." So much for chilling out to some oldies in the car.
"The case is being called off."
"Case? But Wendy and Rick are already there -- it looked like there was plenty more to process, and there --" Grissom's somber silence on the other end told Catherine the whole story. "That case."
"Yes. That case."
Catherine choked back a sob.
That case. Victim: Gregory Hojem Sanders.
Catherine pulled her car up to the side of the road, unable to take the call any other way. "What happened?"
"Limited resources. They said searching for a dead body isn't worth Fed resources, especially with budget cuts. Bruce Jared, the casino owner, didn't push it. Apparently, the Fed investigation was costing him more with customers than he even lost in the heist. Or something like that."
Impersonal politics cut knives through the case, which itself was all but impersonal.
Catherine cried and remembered.
Detective Caveliere stood at the entrance to the casino, an impatient look on his face.
"It's about time you got here, Willows," he remarked with a presumptuous and abused air, as he checked his watch for what was at least the tenth time since Catherine had pulled up outside the casino.
Catherine knew that Caveliere was one of the more ambitious detectives, and certainly didn't like to degrade himself by babysitting CSIs. Nonetheless, a supervisory LVPD employee -- of any capacity, be it CSI or Police officer -- was required for the high profile case at all times.
Catherine shrugged off the comment, getting straight to business. "Which room?"
"Stokes and Sanders are downstairs processing. Take a right at the elevator, walk down the first hallway and take a left. Then another left after two doors."
Catherine nodded, quickly storing the information away. "Thanks, Detective."
Catherine found the room quickly, and immediately found that she had, in fact, been in it before, back in the day.
A chuckle escaped the room. Catherine smiled, and tip-toed toward the door.
She could hear the conversation through the crack in the door.
"And then Meg says that she doesn't need avocados. She's got Thanksgiving dinner under control."
"Greggo -- why would you offer your friend avocados as an ingredient for Thanksgiving dinner? No wonder Jan and Dave never let you cook."
"Oh come off it. My mommy does too let me cook."
"Greg. The only thing you can cook is Ramen."
"I can make toast."
"Yes. Your burnt toast always makes my mornings -- or should I say late nights -- when it burns at four in the morning, setting off the fire alarm when I'm halfway through sleepin' on my day off."
Greg scowled. "I couldn't get it out of the oven."
"That's why you put toast in the toaster, genius. Not the oven."
"You mixed up your subject and object there, jocko."
Nick rolled his eyes at the pitifully attempted diversion.
"Also, I can't put it in the toaster with cheese already on it."
Nick shook his head, stifling a chuckle at Greg's antics. "You're a piece of work, man."
"It's not my fault it fell!"
"Well your mommy told me to watch out for anything you bake. The first time I met her, she sat me down, leaned in, and she said, 'Now Nicky –‘"
Catherine could see Greg utilizing his puppy dog eyes on this one.
This was always when the argument ended -- and when Greg won.
It seemed like the right time to interrupt the arguing duo. She had always wondered how their apartment-sharing arrangement worked out. On one hand, the two seemed like polar opposites -- Greg, the zany, unpredictable goofball; Nick, the conservative control freak. Now, she at least knew -- not that she was surprised -- that Greg was not the one that did the cooking. No surprise there, she thought to herself with a smirk.
She chuckled yet again at the thought of the oddball pair together, doing whatever it was they did in their apartment. Sometimes, she began to suspect that they might even be more than just friends, but then Greg would just start flirting with her, or with Sara, or even sometimes Wendy. And Nick, of course -- rumors abounded, all espousing the Texan's heterosexuality. And then, more importantly, there was the fact that they were Greg and Nick, her coworkers, family, brother and/or son figures, depending on how immature either one was at the given moment...
Glancing down at her watch, she realized time was ticking as she listened to the pair's amusing banter.
Time to get back to work, and off the speculation mill she, as a naturally curious -- and possibly overly gossipy -- woman, was apt to running.
She knocked on the door, and saw Nick jump slightly at the surprise.
"Cath," Greg said, looking up. "About time you showed up. Warrick was keeping you busy, I assume?" he asked with a smirk.
Nick hit him lightly on the head, and rolled his eyes. Warrick and Catherine had been working a scene out in the desert together when Catherine was called in to the casino instead.
"Ow!" Greg said, faking pain.
"For your information, Gregory Hojem Sanders --" Catherine started.
"Oh, now I know I'm in for a talk down. Usin' my full name now, Cath?"
"Yes, Sanders, I am. For your information, lab rat" -- Nick guffawed, and Greg blushed -- "Warrick and I are just professional colleagues. Unlike some people," she said, smirking as Greg hit Nick back, on the side of the head. She had meant it as a joke, but Greg and Nick exchanged knowing, and blushing, glances.
She raised an eyebrow.
"Inside joke," Nick mumbled, shaking his head and chastising Greg with expressive chocolate eyes.
Catherine nodded into the phone before hearing the dial tone. No matter how many social skills Sara taught him, Grissom would never be one for polite formalities. Catherine chuckled dryly at the prospect of Sara Sidle teaching anyone else the art of social skills.
Her chuckling ended when the topic of the phone conversation forced itself back into her head. She gently closed her cell phone and silently reached for the steering wheel, biting her lip in some combination of chagrin and exhaustion. As if on autopilot, she set her foot down on the gas again and followed familiar road lines through the light late afternoon traffic.
Other cars -- pimped-out Mercedes and rickety 70's Chevys -- were driving side-by-side, as was quintessentially Vegas, but she hardly noticed the whir of colors surrounding her. She drove by like a zombie, because all that her mind was willing to see was that same miserable night.
A car behind her honked. Normally, she would have flicked the driver off. These days, with the significant deficit in personnel on grave shift, she spent most of her driving time in a county-owned Denali, complete with sirens. Many people seemed to think that driving such a vehicle made it more necessary to behave in a polite, good-standard-setting manner. Catherine Willows saw it as an extra reason to flick people off. No obnoxious civilian driver was going to tell her how to drive. In the Denali, she was the law. Or something like that. The flashing lights that normally rested above her gave her legitimacy, and it was a mighty stupid driver that would complain.
Staring down at the speedometer, however, she realized that this particular driver had a point. She was going 20 on a 40mph road. Recognizing her own distraction, she swerved onto the shoulder, hoping she'd only need a few moments to get herself together.
Catherine was at home in the casino. After all, she had grown up around them. Sam Braun, even if Catherine hadn't known it then, had been her father, and always a significant figure in her life.
The inside of the room being dusted was not one unfamiliar to her. She remembered vaguely an old tryst with the son of another casino magnate -- one Sam hadn't approved of -- taking place, if not in this room, then in one nearby. The Supremes had set the stage for that 1978 tryst with the sweet chords of 'Reflections' ringing on in the background.
With that memory in mind -- the sweet tingle of lips, soft, young skin and the restlessness and optimism of youth -- Catherine couldn't help but hum along as she dusted for prints. But even sweeter chords stuck in her mind, and as she reached for the higher registers of 'Save Me,' she was interrupted by applause.
"Way to go, Aretha! You still got it!"
Catherine couldn't help but chuckle at Greg's unquenchable exuberance. He would always be a child at heart, she thought, chuckling as she dusted the darkening golden floor. The floor was tiled, and had aged with grace.
"Do you think Lily used to change here?" Greg asked.
Catherine chuckled at the thought of her mother as a showgirl diva, rushing off between acts to sneak in time with Sam. Catherine was stuck between disgusted and amused that she and her mother might have made out in the same room.
"I wouldn't be surprised," she said with a chuckle. "I know I probably did."
Greg raised an eyebrow, looking up intently. "But you never worked here, I thought. I thought you worked the French Palace?"
Catherine chuckled, knowingly. "Doesn't mean I didn't spend quality time in the backrooms of the Tangiers."
Greg laughed. "Sam must have had quite a time with that."
"Eh. He couldn't complain, seeing as he hadn't exactly been playing 'daddy.'"
"Especially if Lily was doing the same thing?"
Catherine chuckled again. "It's a bit odd to hear you referring to my mother by her first name, Greg."
"Well, I've been interviewing her a lot for my book. She comes up plenty in the book, or at least the draft I have done right now. And I can't exactly refer to her as 'my lovely coworker Catherine Willows' mother.'"
"Yeah," Catherine said, still chuckling -- she spent a lot of time laughing around Greg, at least when he was in his happy, enthusiastic mood. "She might be offended by the connotations about her age."
"I hate to break it to you, Cath, or rather to your mother, but a lot of the book is about the 40s and 50s. So I think any reader will figure out that she's not a young and chipper 20."
Catherine nodded, still chuckling. Greg really knew how to lighten the mood.
"Then again," Greg continued. "Lily Flynn still seems young and chipper at heart."
Catherine sighed, shaking her head. Work was passing quicker with talk of the old glory days of Vegas. With Greg's banter, she could almost picture her mother preparing backstage to go on, with Sam clapping in the front row. Except now she pictured Greg there too, carefully writing down the details.
"This is kind of weird, though," Nick suddenly announced. "You're talkin' about her mom, Greg. Don't you think that's a tad bit wrong?" The Texan's taste was significantly more conservative -- or so Catherine had thought.
Greg sighed. "Okay. Topic change. What do you suggest, Cowboy?"
Nick gave Greg a warning glance.
Catherine picked up the slack. "This case is a joke."
Nick looked up baffled, though Greg's look read of understanding.
"What makes you say that?" Nick asked.
"Because Cath is a funny person," Greg replied, matter-of-factly. Nick rolled his eyes again.
"Thanks for the flattery," Catherine said with a wink.
"Well, no denying the truth. But you owe me one." Greg winked, with more exaggeration, back.
Catherine chuckled yet again. "Sure thing. And you wish," she laughed, shaking her head at Greg's goofy forwardness.
Nick sighed heavily.
Catherine could see the wheels turning in Nick's head. What about she had little idea. The Texan had always had that aptitude for getting lost somewhere else. Sometimes it was super-focus... and sometimes it was just annoying.
Nick shook his head, in response to some debate waging in his mind.
"Nick?" Catherine seemed to pick up on his distraction. "You either think something different about the case, or you think I'm not funny," she said. "I sincerely hope it's the former... Or you're just stuck in a big hole of Texan thought."
Greg stifled a chuckle.
"Um... nah, your humor's fine, Cath. I mean, at your age, there's only so many jokes you could tell."
Catherine pouted, though her eyebrow was still raised, indicating that she did in fact catch the humor.
"So it's the case?" Greg, Catherine could see, had caught Nick distracted again.
"Yeah. I mean, why is it a joke?" Nick looked up curiously.
"Politics," Catherine and Greg said, almost in sync, with Greg answering only a millisecond before Catherine. "See," he said, turning to Catherine, with the flirtatious cheese obviously turned on. "We, my French Palace dearie, are obviously of the same kind." He wiggled his eyebrows and Catherine laughed again.
"You're such a flirt," Nick said, shaking his head at Greg, albeit with an appreciative glance.
"Anyways," Nick said, clearing his throat. "What do you mean by politics?"
"Think about it, Nicky," Greg said. "Why else would Catherine be stuck on this case?"
"Ah." It dawned on Nick. "This used to be Catherine's dad's casino... So this case must be important to the under sheriff or Ecklie then."
"Not even," said Catherine. "The sheriff. New owner of the Tangiers -- Mr. Jared -- is a big donor."
"Ah."
"This is ridiculous," Greg scoffed.
Nick raised an eyebrow. Greg responded, rolling his eyes at Nick's glare.
"I mean, not that I mind your company, Cath."
Nick's glare remained and Greg gave up and continued with his point.
"It's just, it endangers everyone when this type of thing happens. Protocol is there for a reason."
"But it is politics, Greg. It makes the world go round sometimes."
"Yeah, yeah. I understand. It's just frustrating. I mean, you're the big protocol guy -- the bureaucrat. I thought you'd have a bigger problem with it."
Catherine could see Greg -- normally mellow -- growing testy, for a reason she couldn't discern.
"Nah," Nick replied, with a tone of defeat, almost as if he were conceding something to Greg. "I do get your problem with it. It's just hard, I guess."
Greg nodded, apparently appeased enough for now. "I know what you mean."
Catherine looked at the two questioningly. She sighed. "Well whatever happens, happens. We're stuck here, on this case. It's always the sheriff's case, ultimately."
Greg nodded in acquiescence. "At least it's a cool place. And Nick-- Nick and I" -- He paused, apparently close to calling Nick something else -- "would probably have ended up working this case whether or not politics was involved. This way, we get a head start, and the help of an expert," he said, excitement growing in his voice. "And, this way, we get a little history lesson, from said expert, on one or more back rooms of one of the stalwart icons of Vegas lore."
A few moments passed, and Catherine realized that she was still not moving.
Twenty minutes had passed on the dashboard clock in front of her. The sky had grown a shade darker, as heavy granite clouds nudged forward, approaching the haze above her car.
Twenty minutes gone and forgotten on the highway.
Lindsey had most likely spent another twenty minutes on wasting time. Wasting time seemed to be Lindsey's chief preoccupation. So no change there, in the last twenty minutes.
Grissom, most likely, was sitting in his office, avoiding paperwork, as he likely had been doing twenty minutes prior. Catherine smiled at the knowledge that she was not the only person lost in time.
Twenty minutes later, Catherine still needed to get home. So did Greg, but that would never happen. How much could really change in twenty minutes?
"Do you think there might be any secret passageways here?" Greg asked, raising eyebrows excitedly. "Maybe that's where the bulk of the fight took place."
"That's possible," Nick responded. "Catherine?"
She looked up.
Nick continued. "You probably know this place better than we do."
Catherine chuckled. "You don't know the half of it. Although I'm sure historian Sanders might be coming close about now."
"I'm honored that you might think so," Greg said, beaming.
"I'll go check for more rooms. Greggo -- you wanna help?" she asked.
"Sure thing!" he replied, still enthusiastic.
Catherine looked around the room for any obvious secret passageways. Then again, she thought, secret passageways weren't supposed to be obvious. Finally, she found something -- a door hidden behind an old wardrobe.
The room was dark. Judging by the clothes and other items strewn across the floor, it looked to be a popular spot for employees to dump things. She could make out clothes, curled and rumpled haphazardly.
Catherine started looking through the items, mostly old clothes, piled on the ground.
She even recognized one similar to the leotard her mother, Lily Flynn, had worn during her days at the Rampart.
A silver ring on the ground looked to have belonged to one of the head honchos, and, judging by the insignia, could very well have been Gus 'Da Beauty' Finkle's.
In the right-hand corner of the room, facing her, were newer looking items, judging by the more modern cuts and relative lack of dust. A shattered old Margarita glass laid next to it, along with what looked to be a disintegrating lime peel. Though she knew it probably held nothing useful, she walked over to bag the lime and the pieces of glass closest to the rim -- the ones from which she could more likely extract DNA.
She turned around again, looking to an even older showgirl uniform. Judging by the more conservative style and fading ruby coloring, it looked to be decades old. Real rubies encrusted on the waist were the only items not yet fading or rusty. Looking more closely, though, she realized one ruby was missing. She reached down to bag it as well. A robber -- or thieving employee that chanced upon the room -- could have easily been the one to pry the missing ruby from the waistband. It was, after all, the central and largest ruby on the band, and likely the one least apt to fall off.
What a piece of Vegas history, she thought, upon surveying the room yet again. Feeling a sudden burst of benevolence -- and Greg's enthusiasm spreading like Christmas cheer -- she called out. "Hey, Greggo! I think I found something you'll like!"
"Who's Greggo?" asked one of the newer looking rumpled piles of clothes.
The next thing she heard was a gunshot. She felt the vibrations of her walkie-talkie as she reached for the sudden pain in her left shoulder.
She vaguely registered masked figures filtering into the room.
Catherine didn't bother looking at the clock on the dashboard again. Time would pass at its own rate, by its own standards. She was not one to control it, as much as she would have liked to.
She stared down at the phone again, banishing the memories of a gruesome time, its brutality exacerbated by the minute.
Time ticked slowly and she didn't forget.
Impersonal politics cut knives through the case, which itself was all but impersonal.
Sitting on the side of the road, phone clutched angrily in hand, Catherine cried and remembered, letting another twenty minutes slip over her, unheeded and ignored.
***
LA CANGURAAt 13, Catherine had not been a natural babysitter. Her personality type was always geared toward more intense, social endeavors. To be honest, small children had annoyed her at that age. In her free time, she had much preferred the joys of roaming clubs, doing nails and necking whichever older boy was her flavor of the week that given day.
If she recalled correctly, the flavor of the week that week had been Harrison DuPree, a high-schooler from up the block.
The idea of playing with toy trucks alongside a kindergartner was less than what she had in mind. Nonetheless, Tam Jared quickly won her over. Or, rather, 'Owen Tommas Jawed,' as he most often introduced himself, quickly won her over. He was a precocious child if ever she saw one.
His personality was exuberant and flamboyant, even as his presentation was, at least for a five-year-old, quite flawless. His auburn hair was combed neatly into rows, and he had a habit that Catherine normally only associated with angsty or ditzy teenage girls -- twirling what little hair he had around his fingers.
Mr. Jared, a close associate of Sam Braun's, had been looking for a babysitter, and Catherine had been a logical choice.
"I is Tammie." Auburn hair gave way to a friendly smile peering up at thirteen-year-old Catherine Flynn. Dark chestnut eyes beamed at her.
She couldn't help but smile back.
Bruce Jared cleared his throat. "We went over this, Owen. Your name is Owen."
"No," said the little boy, scowling. "I is pwaying pwetend wight now. So I is Tammie." He pointed to a worn looking poster. "Wike her."
Mr. Jared rolled his eyes.
"I'll be back at 11," Mr. Jared said, directing his gaze back toward Catherine. "I have a meeting with Sam," he said, as if knowing Catherine, wise beyond her years already, would understand the meaning of this. Catherine nodded.
Mr. Jared shot a last warning stare at the impish five-year-old before walking out the door.
The door shut, and Catherine barely heard the light, quick footsteps darting towards her before she felt a small, warm hand snatch hers, with the small amount of strength it could muster.
She looked down to see a five-megahertz smile, only obstructed by two missing teeth, both to the right, on his top jaw. "Wanna pway?"
"Sure, Owen."
He scowled. The teenager tried not to giggle at the adorable little glare that looked as if it were out of some comical Hallmark card.
"My name not Owen. Is Tammie."
"Tammie? So who calls you that?" she asked cautiously, but curiously.
His little scowl deepened and this time Catherine could not resist chuckling.
"Whas so funny?" he asked, attention immediately diverted.
She held back a lighter laugh. "Nothing."
His expression lightened and he beamed up at Catherine once again.
"So what do people normally call you?"
"My fwiend Bobby calls me Tam. Is not Tammie -- he says it is not a girly name, but is not Owen either."
"How come you don't like the name Owen?"
"Is icky," was the only response she got. Catherine stifled another laugh at the simple response. "Awso, Owen is Sam Braun. He owens da ksino."
Catherine chuckled, realizing what the boy meant to say. "You means he owns it?" she asked.
"Isn't dat what I said?"
Catherine chuckled again, resisting the urge to try and explain it to the boy. "So, Tam, what do you want to play?"
"Hmm." He furrowed his brow again. "Kitkat and Baba want to pway."
"Do they?" Catherine asked.
Her question wasn't answered, however, as Tam darted up the stairs. He returned immediately with two worn-looking stuffed animals.
"What ith yaw name?"
"My name?" Catherine asked, leaning down with a grin to speak to the small child.
Tam giggled. "Yeth! Of courth, your name! Baba wasn't asking Kitkat!"
Catherine, once again, couldn't help but smile warmly back. "I'm Catherine."
"Katwin," Tam repeated, nodding in concentration. "Mmkay." He turned to the stuffed animals, bringing a small blue cat out, and almost hitting Catherine in the head with it. "Kitkat, meet Katwin." He turned back to Catherine. "Katwin, meet Kitkat."
"Hi Kitkat," Catherine said, still hunched over to stay on Tam's eye level and smile at the worn, purple stuffed dog now in front of her. One of the dog's ears was falling apart, and his nose had long lost its pinkness. She could tell it was a loved stuffed animal.
She thought she was doing a decent job so far, so Tam's scowl came as unexpected.
"Dat's not Kitkat. Dat's Baba. You hasn't been intwoduked yet."
"Ah," Catherine replied, nodding at the blue cat. "It's nice to meet you too, Baba."
Tam replied for Baba. "Baba is gwad to meet you toos, Katwin."
"Well," Catherine said, doing her best imitation of Lily Flynn's classy friends. "I'm pleased to meet you too, Baba."
Tam giggled.
Catherine smiled. "What's so funny?"
Tam leaned in to whisper into her ear. "Dey wike you too."
"Aw, thanks," Catherine said, smiling yet again. The boy was adorable.
"Dey's my best fwiends."
"Are they? How long have you three been friends?"
"Foweveh."
"Forever, huh?"
"Dat's how long wove and fwiendship aw supposed to be, wight?"
Catherine was taken aback by the comment. She had never quite considered it that way, or that much. In Vegas, love was always fleeting. Even at her age, she could sense a connection between her mother and Sam Braun -- one that had probably used to have been love, but certainly no longer was. The only true love she ever saw was that of money.
From what she had seen, man's -- and woman's -- love of money was unquenchable.
She stared down with mirth at the boy, hoping he retained the ability to truly love.
She wondered if it was even possible in the given day and age. She had seen her mother, and her mother's "friends," and virtually all around her, go through phases of love, romance and friendship, but, in the end, all died out. Even parents' love wore out eventually, as she'd seen in all the fleeing fathers of various friends. Love and friendship meant little to Catherine Flynn, even at thirteen.
"Wight?"
Catherine paused for a moment, before forcing a smile at the small, innocent boy staring up at her, searching her face for an answer with an expression far too old for his years. She wouldn't spoil the poor kid's delusions just yet. That was time's job only. Hopefully, he would get a few years more of such delusions before the usual wave of cynicism hit.
"Right."
He stared back up with a smile, one that had so much friendship and love yet to give to the world that would rush to meet him.
Catherine looked around carefully, grateful that the Lab had been largely deserted. She peered over her shoulder at lab techs immersed in work.
Nick was reviewing a folder of evidence, as he'd been doing for the past hour. Wendy was out on her first proficiency, with Warrick overseeing her work. Wendy was going to be a great CSI; Catherine could tell.
Catherine knew she herself should, hypothetically, still be off the clock. Which meant she had time for what she really needed to do.
All she could see in her mind was the sorrow in Nick's eyes that night and every night after, whenever he dropped his guard. She knew she had to do something, no matter how limited the possibilities, to make it better for him.
The sheriff had already given up on getting Greg closure, but that didn't mean Catherine couldn't try. Even if the scene itself was inaccessible to her, she knew something no one else -- probably not even the Feds -- knew. If she couldn't find Greg's corpse, she could at least find out why he was killed.
Strolling the aisles, she finally found the box. Fortunately for her, the case she had in mind had remained under the watch of LVPD, not the Feds, most likely because of the Jareds' connections to the city and all aspects of the municipal bureaucracy. Reaching through the boxes of cold cases, she pulled out the file. She was relieved that it wasn't ridden with rodent bite marks after all these years.
Jared, Owen "Tam" Thomas; DOD 9/9/1985
Checking around her and hiding the box under her jacket, she hurried home.
Tam Jared had died still believing in love.
Wendy Simms stared down intently at the floorboard.
It was polished, but had clearly been worn down over at least a decade. Its shiny mahogany finish reflected the shadows cast by a dresser and bed, the only other items in the room.
The dresser was also weathered by the years. The second handle, on the right side, was missing. Judging by the cracking wood surrounding the space vacated by the handle, it looked to have been yanked out with force. Wendy took a step closer. She glanced down at the floor. No handle.
Hmmm... where could it be?
She opened the drawer underneath it and found her answer, along with the murder weapon covered in blood.
She carefully bagged both, crossing her fingers that there would be fingerprints on at least one of the items. Her predecessor had taught her the art of superstition. He had said his grandma, Nana Olaf, was a psychic.
She sighed.
Greg. If it weren't for him, she wouldn't even have this job, or at least the opportunity to get it. Without him, there wouldn't have even been a vacancy for the DNA technician spot. The other available job for a CSI had been Sara's -- not for a CSI 1.
She sighed again. How eerie it was that she was replacing Greg yet again. But there was no comparison between the two replacements -- one had been prompted by Greg's departure into the field, the other by his departure into... nowhere.
It was so weird, to be entering the field under these circumstances. She'd expected it to be a celebration. But this was no cause for celebration. It almost made her second-guess her decision. But, at the same time, she knew Greg wouldn't want her to give up on her dreams because of his death. They hadn't even been that close, but she knew Greg wasn't the kind of guy that would want his death to prompt sadness. Then again, sadness was all it prompted.
It would have been one thing if Greg had died of a heart attack, but the way he had died -- bleeding in the arms of his best friend, as Catherine and the vicious perps looked on, before being dragged out, alone, into the parking lot of the casino and shot, execution style, leaving Nick and Catherine with memories they dared not share -- that was no cause for anything but sorrow.
She willed her thoughts away from Greg, and sighed. She wouldn't need celebration if -- when -- she finished her proficiencies.
She heard a sneeze behind her.
"Bless you."
"Eh, thanks. Sure is dusty in here," Warrick said, sniffling.
"You're telling me. I've been in this room for the last hour."
"Hey, that's the job," Warrick said, smiling. "Wouldn't expect anything less from a good CSI --"
"You mean from Greg?"
They both cringed.
"Sorry," she quickly said.
"It's not your fault. No worries. It's rough living up to someone's shadow."
Wendy nodded, thankful to be understood. She'd been living in Greg's shadow for long enough already. Glancing at her watch, she stared back at Warrick. "Don't you have a date?"
Warrick looked at his own watch – or, rather, scowled at it. "Yeah. Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"Yes," he conceded.
"Shouldn't you be heading out then?"
"And leave you here by yourself? Nuh uh."
Wendy raised an eyebrow. "I don't need protection, or help... I mean -- no offense -- it's just I don't want you to miss your date because I'm taking forever at a crime scene."
"That's sweet, but no. I'm fine. I don't leave rookies at crime scenes by themselves," he replied, adding quietly, "At least not anymore."
Wendy nodded. "Holly Gribbs?"
Wendy had heard through the infamous lab rat grapevine of the move that had almost gotten Warrick fired eight years ago, and the young CSI that had died on the operating table, largely as a result of his mistake.
Warrick nodded back somberly. "Yup." Trying to alleviate the mood, he added, "And you're not even taking forever at this crime scene. Not movin' any faster than the average CSI. This job is about bein' careful, not about rushin' through things. You don't want to miss any evidence."
"Sure."
"Now I'll stop distracting you, as I can see you've got somethin' there," he said, looking down meaningfully.
"The knife?"
"Well, yeah. That's good too. But that's easy. I was referring to the hair you were looking at."
The hair. I was looking at... Huh?
Wendy looked down, spotting a thick blond hair blending in somehow with the mahogany floorboards.
"The hair," she said, smiling back at Warrick appreciatively and reaching for her tweezers. "Thanks, Warrick."
"No problem, kiddo."
A ringing phone interrupted their heart-to-heart. Warrick reached into his pocket and stared at the screen of his phone, rolling his eyes. He moved for the closet, opening it and inspecting it, before closing it again.
"What are you doing?"
"I've gotta go take this phone call somewhere else. It's personal."
Wendy nodded, understanding that much. "I meant the closet."
Warrick grunted, knowing that's what she had meant. "Just wanna check before I leave. Double-check. That there's no suspect left here."
"Ah." Though that is what the police that cleared the scene were for...
She watched as Warrick glanced under the small bed in the middle of the room. When he reached for the dresser, Wendy knew he had done enough.
"Warrick." She reached for his hand. "They can't hide in a dresser. It's too small. There are drawers. Unless you can divide yourself into four drawer-sized pieces, or you're small enough to fit into one of those -- in which case you'd be a midget and I think I'd be able to still win a fight with you -- then I don't think I, or you, have anything to worry about."
Warrick released the drawer reluctantly and slapped off his latex gloves, reached for the phone -- which had long past stopped ringing -- and walked out of the room.
Wendy reached for the hair, at last, with the tweezers she'd finally fished out of the kit. Grissom had lent her Sara's old kit until she became a CSI and got her own.
She squinted at the hair as she reached down. She had thought that, if there was anything she'd be prepared for after DNA, it would be picking up pieces of hair with tweezers. Yet the stupid thing fell out of her tweezers.
Stupid resistant blond hair. She'd always hated blonds. Not all blonds. Sofia Curtis, who'd worked on graveyard for a while, had been perfectly pleasant. Then again, she'd been a dirty blonde. Greg had been a blond, but it seemed to be entirely the work of dye. She laughed to herself at the memories of Greg's many hilarious hairstyles.
Wendy chided herself for her rather fickle, and definitely superficial, prejudice. She hadn't hated blonds until her boyfriend during her freshman year of college had cheated on her with a blonde. Lacey, Lindsay... something like that, Wendy thought, struggling for the name. She had just called her "Bimbo Barbie" as she threw a thong at the girl and slammed the door.
Wendy grimaced at the unfortunate memory. Remembering the task at hand, she hoped that Warrick's love life was going better than hers.
I guess not, she thought with a sad smirk. Focusing in on any sign from a
nearby room as to how Warrick's phone call was going, she could make out the sound of arguing.
"Come on, Amy! I told you I couldn't promise. ... No -- no. That's what I said. I said my work was likely to get in the way. ... I can't just leave a crime scene! ... Amy," he said, sounding as if he were trying to calm down. "I told you when we started dating that my schedule is. Defined. By. My. Job. I can't change that. When I've got a case, I've got a case. ... Sorry. ... Fine. ... I guess it's gotta be this way. ... Bye, Amy. ... Okay, I won't be callin' ya again. ... Yes, this is goodbye."
Wendy's guilt grew with every word, and she wasn't sure whether to be relieved or not when the conversation ended. She prayed something would get better in that conversation. She didn't want her slowness at the crime scene to be the cause of Warrick breaking up with his girlfriend. Fortunately, her prayers were answered.
"Fine. I'll be there. ... Yeah. I'll check with Cath. ... No -- no! Cath and I are just --" Warrick heaved a frustrated sigh. "I'm calling my female colleague, who is going to come take over for me at the scene. She's one of my coworkers, and you need to deal with it."
Wendy could tell Warrick had had this conversation before. He and Catherine had always been close -- there were always rumors going around about the two of them -- and she could understand why Warrick's girlfriend would see Catherine as a major threat. The redhead was a former stripper, and still had the body, but way more charm.
She could hear Warrick hanging up, and got back to work as he headed back down the hallway. He didn't seem to notice the little progress she'd made since his exit.
"I'm gonna call Cath and see if she can cover for me here."
"Lady troubles?"
Warrick raised his eyebrows in frustration, as if trying to clear his head. "Yup."
"You could also ask Nick. I'm pretty sure he's already finished his case."
Of course he has, Warrick thought, almost in awe. In the last month, Nick barely seemed to leave the lab. His clearance rate was pushing into uncharted waters of success. On the other hand, though, he wasn't the person Warrick would have mentoring Wendy. All the sleep deprivation seemed to have deprived Nick of all social skills.
Wendy nodded. "You sure you don't want to leave now?"
"Nah. I'll wait for Cath to get here," he said as he reached for his phone again.
Catherine tried not to roll her eyes at the repetitive interrogations.
"How's school going?"
"How old are you now?"
"I remember when you were still in diapers!"
"My, my, what a pretty girl you're growing into!" That one, of course, had come from one of Sam's more drunk Christmas party guests. If Sam had heard the comment, that particular guest would have been out of the house in an instant.
Nonetheless, the most amusing had been the cheek-pinching ex-showgirl. Showgirl make-up had always been extreme, which was one of the many reasons it was unwise to keep up the showgirl act years later, when one's hands and eyes weren't quite as steady and discerning. Bertha Torrence was very much an example of this. Her eyebrows -- a dull scarlet which contrasted sharply with her hair, which was now dyed platinum -- were drawn on shakily, with drops and rises like a graph.
She leaned up to pinch Catherine's cheeks, a gesture Cath found particularly ironic, given the height difference and the connotations belied in the age-old act of cheek-pinching. Nonetheless, Catherine took it with grace, poise and a humorous smile.
That was, of course, the moment that Tam interceded. "Aw, come on, Bertie. Leave poor Cath alone!" His smile was so winsome and his bubbly personality so inherently genuine that even Bertha couldn't take offense.
"Okay then," she replied sheepishly. "I'll leave Lily's girl" -- as she always called Catherine -- "to enjoy the company of you silly young folks."
"Well, I'm only one young folk. And Cath's gettin' up there, ya know?"
Bertha couldn't help but laugh as Cath herself rolled her eyes. "Thanks Tam."
"No problem," he replied, smile still intact as they walked away. He reached up to pat her head. "You know, Bertie's a pretty cool lady."
"Is she now?"
"You should hear her stories."
"Sure," Catherine said, still unimpressed.
"That was a lame introduction."
Catherine paused her walking to look at him, curiously. "What would the appropriate one be?"
The response was not a sentence, or even a word, but an enthusiastic, warm hug. "Catherine! It's so awesome to see you!" The smile in his eyes was real.
"You too, kid."
He chuckled. "I won't take offense at that." He grabbed her hand, walking faster, no direction clearly in mind. "But how's it been?! How are you?! I haven't seen you in wayy too long!"
His enthusiasm, not for the first or last time, lit up Catherine's face. "Pretty darn good. You?"
"Hey now. That's not an answer. But fine," he said, rolling his eyes. "I'll go first."
They headed upstairs, away from the adults. "Life. is. good," he said, eyes rolling off into blissful day dreams.
Catherine watched happily as he railed away about the latest project he was working on in art class, and how much he hated gym class, and how his best friends, Gracie and Marta, were going with him to a Frankie Valli concert that he was really excited for. Coming from anyone else, the words and ideas leaving his mouth could easily have turned into a weary list. But, coming out of Tam's, they were a gleeful procession.
His head bobbed up and down, his smile so excited and open. He always reminded Catherine of an eager, lovable puppy dog.
He calmed down briefly. Catherine jabbed sarcastically. "Is that all?"
"Nope," he responded, smile lighting up. He was already dashing down to the stairs in excitement. "But I want to go check out that gingerbread palace downstairs."
"Palace, ay?"
He nodded eagerly.
"Well, that make sense. Sam Braun never does anything halfway."
He nodded. "This party is amazing."
"Or at least the food." Catherine paused for a moment, thinking. "Or, rather, in the words of my mother, 'Sam Braun neva' did nothin' halfway."
Tam cracked up at the imitation. "Man, Lily really does sound like that."
"Lily, eh? Since when are you calling my mother by her first name?"
Tam furrowed his brows. "What am I supposed to call her?" He broke out into a smile. "Probably not mother.â€
Catherine rolled her eyes. "No. I don't know. I haven't given it quite that much thought."
Tam merely laughed again.
"Willows."
"Hey Cath. It's me --"
"Weren't you supposed to be on that date tonight?"
He was always astonished that she kept such good track of things. "Yeah, that's actually what this is about --"
Catherine sighed, but not with annoyance, more just acknowledgement of the situation she had pretty much known would be inevitable. "I'll be over in twenty."
"Thanks. I owe you one."
"Consider it payback for helpin' me out with Nicky earlier today."
"That was just a debt to Nick."
"Well, then consider it payback for something."
Warrick chuckled, his mind rolling over the many times they had covered for each other in the last few years. "Sure. See ya there -- err, here."
Catherine chuckled back. "Yep. See ya soon."
Catherine had just gotten home when she got the call. She was just glad that she had time to put the ziti in first. She had wanted to make her famous Turkey a la Tangiers that night -- it was a good comfort food, and it reminded her of the good old days. It was also a nice treat for Lindsey. But she knew she wasn't going to hold up Warrick's date any longer over a batch of turkey, even if it was with that Amy girl.
Catherine didn't know why she disliked Amy, though her brief interactions with the young woman reminded her too much of Warrick's ex-wife, affectionately dubbed "Yoko" by Greg. "Yoko" really was the nicest name that could have been applied to Tina Brown.
Catherine could feel Amy's suspicious look when they'd met, and she knew that those who were most suspicious of their significant others cheating tended to be the most likely to do it themselves.
And she didn't want to see one of her best friends get his heart broken again. Her other 'best friend' -- if adults could really apply such terms -- Gil Grissom, had already been abandoned by the love of his life, and she wasn't going to see Warrick suffer similarly. Catherine was a tough, strong and independent woman, and she'd been forced on many an occasion to devote her energy to looking after herself solely, but she couldn't help but be protective of her best friends, especially Warrick. Despite his tough exterior -- which she thought spoke more of his years of poker experience than his actual personality -- he was a sensitive soul, and she didn't want to see him go through the ringer again.
Hell, she thought. Enough of this team is already there. Certainly Nicky... and probably Gil to a lesser extent. And then there's Sara, not even a part of the team anymore... And Greg.
Her heart broke a little bit every time she thought of Greg, but even more when she thought of Nick. From her own personal experiences, she couldn't help but believe that the person left behind had it the worst. Even with all the suffering Greg had done in his last day -- And there was a lot of that -- she still sympathized more with Nick. There were few examples of excruciation that compared to waking up knowing that the person you loved was dead. And she knew she hadn't loved Eddie the way Nick loved Greg. Hell, we were divorced when he died, she sighed. She really couldn't even imagine Nick's pain. What a nightmare.
She shook her head, finishing pouring the ziti into the boiling water and making her way back into the living room.
"Hey Linds!" She didn't even wait for a response. "Make sure to turn off the ziti when the timer goes off. Okay?"
A muffled noise from the teen crouched over the computer, doing what Cath could only hope was homework, sufficed for a yes.
Her trip out the door was interrupted by a question. "Something to do with Warrick?"
"Yep," Catherine yelled back as she propped open the door.
Checking her watch, she sighed with relief. She was still on schedule to be there within the twenty minutes promised.
She hurried out the door, checking her slick ponytail only briefly in the mirror.
Tam answered the door himself. Catherine barely had time to speak before she was embraced in a hug. She was surprised to feel almost dwarfed by the quickly growing boy.
"Catherine!
"All right." His tone immediately fell. "I can't believe I still need a babysitter," he said, rolling his eyes sheepishly.
Catherine chuckled. "Aww. You don't want me here?" she teased, in a babying voice.
"Please," he replied, rolling his eyes again. "But not that I mind your company of course. You're my favorite babysitter." He cringed on the last word.
"I'm your only babysitter, last I checked."
Tam glanced around, as if trying to hide something.
"You've been replacing me?! You had another, different babysitter, other than your favorite, Catherine Flynn?!" She feigned hurt, and he cracked quickly, joining in on the laughter.
"Okay," he said, raising an eyebrow and taking a forced, overdone air of seriousness. "Can we at least cut the whole 'babysitter' thing?"
"Different name?"
He nodded.
"Supervising friend?"
"I've always wanted a sister." The genuineness in his eyes and words was apparent.
Catherine nodded.
"Surrogate sister."
Catherine smiled. "Sounds good, kid."
Tam beamed back. "Sounds good to me too... sis," he said, pulling up a chair for Catherine, then himself, in the Jareds' expansive living room.
"So how's it goin'... bro?†she asked awkwardly.
"Okay, so maybe that doesn't work quite as well," he said with a sheepish grin.
She nodded, falling back quickly into their laughing ways.
"Gender roles are stupid anyways."
The words were loaded, and would have told Catherine 90 percent of the story had she not figured it out years ago on her own.
Catherine sensed the change in tone. "So... what's up?"
He shook his head.
"Tam," Catherine said, kneeling down, trying to connect with his lowered gaze. "I'll accept you no matter what. Anyone who really loves you will."
Tam gave her a suspicious glance, clearly doubting her words.
"What? You really think I'd hate you because you're gay?"
Tam flinched at the last word. He looked at Catherine, straight on this time, with a grave, sorrowful look in his eyes.
"Tam, talk to me."
"Anyone who really loves me?"
Catherine stared, puzzled. "Yes."
"So..." His voice began to waver, and Catherine could see the tears ready to leak out. "Dad just doesn't really..." His voice grew higher, almost squeaking. "He doesn't really love me?"
For one of the few times in her life, Catherine Flynn had absolutely no idea what to say.
PRESENT
***
Wendy was relieved but frustrated to return from the house. She had scarcely made any new discoveries since Catherine's arrival at the crime scene.
On the other hand, Catherine seemed convinced that they had enough evidence to close the case. Wendy knew that there was probably evidence piling up in the DNA lab that she ought to help with.
But the couch called her. She was just so tired.
But she knew she had to keep going. Such was the route to proving herself. Greg had managed DNA and CSI training at the same time. She would too.
Prying herself off the break room couch, she made her way over to the familiar lab.
Fast, heavy footsteps followed her there, and she found evidence in her hand before she even had a chance to sit down.
She looked up, unsurprised at the evidence's source.
"I'll get to it as fast as I can, Nick."
"Thanks." His response was cold and brief.
Wendy felt that she had been doing a good job of incorporating herself into the CSI family, but Nick was the one exception. Somehow, attempted conversations with him always fell flat. She'd been making an effort to befriend the CSI 3, but so far her luck was failing. He seemed even colder than Sara.
But she still had to try.
"So, what's your case?"
"Joanna Constantine. Employee of the local Walmart, off of Green Street. Worked the register on Tuesdays and Thursdays, shelved children's toys on Wednesdays and walked the aisles in customer assistance on Mondays and Fridays. Preferred the aisle walking, and showed up late on occasion. Not super close with any other employees, though she had a good relationship with her grandmother, who lives on Freeman. Didn't date, and her last relationship ended July 12, 2006. He broke up with her because he had to move, and there were minimal hard feelings. Her closest friend at work was Louise Espinoza, 36, 5'2", 130 lbs, mother of two. The aisle she worked showed one set of notable skid marks, probably from a cart going too fast and turning. Espinoza attributed it to two children racing down the aisle, though I'm still trying to verify that with Archie on the surveillance videos, via reflection off of a bicycle..."
Wendy tried to listen, but somehow Nick's description just blended into the whir of CODIS. Wendy knew that her own investigations had been thorough -- Catherine, Warrick and Grissom had all, on separate occasions, told her that she went above and beyond necessary -- but Nick brought a whole new level of detail.
From listening to his description, it sounded like borderline obsession.
She was surprised by the results: Kenny Gerson, age 6.
Apparently, his kindergarten class had filed DNA and fingerprints with the crime lab, as part of a pre-emptive program increasingly used so that children's DNA and prints were on file ahead of time, in case of kidnappings.
Wendy sighed. Kenny Gerson was probably not Nick's murderer.
She handed Nick the results, and he stared down, intently. "Maybe Gerson killed her because she took the last toy he wanted."
Wendy looked up, skeptical, to see that Nick meant that entirely seriously. "Or maybe Gerson was just playing with the cart in the toy aisle," she replied.
Nick nodded, though he didn't look up at her as he rushed out of the room.
Wendy just didn't get it. Nick Stokes was one messed-up enigma.
Some obstinate spot, buried in the back of Catherine's brain, was clearly not in agreement with her. A pulsing headache dragged her back into reality, and the warm, wet numbness in her shoulder betrayed a story more treacherous than a hangover.
Forcing her eyes open, she glanced around. Dark forms scattered around her vision, and she felt a strange sense of déja vu. The room looked so darn familiar...
Her eyes stole passage toward a kit, lying scattered on the ground.
The next thing she saw was a gun pointed at her face.
"Get up, and do everything we say."
She forced her head to nod, even as the room drew speckles and criss-crossing lines that danced circuitously -- and dazedly -- in front of her.
A rough hand gripped her shoulder, hoisting her up.
"Well now. Ain't she perdy?" This voice came from nearby, though it sounded like it was coming from a smaller body.
"Leave her alone." The third voice was solid, and clearly carried weight with it, as indicated when the smaller man backed off.
More than that, however, the voice was familiar. She pushed aside the misshapen geometry from her mind, trying to reach back and recall the voice, but it was nothing. Gunshots, even those to the shoulder, made it significantly more difficult to think and recall. All she could think about now was getting out alive.
The burly hand of the first voice propped her up, trying to halt her swaying; she tried to comply, still wanting to get out alive. She knew that she needed to help whoever the men were, and to do it quickly. She knew that that made all the difference in hostage crises.
As she regained her balance, the hands guided her with surprising gentleness forward.
When she was pushed to the barely ajar door -- the crack of light revealing Nick and Greg, bantering, per usual -- she remembered where she was and realized what was going on.
...
Greg broke his usual calm. "Would you stop being so damn anal-retentive?!"
Nick scowled back.
"It's Catherine, for God's sake."
"Don't say God's name in vain," Nick replied, almost instinctively.
Greg rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he said angrily.
"We've had this conversation before, Greg."
"Greg." Greg looked up, lost in thought, as if pondering over his own name. "It's always 'Greg,' isn't it?"
Nick stared at him, confused, looking as if the man across from him had just fallen off his rocker for the last time.
Greg rolled his eyes again. "Of course you don't get it."
"Damn right I don't. I don't get why you're pushing this here, just like I don't get your point about your name."
"You know what my point about the name is. It's not 'Greggo.' ...Cause that would sound so... what was the word you used? Gay? It would make people think we have nicknames because we're a flaming, homosexual couple. Because we probably spend our free time holding orgies in our backyard." He punctuated his words with bitterly flamboyant hand motions. "Is that right, Nicky? Cowboy?" His mouth moved up into an unpreventable snarl. "It's not Greggo, and it sure as hell isn't any of the names you say when you're screwing my brains out, is it?"
Nick looked up in horror just as Catherine, from behind the door, looked up in shock. Her own thoughts were interrupted by Nick's next words.
"I'm just trying to be responsible," Nick said, with recovered calm and a pleading edge. "Please. We can talk about it at home. Right now, I just want to finish this case."
"Fine." Greg bent down to study the floor, his expression stoic and unreadable. "Later. I'm just getting tired of faking it."
Nick cast Greg a look stuck somewhere between apology and speechlessness.
Catherine could hear Greg's words, in a small voice: "And I just want people to know that you love me... if you even do."
Nick bit his lip, and he looked tempted to say something.
A push to Catherine's back interrupted the loaded silence in the room.
"Put your hands up and nobody gets hurt." The calm, familiar voice. Catherine felt a gun pressed up against her head, clearly visible to Nick and Greg as well.
"Sorry to break up the lovers' squabble," the smaller man added with a sneer.
Nick and Greg both gulped noticeably. They would have much more to worry about than Catherine knowing their secret. It was going to be a long night.
...
The four men swarmed into the room as Nick and Greg slowly, still in shock, put their hands up above their heads.
Catherine could read Nick as he erected the cool, calm facade he had utilized so well in countless situations on LVPD.
Greg, on the other hand, was shaking uncontrollably. The former lab rat had far less opportunities to test his nerve, and the men seemed to pick up on that.
"Aw, you all right, Greggo?" the smaller man asked, leering in at Greg.
Greg gulped, taking a wavering step backwards.
"What's wrong, Greggo? Or would you prefer the names that Nick, as you said, called you when he was 'screwing your brains out?' Was that it?"
Greg's eyes narrowed as he stared at the man and drew in a quivering breath.
"Speechless already?" The man chuckled before turning away, and Catherine could see the look of relief in Greg's eyes.
One man -- of average height and athletic, but slim build -- moved behind Catherine, holding her up while simultaneously searching gently for a weapon.
The bulkier man -- he was built like a football player, and not just a QB or receiver -- frisked Nick for a weapon. Finding the 9mm, he set it down on the ground after gesturing at the man behind Catherine, who nodded in response.
The smaller, ruder man moved toward Greg, apparently about to search him, but Nick intervened.
"He doesn't carry."
The smaller man smirked. "What's your point?"
Catherine tried to back Nick up, seeing Greg still speechless and petrified. "He really doesn't."
"Leave the kid alone," replied a fourth voice. "Don't you think he would have pulled it out already? He's scared enough that I doubt common sense would mean a lot to him anyways, even with four guns pointed at him."
Greg glared, though its effect was greatly outweighed by that of his violent shaking.
Catherine could feel a concurring nod from the man behind her. "Search him anyways. Jules though." The familiar, slightly Southern twanged voice definitely belonged to the man behind her.
The smaller man grumbled and moved out of the way, as a tall, thin man moved toward Greg.
Greg chewed nervously on his lip as the man frisked him for a weapon.
Catherine tried to make eye contact with her younger colleague. When she finally caught his eye, she nodded slightly, imploring him to play unemotional. After two years of stoicism following the beating and, more generally, his move into the field, she knew Greg could do that more than well.
The fear in his eyes seemed to evaporate, as Catherine kept eye contact, smiling gently at her colleague. He gulped before smiling back.
Nick already seemed to have the drill down; he was glaring off into space. The larger man finished searching and cuffing Nick quickly.
When the man behind her finally set her down -- gently, again -- on the floor, Catherine happily gave in to unconsciousness.
Nick tried to ignore the contact. It was exactly the kind of thing that made him most uncomfortable. Though he was, as Greg often reminded him, a frequent personal space invader himself, this was different, and decidedly unappreciated. He was grateful that the man behind him, despite his size, seemed to be the gentler of the four, or at least gentler than the smaller man and the taller, skinnier one. He didn't like the way the latter man was taking his time searching Greg.
Nick gritted his teeth, trying to find a happy place to escape to, or, at least, to lose himself in planning how to get the three CSIs out unharmed.
So far, however, he had nothing.
A nervous hiccup from Greg distracted him, as did the chuckle from the smaller robber that followed.
He watched Greg avert his gaze, focusing intently on a speck on the wall. He could tell Greg was trying to keep his cool and appear unaffected, but the act wasn't working very well.
Nick could read Greg like an open book -- a children's book written in big, block letters and decorated in colorful artwork. He hoped that the robbers couldn't see through the younger CSI as easily.
Greg shivered, and Nick wanted nothing more than to run at his boyfriend and comfort him -- that or to run up, punch and tackle the tall man behind Greg.
Had it been a football game, like back in Nick's A&M days, he would have eagerly blasted through all four men, dodging and faking with keen intuit and speed. Now, however, the move would do no good; he was no longer responsible only for making himself open and free from opponents, but now he had his coworkers to think of as well. Life just had to always get more complicated.
"We could use 'em, you know." The words came from the man standing behind Greg. Nick glared at the man, worried about what exactly he meant by 'use.'
The man behind Catherine -- he was of a slightly taller-than-average, athletic build, and appeared to be the leader -- nodded his head. "Good thinking." He turned to Greg without moving his own head from behind Catherine's.
It was almost like he doesn't want Catherine to see his face, even though it is masked, Nick thought.
"You're Crime Scene Investigators, right?"
Greg nodded numbly. Once again, his fear was transparent -- too transparent. It had to be sixty or seventy degrees in the casino, and Greg was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, but the younger CSI continued to shiver, rubbing his goose bump-covered arms against each other even as he answered the man's question.
"What ranks are you?"
Greg looked up puzzled and Nick caught the question for him.
"I'm level 3 --"
Greg seemed to have regained most of his composure, due at least in part, Nick suspected, to barely subtle glances from his boyfriend. "Cath is a CSI 3 also, and in a supervisory role..." He hesitated.
"And you?" The leader's eyes seemed too intense for Greg's nerves, and the younger CSI averted the gaze with a shiver.
"I'm level 2. I was late getting into the field because I started off working DNA. I only started working in the field a few years ago, but it's been awesome. Hopefully, I'm going to get my promotion soon."
He paused, quirking an eyebrow as he seemed to realize who he was talking to. "If I get out of here, I mean."
He paused again, finally staring the man in the eyes.
"You know, you really should make sure that we get out of here. I’m s'posed to show my mom my new CSI badge, when I get the promotion, that is. She was freaked out when I went into the field, but now she's cool with it, and I know she and my dad will be really psyched when I tell them about the promotion. If you don't let us out alive, then my mom's probably gonna hafta come kill you. And I don't think you want that. Jan Sanders is a scary lady."
Greg paused again, this time for good, and glanced around nervously. He seemed to have -- finally -- realized the extent of his massive over share.
Nick had to put all effort into stifling a chuckle. Even in the most desparate of situations, Greg still found ways to be adorable without even trying.
But Nick cursed himself as he listened to his boyfriend's nerve-induced over share tendencies. It was, for the most part, a tendency that Nick loved -- coming from anyone else, the words and ideas leaving his mouth could easily have turned into a bothersome, weary list. But, coming out of Greg's mouth, over share tended to turn into a gleeful procession. While some people found Greg's occasional nervous chatter annoying, Nick found it endearing. He just had a feeling that the robbers wouldn't.
The leader, however, chuckled, and Greg looked up with a winsome smile.
That's right, Greggo, Nick thought, shaking his head. Flirt your way through the hostage situation. He had always assumed that, should the situation arise, it would be Catherine to employ such a tactic.
"We gotta clean up the scene. Right boss?" It was the bigger man -- the one built like a football player or such -- that spoke this time. "That's what they do on TV."
"Ohhh." The smaller man's lips formed a small 'o' in realization. "That's what they're for."
It didn't sound too bad, Nick thought, realizing what the robbers meant -- that the CSIs would clean up the scene, collecting and removing all evidence. Rather do something close to our jobs than play hostages, though we'll probably end up doing both.
The leader nodded. "But we can't have all of them do that." He scowled at the smallest man. "Thanks to somebody's decision to shoot."
"Sorry Boss." The smaller man again.
The leader shook his head. "You," he gestured at Nick. "What's your name?"
"Nick."
"Okay, Nick. Go clean up all the evidence. We're in charge and I don't think a smart guy like you needs to be reminded of why you need to do your absolute best to help us out here."
"What about them?"
The tall, thin man standing behind Greg looked up. "Well, Greggo here--"he reached over to tousle Greg's hair. Greg shirked away and glared, but couldn't move far. "--will be helpin' her out." He pointed at Catherine. "Gotta keep the bleedin' down, right Boss?"
The leader nodded. "Now go. Make it quick, but make it good. I'll know if you mess up."
Nick nodded, stealing a last glance at Greg before heading towards the body. He watched the robbers relocate Greg and Catherine to another room. In a way, Nick was grateful to be separated from his colleagues now. The less distractions, the better.
Greg was relieved when the four men left him and Catherine alone in the room. Apparently, they had some pressing conversation to attend to.
Seeing Catherine lying on the ground, arm strewn out in front, he ran to her, feeling guilty for his relief that she was the one lying there, and that Nick was safely processing the scene. Normally, Greg Sanders would have had qualms about using the faded red showgirl uniform -- no doubt a piece of Vegan history -- but in this case, his own pursuits flew out the window as he cleaned the fabric before pressing it to Catherine's shoulder.
He sighed quietly, looking at his fallen colleague. He chuckled bitterly as he remembered Sara standing over his own battered body a year earlier. Gently, he tucked back a strand of Catherine's hair absent-mindedly, trying to remind himself that she was still there. She looked so peaceful in her sleep. Maybe she could sleep through the whole problem. As he reached for his cell phone, a noise interrupted from the entryway.
"What do you think you're doin,' kid?!"
Greg started, staring over at the largest robber, still mostly concealed by a mask and black clothing.
"Drop the phone!"
Greg set it down lightly.
The man growled. "You know what I meant."
Greg didn't, but stared up at the scowling man, who gestured with his hands. Compliant, Greg slid the phone across the floor at the waiting robber. Another man -- the smaller one -- rushed into the room, starting at the sight of two investigators at the back. The larger man acknowledged his presence with a friendly nod.
"Hands behind your back."
Greg had no idea how he kept sufficient trace of calm in his voice to even be audible. Leaning over toward Catherine's still body, he gulped. "I need to make sure she stays alive."
"Do you now?" The smaller man's smirk shook Greg. It screamed apathy and inhumanity.
"I can't -- I can't let her die," Greg replied, the fear in his voice rising in trembles.
"Why not?"
Greg glared, petrified. He hated being put on the spot. It reminded him of his days in the lab dealing with an irate and impatient Grissom. He needed an answer to save Catherine's life.
"She -- she--" He scrambled, looking to the red fabric now covering her shoulder, as if it could offer an answer.
The smaller robber seemed to be laughing mockingly at Greg's logic, but the scarlet showgirl's uniform did in fact give him the answer he needed.
"She's Sam Braun's daughter." He sighed as he saw the larger robber's brows rise under the black polyester of his mask. "You don't want to kill her."
"You think you know what we want?" The smaller man spoke again this time.
Greg gulped again, now seeing the new bodies looming behind the two robbers,' arms crossed and probably smirking as well.
"Whatever you want, she can probably help you get it," Greg replied, steeling himself to look at as many of them in the eyes as possible, with resolve. He felt surrounded, and he felt the leers baring into the back of his skull and coating every inch of him and Catherine.
"You're damn right she can," the smaller robber said, licking his lips. Greg wanted to throw up, but braced himself to argue on his coworker's behalf.
He steadied himself and concentrated his eyes on the most threatening leer.
"If you're trying to get out, you're gonna need her cooperation and help. And if you mess with her, then I wouldn't expect to get that."
He continued to stare, eyes fierce, as he forced his own trembling to subside, trying harder than he'd ever done to appear calm and assured.
The smaller robber chuckled, but another man -- the leader -- turned around, clearly pulling his cohorts to do the same.
Greg heaved a sigh of relief as he turned his attention back to Catherine. She was all that could matter now.
Greg was grateful to have Catherine there, to occupy him. It saved him from thinking on the infinite possibilities ahead of him. She was so steady, so calm in her sleep, despite the bullet that induced it. She will get through this alive, he told himself.
Saving himself from stress, he listened only to the beating of her heart. It calmed him, even as he sat, alert, hands pressed down over the bullet wound and increasingly slowly oozing blood.
He sat, poised, over her static body for what seemed like an indefinite amount of time, though even the calming heartbeat could not totally ease his tension.
Nick Stokes barreled down the hallway, oblivious to Wendy's stares. Wendy could make out a trace of sorrow in his eyes, but it melted away almost as quickly as it had appeared. Nick Stokes was a sad, vacant, focused enigma and something that sad night a month ago had caused it.
***
Catherine shifted on the pole, legs bending and embracing the cool metal in front of her. The trick to dancing -- this kind of dancing, as it was -- was elegance.
The chilled steel felt good against her calves, which were barely covered by cream-colored fishnet stockings.
She glanced at the crowd, assessing her financial prospects of the night.
Hungry eyes peered at her from many angles, all seats running parallel to the platform she walked on. One regular -- Steve, a fifty-something factory worker -- waved at her, like an old friend. She smiled back, amused at the strange camaraderie that the eager exchange of lust created.
A less friendly, more salivating smile met her in the seat next to Steve's, where a slightly overweight man in a business suit leered at her with pale eyes. She met his eyes with a challenging raise of the eyebrows.
A younger, tired looking man with dark brown hair and bright mahogany eyes sat two seats down. He looked to be just old enough to drink, and was staring at one of the worse dancers, Christine, with pure exuberance and surprise -- like a boy at Christmas, or like an over-eager teenager about to "do it" for the first time. The excitement and adulation in his eyes told Catherine in less than a second that this was his first time at a strip club, and, quite possibly, his first time seeing the opposite sex in anything less than a full state of attire. This was, of course, before the days of online porn.
Behind him, further toward the bar, was a well-proportioned silhouette of a man, sipping what looked to be a margarita. Catherine could barely make out his deep sepia hair, which shone in the light.
Catherine's gaze drew inwards, stopping at a shorter, middle-aged man with a small grey-brown mustache. His broad shoulders were distinctive, and she smiled with glee.
Marie -- known there only as 'Foxy' -- danced next to her, two meters down on the platform. She could see Marie making the move for the man, whom all strippers at the French Palace knew to be one of the big tippers. Marie's bleached blonde hair swayed dangerously over the silicone cleavage spilling out of her scarlet bustier.
Catherine scowled, sizing up the competition. She didn't need the tips so much, but she sure wanted them.
Crisp heels cut into the ground as she drew up from the blue lighting, making her way across the dirty beige platform toward her new opponent. She knew the customers would appreciate a catfight, even one without visible claws bared.
She swayed her hips at just the right moment, so that the pleats of her short white skirt flew up on the side for a millisecond, revealing a lacy red thong to the big tipper, a balding man -- probably in his late thirties -- with greedy eyes that spelled money.
Catherine cast an alluring glance at him, and she knew she had him in her trance. She could sense the catch in Marie's throat as the other woman realized her prey had been averted. Catherine smiled with a knowing smirk as Marie was forced to lightly sashay past, over to the right side of the stage, allowing Catherine to make for the kill.
Catherine leaned down, showing off her own cleavage to the hungry eyes -- and to the pocketbook burning through jeans covering a raging hard-on -- in front of her.
She embraced the knowledge that she, unlike Marie and the vast majority of her other coworkers, could lean down further, to show off a real, non-plastic burst of cleavage. She could feel the warm sweat of the man's hands on the fifty-dollar bills he placed in her shirt. She smiled -- appreciatively, but still with feistiness -- before lifting her head.
Soft organ steps progressed as the next song broke out. Catherine stepped lightly down the platform, in sync with the song's light beat.
An equally light stirring of saxophone joined in, giving way to Marvin Gaye's sensual, quivering voice, and the seductive back-up vocals.
As the chorus began, Catherine moved toward the center of the platform, and let loose.
Smooth words gave way to sliding keyboard melodies. The words were not only beats, but orders to the eager crowd, who snapped along.
The beat carried her, as she moved faster and faster, lost in the music.
The crowd slowly assembled in front of her to watch the emotive display, leaving the other dancers in her envy-inducing wake as she thrust her hips into the air, swaying lower and lower.
Her humming to the music was lost in the smooth boom of notes, but it didn't matter. She reached nirvana on the dance floor as the neon lights hovered down upon her. It was pure bliss.
The song, as Catherine knew, signaled the end of the night, and thus elicited groans of disappointment from the regulars. Looking out over the crowd that had slowly amassed in front of her over the course of the night, and especially the last song, she was pleasantly surprised to see that the well-proportioned silhouette had made his way out onto the floor, and that his handsome face was equally well-proportioned.
It was his smile, however, that caught her off-guard. It was friendly -- kind even. Catherine smiled back, with gratitude for the one kind look free of lust. And she was sure she could still find the lust in him, anyways. He was, after all, at a gentleman's club.
She was hit with a strange burst of cheesy romantic optimism, one that had long ago been lost on the Vegas-raised stripper.
She smiled to herself as she stepped off of the stage, bouncing down with grace. Then, she turned her warm smile to the stranger.
"Hi, I'm Catherine Flynn," she said, reaching out a hand. Forward had always been her style.
"Ari Marvin," he said, replying with a more restrained smile and a hand extended with care. At a gentleman's club, he -- surprisingly -- did in fact play the gentleman.
"That your real name, or just the one your wife doesn't know about?"
He chuckled, rolling his eyes, though the gesture held bemusement rather than rudeness or exasperation. "The former," he replied -- revealing a perfect set of straight, white teeth. Catherine was immediately disarmed by the smile.
Fainter music poured in through the background, and she was relieved to hear organs again. This was her kind of music.
The organs opened with a eulogy for the night and, in the immortal words of the song's craftsman, "this thing called life." His seductive voice began to waft in, and Catherine was struck.
The metallic pattering of drums gave way to heavy guitar rifts.
Catherine swayed to the beat, but, when the chorus started, she grabbed the hand of the gentleman in front of her. He swung her around with grace. It was not the style of the era, his dance moves; they brought Catherine back to Frankie Valli's better days, the ones Lily Flynn seemed perpetually caught in; the ones of swingin' pop and harmonizing ballads. All that was needed, Catherine thought -- lost in the deep blue eyes of the man before her -- was a fedora... and a kiss goodnight.
His light, swinging steps were, she knew, not those expected as accompaniment by Prince. But they worked just fine for her.
His hands grew moist in hers, as he swung her around again, smiling to the tune.
In the heat of the moment, Catherine didn't even register the jealous eyes, until her mysterious stranger leaned in to whisper, "I think you've got some admirers."
"Don't worry. They're no competition," she whispered back quickly, not ready to lose her dancing partner over customers' leers. She was on her own time now, and free of obligations to anyone. And she wanted to dance with Ari Marvin.
He replied with a troubled look of complexity, which left Catherine baffled.
"What's wrong?"
"I have to go," he replied quietly, a look of regret apparent on his face.
"Why?" Catherine asked. She was caught off guard by the unanticipated rejection, and lost the rhythm in her step, and the seduction in her voice. "You sure you don't want to go out?"
"Nah." He stepped away as the last line rang, prophetically, giving Catherine one last apologetic glance.
Catherine, having totally lost her façade of cool seductress, stared, mouth wide open.
"What, you married or something?"
"I wish," he said smoothly, as he wove towards the door.
A hand reached out for Catherine. "How come you never give me the time of day? I tip more than he did. And he wasn't even watching you dance!" Jimmy Rosetti, the big tipper of the night, leaned in with the last comment. "And trust me, babe. I watch you good."
Catherine scowled.
"I gave you a Benjamin today! An' you're still not gonna give me anythin'?! Not even a dance like that candy ass got?!"
"Watch your language," Catherine said warily, backing up. It was clear the man was drunk.
She looked around for help, but was disappointed to see that the manager had already left.
She tried not to display her own nervousness at the moment. She remembered as much from hours of self-defense training. She raised a wrist, unsteadily, ready to deliver a good poke to his eyes, especially knowing that, while he may be stronger, her quickness was vastly superior, especially given her own sobriety.
The man reached out to grab her wrist, with a surprising show of agility, especially for one so drunk. Catherine succeeded in poking him in the eye, but it only aggravated him more. He twisted her wrist, eliciting a pained cry as she felt a snap. Now she was mad.
She could feel his other hand creeping over her shirt, and she responded with a knee in the groin, before he could get anywhere.
What happened next was a blur. She felt the man lunge. She jumped out of his way, but he continued forward and down. It was then that she realized it was less of a lunge than a fall.
It seemed just desserts to see the man he had called a 'candy ass' on top of him, holding down the man's own wrists.
She could tell quickly that Ari had probably limited himself to one Margarita.
"Aw come on," the panting drunk let out. "You really think your boyfriend won't mind you tryna take me?! You perv!"
"You're not my type."
"Well if she isn't either, I'm not too surprised. Fag."
Catherine scowled at the language. Ever since she met Tam, she had hated that word. Even in her fear, her anger for her friend surfaced easily. "Don't call him that. Don't use that word."
Ari smiled up appreciatively, before grabbing the man's hair, and pulling face up to face Ari. "Now, I'm gonna let you go, having already called the cops with the pay phone out there. It's your choice whether you wanna stick around and wait for them."
The man scowled back. "Fine," he mumbled.
Ari pulled his hair, and face, up again. "What was that? That a promise?"
"Yes. Fine. I'll leave her alone."
"Good."
"Stupid queer," the man mumbled under his breath.
Ari merely smiled his charming, full-toothed grin, even as Catherine took offense at the words.
The man finally came to his feet, and promptly stumbled over them to the door.
"Why did you just let him go away, and insult you like that?" Catherine said, as she watched the man stumble into the next taxi.
"There is no pay phone out there."
"I know."
"Then why are you asking?"
"You know that's not what I meant."
Ari looked at her, discerningly, for a moment, before replying. "Sticks and stones may break my bones. But words don't hurt me. At least not anymore."
Catherine nodded, puzzling over his words.
"Your wrist all right?"
Catherine looked down at it. There was a purple bruising mark, but it wasn't broken. At worst, it may have been lightly sprained, but that wouldn't get in the way of her getting home or, more importantly, dancing the next night.
"Nah, I'm fine."
"Well," he began, shuffling to the door with surprising nervousness, given the last smooth display. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Catherine responded, betraying more enthusiasm than she would have liked.
He chuckled at the eagerness in her voice. "I'm the new bartender," he said, before sliding out the door, with the same smooth steps she was already adoring.
Ari Marvin was a puzzle, and one Catherine Flynn anticipated solving. As a stripper, she wasn't used to men playing hard to get. But, as a competitor, she knew she would still get him.
She stood for a moment, listening as Diana Ross's soprano drifted through the air, softly fading out. Catherine stared, brows furrowed at the man walking out the door, trying to figure him out. She hadn't realized then just how quickly the puzzle would solve itself.
Two men -- the smaller, ruder man and the big, burly one -- made their way back into the room, prompting Greg to look up from his position, hunched over on his knees and leaning in over Catherine's shoulder. He was relieved to see that the blood was no longer seeping out after around the time that she'd woken briefly.
The robbers took a few steps forward. They seemed to be chuckling at the sight of Greg kneeling over Catherine. They seem to chuckle at everything, Greg thought hopefully. With a sense of humor, they can't be that bad.
"You like being on your knees, boy?" the smaller one asked, smirking.
Okay, maybe they can be that bad, Greg thought, quickly losing his optimism and reflexively altering his position. He didn't respond, only staying where he was, next to Catherine. Chances are they won't mess with either of us anyway. We're not what they came here for.
He continued to stare at Catherine, trying to allow the still-steady beat of her heart to calm his own, and force his mind from the taunting words of the masked men.
Don't be afraid, he repeated to himself. Don't be afraid.
Searching his mind for better material to ward off the sinking feeling in his stomach, he resurfaced, recalling instructions to "remember the audience in their underwear."
So what if that advice doesn't fit precisely, he thought angrily to himself. There had to be something there, in the more trivial reaches of his mind, where he stored the humorous anecdotes and ridiculous information he had seemed to have been known for back in his lab days. He stared more closely at the men in front of them, trying to make them less intimidating in his mind.
Standard robber clothing, he thought ruefully, recalling scenes from too many movies. It reminded him of an old episode of CSI: Miami, where Eric Delko had been stuck in a bank hold-up. He chuckled to himself for watching such a silly show. He had watched it more for a certain Ryan Wolfe than for the episode plots. Horatio Caine and his ridiculous sunglasses of justice had irritated Greg greatly.
He took a deep breath, blinked once and continued to stare at Catherine. Play it safe and they'll leave us alone, he thought to himself.
"Well, she's one of the prettiest corpses I've ever seen." The small, ruder one again.
Greg looked up, horrified. Of course the statement broke his calm. "She's not dead," he replied simply, cursing himself for stuttering.
"We could help her along the way," the man responded, meaningfully.
Greg shuddered. "But you won't. Because she's Sam Braun's daughter." Suddenly, he was growing particularly testy. The stress of the situation was getting to him. "We've been over this."
"Have we?" The man leaned down to Greg's eye level. He was probably smirking.
It's ridiculous, Greg thought, to try to convey any significant facial expression when you're wearing that kind of mask -- ridiculous, and cocky, and stupid. He stared back empathically, resisting the tension once again.
Catherine shifted, groaning, under his hands.
"Well, that's a sound we like to hear, isn't it, Biggs?" The smaller man nudged his companion -- apparently, and appropriately, named Biggs -- in the ribs.
Geez, they're stupid, Greg thought in reply. They're not touching Catherine and they know it. They'd better know it. And they've already given away one first name. How do robbers this stupid break into the fuckin' Tangiers of all places?! This is ridiculous.
Only Catherine, as she woke, seemed to notice Greg's internal fuming. Her eyes, as they opened, read 'What's wrong?' loud and clear, even if her voice stayed silent.
Greg shook his head, bringing a finger close to his mouth, as subtly as possible. Neither of the masked men seemed to notice, and Catherine instantly closed her eyes and stilled herself. It would be better for all involved -- at least all CSI's involved -- if Catherine remained asleep, or at least pretended to be so.
Despite their apparent stupidity, the first one -- still nameless -- did in fact seem to notice the nonverbal exchange.
"Aw, up so soon?"
He leered again, and Greg was grateful that Catherine was too out of it to notice. Then again, he thought, she probably was used to leers. Even straight women in LVPD noticed her curves, if for no other reason than envy.
Biggs elbowed him in the ribs again, and he scowled back at his partner.
Biggs quickly explained himself to his quizzical and glaring partner. "We're supposed to take care of her when she wakes up," he insisted.
Greg looked up startled, but Biggs, strangely, explained himself. "Not that way," he reassured the sitting man. "Ar -- Our boss says we have to take care of her --" he fumbled for words briefly -- "bandage her up and stuff."
Greg nodded, still not taking his eyes off of the robber speaking. "You trained in that?"
Biggs replied this time. "Mine an' Richie's boss is."
He received an elbow in the ribs, this time, no doubt, for giving away his partner's name.
"Hey, you did that to me!" he insisted to his partner, who merely scowled in response.
It seemed unusual -- and foreboding -- for the robbers to be so careless about giving out personal information. They'd only be that way if they didn't expect us -- or at least me, since I'm the one awake -- to make it out alive, Greg thought, grimacing.
As if on cue, Catherine shifted, no doubt growing restless in her pretend sleep.
He sighed, hoping she made it out to see Lindsey again.
"Richie! Biggs!" The leader ambled into the room. He was of medium build, though muscular, with strong-looking shoulders. His appearance almost reminded Greg of Nick. "You guys found anythin'?"
"Define something," Richie replied, grinning menacingly down at Greg and Catherine. "’Cause I'd say this" -- he punctuated the word with a kick to Greg's side -- "has to count as something."
Greg groaned as the kick pushed him almost toppling over Catherine. He stared ahead at the wall, with the corner of his eye still focused on Catherine.
He wanted out, but, in the very least, acting invisible -- ignoring the thug -- would, or at least should, Greg hoped, help.
The new man bent down to stare at Greg, who still kept his gaze pointed away. The hand that jutted out to grab his chin took him by surprise. It was cold, even with the black polyester gloves, and strong. It clenched his chin, leaving no room for resistance. Greg could feel the fingernails digging into his skin as the man quickly turned Greg's head around. Altogether, it was too much force for such a gesture.
Greg glanced down, finding something to stare at other than the man in front of him, but the hand knew its own intentions. When his gaze dove, his chin was pushed up, so the man could still stare grimly into Greg's glaring eyes. Greg tried to keep his expression resolute and apathetic. Dark blue eyes bored into his. Greg furrowed his brow, boring back into the eyes in a staring contest, seeing that the game of gaze averting was of now a lost cause. But he could at least win the staring contest. He could, at least, try not to betray too much fear.
In the man's gaze, he felt like he was being sized up for market, like a cow, pig or other piece of livestock. He hated it, but he kept staring. The eye before him showed comparable apathy, but hid rage, shock and some other emotion that Greg couldn't pinpoint.
Greg stared at the face before him, or at least what he could see of it. He traced the eyelashes -- dark, short and spread apart -- to the eyes' ends. He saw the lines interspersing and meeting where a deep, stormy ocean's blue melted into a lighter cerulean as his gaze neared the centers of the eyes. The pupils were shiny and of a smaller size, indicating that the man had been in the light for a decent amount of time.
That was where his thoughts were cut off -- where the eyes shifted, lifting up at the edges. The eyes sneered down at Greg, and Greg shifted his stare on reflex. This time, both hands curled around his cheeks, bringing his whole head to face the man's. The hands were warmer now, and almost shaking. Greg couldn't tell if it was his own trembling causing that, or the man's.
A light rumble of laughter hit Greg next. It was almost gentle, but for the remaining smirk. Greg glanced down at the lips, curled up, like the eyes, into a satisfied sneer. Greg tried to turn away again. He could feel the other men's eyes on the pair in the middle of the room -- the reluctant tango of eyes, one pair submissive, one dominant -- and Greg didn't like it. His face flushed, and his eyes' outer edges descended, revealing his humiliation in the unspoken conversation. He jerked his head, trying to escape.
One set of fingers fell to his chin again, gripping firmly and holding him in place, while the other bowed further down to skip over his neck lightly. Fingers danced over him, almost in a caress, and he flinched, losing his blank and unfeeling façade in an instant. One lip, now tipped downward, revealed his displeasure and revulsion in the hand's gesture. He glanced away before tugging his head again. Once again, the attempt was futile.
The eyes maintained their staring contest even as the mouth opened, sending vibrations through the prominent, lunging ball in the throat. "This isn't what I meant. As intriguing as they are."
"You gonna have fun right now?" The voice sounded like Richie. Greg gulped, hating the connotations evident in the question. He knew it was no fun involved for him that they had in mind.
"No." The mouth barely moved with the single syllable, but opened in a small, curt gesture. "We have to get back to work and find the money."
The eyes sent strange, paradoxical waves of melancholy, fury and guilt that caught Greg off guard as the hand retreated, leaving Greg to sit over Catherine once more.
Greg breathed quickly, trying to push the exchange from his mind. He felt Catherine's hand flutter over his face once fading footsteps revealed that all three men had left the room.
"You all right, sweetie?"
Even in her position -- lying static with a bullet in her shoulder -- Catherine still could not turn off the mother hen in her, Greg thought, chuckling lightly. But the context of the situation quickly turned the chuckling bitter.
He gave a small nod.
***
Catherine drifted in and out of consciousness for what felt like hours as Greg hovered over her, ever watchful, and traded tense quips with the men standing guard over the pair of CSIs. With the pressure applied to the wound, she felt her cognizance growing clearer and fuller. Though she continued to feign unconsciousness, she was fully aware of the heavier footsteps treading into the room, and the exchange that followed, or, at least, as aware as she could have been without opening her eyes and seeing the sinister show of eyes.
With her eyes closed for the extended period of time, she felt her ears picking up more and more. Consequentially, it was not lost on her when the harsh, yet quick, footsteps gave way to a body crouching down to grip Greg's face. She could sense the tension and the gradual shifts of positions inherently coinciding with the aural sparring. And she could only guess that it was a battle of the nonverbal, given the extended periods of silence that paralleled the heat radiating from the additional crouched, heavy body.
But it was the voice that caught her off guard. The voice. That voice. In all truth, she hadn't recognized it until the last exchange, when she at last detected -- or, rather, he had at last betrayed -- that hint of melancholy.
The hint of melancholy had given it away because, in truth, Catherine was confident in stating, had she had the opportunity, that Ari Marvin had lived, save for those few precious years of love, a melancholy life.
As the figure released Greg's face, Catherine at last ventured a glance up. She had assumed that he would have already turned his head, but, then again, Ari had never been one to play the expected card.
She caught his glance as he walked out of the room, and it showed the same melancholy she'd expected, almost hidden under the fierceness she had known so well.
Letting loose a fragile tear for the tragic memory, Catherine slipped back into a stupor, falling somewhere between unconsciousness and reminiscence of lovers star-crossed by the fluorescent and fleeting casino lights.
Catherine was happy to escape the club. Many would assume that, since she danced for a living, she would find something else, unrelated, to do with her spare time. But that was far from the case. On her nights off, she was off to the clubs, to dance without worries about offending or pleasing anybody but herself. The only money she had to spend was her own -- and that often wasn't even necessary. Many clubs let her in for free.
Such was the case at VÃvelo that night. It was one of Vegas's less known clubs due to its location further off the strip. The dancing inside was gentler -- smoother -- and the clientele often more svelte. It tended to draw the people who were often discriminated against in the more mainstream Vegas culture -- people interested in alternative lifestyles of all sorts. It held the most diversity, and tolerance, of the Vegas clubs, which Catherine appreciated.
VÃvelo was a place of more class than the typical club. Dancing was smooth and sophisticated; there was less grabbing and groping; more Merlot and less Manhattans. Despite the frosty lighting, the walls were etched in a deep scarlet and gilded in a worn gold, lending a greater air of elegance. There was still space between pairs of partners, and groups of happily sipping dancers. The music was lighter and nostalgic for better days, even if the longed-for dates remained intangible.
Plush red curtains drew back as she entered and cast a friendly smile at the bouncer, Fred, who had, through frequent encounters, become a fond acquaintance of hers. He smiled back, patting her on the back as she headed in.
"Lookin' good, Catherine."
"Thanks," she replied, flashing another smile as she descended down the stairs. Soft orange and golden lights cast over the stairs, wafting into the crowd. Frankie Valli's 'December, 1963' pulsed through the small crowd, each member thoroughly immersed in their own rhythms of dance. Her eyes ran circles around the room, looking for acquaintances.
That's when she saw the familiar darkening auburn mop of hair. To her knowledge, he wasn't even old enough to be clubbing. But sure enough, there Tam Jared was. A man fell in front of her, and she lost sight of her young friend.
Catherine eased her way into the crowd. She spotted a few familiar faces -- other well-informed club hoppers looking for a little more discretion.
A tall gentleman in a deep navy tuxedo reached out a hand to the air beside her. She took his hand with equal grace, immediately coming to stare into deep olive eyes. Placing a hand around his shoulder, she let him lead her to the dance floor as he placed a careful hand at her waist.
Her scarlet gown blended in with the gilded walls, and swayed perfectly against her slim hips. She turned in his arms, letting the pleated ends flutter in her wake. It was a night of bubble gum; Catherine was free to dance away in the arms of a gentleman, free, for the time being, of all troubles and cares.
She temporarily pushed thoughts of her young friend from her mind; he had just as much a right as she did to leave the stresses of the day and leave them off of the dance floor. She would leave socializing for later.
As Frankie Valli finished his serenade to careless, joyous nights, and to Catherine's night, the rhythm of the floor slowed, giving way to the next slow song. The gentleman looked down at her, his kind gaze impeaching her for the next, slow dance. A small smile of agreement set him into soft motion as he glided, arms still around Catherine's waist, back toward the sweeping outskirts of the dance floor.
Soft, vibrating notes struck an instant tenor as Catherine leaned into the sweet melody. Even if she didn't know the man she was with for the moment, she felt safe in the embrace of his arms, and of Al Green's soulful voice.
Her head perched over his shoulder, she stared tranquilly out over the dance floor, as nearby couples moved smoothly and effortlessly over the dim floor. She caught another glance of Tam.
He twirled around, as a smile that always lit Catherine and everyone around him up unfolded on his young face. Fragile blue beams crisscrossed his face, revealing a shallow pool of emotion.
But Catherine could see through his deep hazel-brown eyes into the deeper reserve -- pit even -- of stubborn emotion.
It was love in his eyes, and she knew he was lost in it. She followed his gaze to the man across from him, and couldn't hide her surprise at the sight.
Catherine lost herself to shock, forgetting the sweet background vibrato vocalizing of Al Green's 'Unchained Melody.'
Ari Marvin twisted Tam Jared delicately, like a flower. She could see that their gazes never left each other, even as Tam spun. Somehow, in all their jubilant dancing, they still exuded grace, but, more than that, happiness.
They didn't notice her; they were too lost in each other.
--
Oh,
My love,
My darling,
I've hungered
For
Your touch
A long,
Lonely time.
And time
Goes by
So slowly
And time
Can do
So much.
Are you
Still
Mine?
I need
Your love,
I need
Your love,
God speed
Your love
To me.
Speed your love to me
Speed your love to me
Lonely rivers
Flow
to the sea,
To the sea
To the
open arms
of the sea
I just have to tell you that
Lonely rivers sigh,
'Wait for me,
wait for me'
'I'll be coming home,
wait for me!'
Please babe let me say
Time goes by
so slowly
and time
can do so much
Are you
still mine?
I
need
your love,
I need your love,
Your love...
So God won't you please speed
Your love
Your love
To... to me
Speed your love to me
(Won't you speed your love to me?)
Speed your love to me
Unchained melody
Speed your love to me
Speed your love to me
Speed
your
love
to
me
speed your love to me
speed your love to me
I need your love, I need your love
I'm not ashamed to say that I -- I
I need your love, God speed your love to me
--
Catherine stared at the grand clock on the wall, realizing it was later than she had intended. That always happened. It was too easy to get lost in the joy of the music. A tap on her shoulder interrupted her from departure.
"Please don't tell anybody. Mr. Jared can't know. He won't allow it -- us to be together."
Catherine nodded in sudden understanding as she shut the door. Her lips were sealed.
Catherine pulled out the worn, now-off-white box, no longer hidden under her jacket, from the car, and carefully brought it in to her room, where, at last, she opened it.
The stench of death was slighter than she had expected, though the reason was quickly discerned: For such a high profile case, there was very little evidence.
Then again, Catherine thought. This was back in the 80's. They just didn't have the same resources we have now. Which will make my job all that much harder.
Snapping on latex gloves, she reached in and carefully pulled out a pair of worn black slacks. She placed them on top of her sanitized tablecloth. She had bought that particular tablecloth at a CSI convention specifically for the purpose of using it to work at home. It gave off very few particles, and was easy to keep sanitary, hence reducing the risk of contaminating evidence.
She had seldom used it, generally preferring to keep her work and home lives as separate as possible, especially with a teenage daughter in the house. This, however, was one of the few cases where the evidence had to be dealt with outside of the Lab.
She didn't need to prove anything. She wasn't looking to convict anyone. Sometimes she got involved with cases on the job, but her ultimate purpose was always to convict. In this case, however, curiosity -- and, more importantly, her team's need for closure -- were her only motives.
Digging further into the box, she finally unearthed the case file. Staring at the familiar face -- blank brown eyes staring out and filled with the blood dripping down the bloody but familiar forehead -- she grimaced.
Tam. So that's what became of you. She had already spent too much energy pushing memories of her vibrant friend and pseudo-brother away. She didn't need more pain and reminiscence. What she needed was productivity.
She reached a hand in.
A button-down shirt, with one bullet hole.
The other bullet was clearly embedded into his skull. She wondered which bullet had killed him.
Turning away from the photos, she sought the next, less human piece of evidence. It was a black cotton jacket, not unlike the many other items of attire she'd been left to process over the course of her career. Light bloodstains marred the sleeves, with a prominent smudge now dried on the lower right sleeve. The evidence file stated that it was found on Ari. Wracking her brain, she couldn't quite remember Ari wearing that particular jacket the night of the murder... but, then again, after she's found out, she hadn't been in the best -- or most lucid and detail-oriented -- state of mind.
She couldn't quite make out the connection to the two bullets, given the blood splatter, if it could even be called that. A live body, she thought, should have produced more blood than that, from the shot to the chest. But there was barely any blood on the shirt. Then again, the shot could have easily been fired from an unusual angle, or to a less blood-filled part of the body, so as to provoke less blood spatter.
She patted down the jacket, careful not to jostle the dried blood. She was surprised to find a soft, cubic lump in the pocket. Whatever it was, it clearly hadn't aged much in 30 years. So at least it's not food or something disgusting and/or moldy, she thought with a sigh.
Withdrawing her hand from the pocket, she was surprised to find a small box, baring a red velvet exterior. She opened it carefully and was shocked at its contents, even though they could have easily been expected given their container.
A ruby peeked out from a gold band. If I didn't know better, I'd think this was an engagement ring.
She had realized, given Ari's initial murder conviction, that he had been headed in a bad direction, but she had never taken him for the type to steal. Shaking her head, she realized that she knew her friends even less than she had thought. No doubt that the man who butchered Greg and Tam would have few qualms with stealing jewelry.
An alarm clock jostled her focus, reminding her that Lindsey had to get to school. Carefully returning the evidence to its box, she set it aside, covering it with her jacket and hiding it under her bed.
Loud knocking to Catherine's apartment door woke her. She groaned, looking out the window at the dark sky. She had gotten home from work at 2, per usual, and had been looking forward to a nice day of rest.
Throwing off the soft, inviting comforter, she trudged to the door. She looked through the peephole and groaned when she realized that she did, in fact, have to open it.
Tam and Ari had been using her apartment as a secret meeting place often. She could never quite appreciate the level of secrecy necessary to their relationship's well being -- a.k.a. its concealment from Mr. Jared and, as a result, the world at large. Tam's behavior had always attracted a decent amount of attention from the tabloids. After all, he was the young, handsome, energetic son of one of the big names in Vegas.
Catherine had done more than her share of work setting up beard dates for the couple, to maintain Tam's image as a straight, eligible bachelor in the press.
Such was the degree of secrecy that Ari always had to come at least an hour early, so that no reporter that happened to be following Tam would see him entering the apartment with the other young man. It would attract too much attention. So far, however, Tam's ventures into Catherine's apartment had only spawned an excess of rumors regarding a possible romance between Catherine and Tam -- which the media, of course, ate up.
Catherine opened the door to find an unusually disheveled Ari.
"Got a little action ahead of time, eh?" she asked with amusement.
Ari glared at her with bloodshot eyes.
Catherine chuckled at him. It was rare to see Ari looking quite so drunk. The man was a bartender, but always insisted on remaining relatively sober himself. He said he was too aware of the embarrassing, crude behavior of drunk men, from his work. Catherine had always suspected that another key part of it was the drunks' tendencies to say more than they meant. She knew Ari would never take a risk of getting inebriated and inadvertently exposing his and his boyfriend's secret.
"Hey now. That's not the look you give to the woman giving up her apartment for you and your boyfriend's little rendezvous," she teased.
He began to breathe deeply, clearly controlling some amount of anger or another strong emotion.
"Ari...?"
He looked her in the eye, and, this time, she could see that alcohol was not the cause of the redness in his stare. Fury, horror and despair welled up in his intense, teary gaze. Then he snapped.
"There won't be another rendezvous!" His face contorted in anger and pain. She could see the shiny streaks left by tears. "There won't be another..." He choked on his words.
"Ari... what's wrong? What happened? Did... did he break up with you?"
Ari broke down in tears, which Catherine took as an affirmative answer.
Suddenly, he was pacing, face still contorting, skipping quickly through emotions -- rage, pain, sorrow, anger, shock, desolation. He stared down at his feet, biting his lips and looking as if contemplating some act of grave destruction.
"He left me... he left me for good. And it's all my fault."
He stared up at Catherine, pure rage now etched on his normally handsome features. Somehow, tonight he looked so much older, so much more worn out.
He clenched his jaw, staring at her with intensity -- almost insanity.
"What... what did you do, Ari? Why'd he leave?"
He stared at her. His eyes begged for a reprieve from whatever insurmountable amount of pain no doubt pulsing through his entire body.
He choked back a sob and held up his hand.
It was covered in blood.
"I killed him."
Everything that happened next was a blur -- the police busting down the door to Catherine's apartment, cuffing Ari -- apparently, he had fled from the scene -- the police asking Catherine questions, which she answered truthfully.
She knew any information she gave them about Tam and Ari's relationship would almost certainly be concealed later. Mr. Jared had the money, and he would make sure of it.
The only other thing Catherine remembered distinctly from the night was kneeling to the porcelain god and puking her guts out.
Life wouldn't be the same without Tam.
***
"Are we almost done?" Even through the mask, Greg could see Richie rolling his eyes.
"You can leave anytime," Greg replied. Humor was his means of coping, and his sarcasm, in the same way, tended to come out in the most stressful situations. It was not, however, to his benefit in this case.
Richie slapped him in the face and Greg grabbed the smaller man's arm on instinct.
He knew Sara and Grissom would be proud to see how well his self-defense training had been going. Nick had always advocated learning self-defense, but Greg was more dismissive of his lover's logic, especially given the Texan's paranoid tendencies. After the beating, however, Sara had seen Greg at his worst -- lying still and swollen, with blood seeping out into the cool, cruel concrete pavement of a back alley, in excruciating pain. Sara's own reaction had, inevitably, led her to insist that Greg learn more about defending herself, so that she would never have to see Greg -- the man that was, in most ways, her best friend -- in such a position again. The added result had, of course, been Grissom's corresponding insistence, motivated in part out of concern for the welfare of the youngest member of his team, but also by his general inclination to do his own lover's bidding.
By the time Greg had recovered from the beating, he had much of the team on his back to either sign up for training in self-defense or, preferably, to start carrying a gun. The latter was out of the question; anti-gun rhetoric had been hounded into Greg since a young age in the wealthy, liberal suburbs of San Gabriel. He understood the old adage -- that guns don't kill people; only people do. Still, he didn't want to be one of those people, especially not after the Demetrius James ordeal. Warrick, in fact, had been the only member of night shift not weighing in on behalf of Greg learning how to fight; the native Las Vegan had insisted that Greg just had to know to play it safe, and that the streets of most of Las Vegas really weren't nearly as bad as they were cracked up to be.
Nonetheless, a year later, the self-defense training only served to piss Richie off, which did Greg no good.
"Soundin' off, candy ass?"
Greg bristled at the derogatory name, though, being used to such insults, he normally just ignored them. In this case, however, his nerves overwhelmed his logic. He released Richie's arm.
"Is my 'soundin' off' getting in your way?"
"No, but I can find better ways to occupy that smart mouth of yours."
Greg paled. He was tempted to look down at Catherine, to hide from the man's gaze, but, instead, he looked the man back in the eyes, putting on a brave face.
"I'm trying to focus here. As stated, you really don't want her to die."
Greg saw the leader -- apparently Ari -- edge back into the room.
"Say boss," Richie began. "Seems like that Stokes fella is takin' a while ta' finish processin.' A bit too long, I'd say."
"How do you know his last name?" Greg asked, fear already taking hold again.
"It's on his vest, idiot."
Greg sighed and turned his head back to Catherine.
"I suppose he is," Ari replied to Richie's earlier comment. He looked down at his watch.
"Maybe we want to give 'im a bit of an incentive, huh?" Richie asked.
Greg kept his head down, but glared nonetheless. He was relieved to see, out of the corner of his eye, that Ari was shaking his head.
"Nah. If Catherine is doing better, then we can have him" -- he gestured at Greg -- "help his partner."
"Partner, eh? Since when are you makin' it all formal an' such?"
"Why don't you just mind your own work, Richie," Ari replied smoothly. "That's what you're good at."
Richie nodded in acceptance. "So you're gonna let this one go? To help his boyfriend?"
"Yes. I am going to do that. I'll watch Catherine and you two can go with Julian to monitor Mr. Stokes and Mr. Sanders and to see what you can find."
"Oh. The money."
"Yes."
Greg felt a hard tap on the shoulder and looked up to find himself staring into Ari's crystal blue eyes.
"That means you have to actually move."
Greg nodded, though he cast a reluctant glance at Catherine.
"Don't worry. I'll take care of Catherine. You have my word."
Though Greg doubted that the 'word' of this man -- likely a convicted murderer, and, hopefully, soon to be a convicted murderer and robber -- was bankable, he got up and moved. There was something in Ari's gentleness toward Catherine that he found reassuring. And at least now he'd be working with Nick.
Greg edged out of the room, keeping a safe distance between him and the robbers walking in front of him. Richie and Biggs moved at an ample speed, sparing Greg any more humiliating stares or comments.
Nick was quickly visible. Like Cath's heartbeat, Nick's diligent processing calmed Greg. His boyfriend was frenetic, but efficient and meticulous. Greg hoped that he could do as well.
"Hurry up there, Greggo!" He looked up, surprised at Richie's use of his nickname yet again.
Based on the evidence, Catherine found it easy to narrow down the suspects to the dealer or, if the victim himself was a dealer, to a customer, or even a rival dealer. Logically, she thought, it was time to question nearby known druggies, particularly ones associated with heroin, and maybe even with 9 millimeter guns.
But Nick didn't seem to be of the same opinion. These days, he relied less and less on people, and more on evidence. Warrick had been right -- almost -- to say he was turning into Grissom, or at least into a Grissom of earlier years.
Catherine glanced down at her pager, rolling her eyes at the simple text, from her boss.
Need locker.
Grissom had always been one to spare words. It felt like he had barely spoken since Sara's departure.
"Come on, Nick."
She wasn't too surprised that Nick didn't even flinch at her command. The words didn't register with the younger man. His eyes and mind were possessed, for the moment, solely by the series of now-worn photos layered across the table.
"Nicky," she repeated with more urgency. He twitched, finally looking up as she tapped him on the shoulder.
"Yeah?" His voice was impatient, which seemed to be the usual, at least since that night.
"We need to talk."
He scowled, but when her grip on his wrist didn't give, he conceded, tearing his face away from the photos.
"In the break room."
He nodded, reluctantly following her out the door, face still expressionless. She had no doubt that, though his feet pried him away from the table, the photos and corresponding case still held his mind. Either that or Greg still held it.
Nick stared across the room, looking for any more visible evidence. He cared about his own case, but, for now, doing his best job to meet the robbers' requirements was his chief interest. That, he knew, could easily be what it took to appease the men and ensure the three CSIs' safety. So, he put his all into the strange quest of reverse-processing.
Julian -- the taller, lanky robber, who also seemed to be the oldest -- monitored Nick's work in silence. The gangly man sat against the wall of the casino, murmuring to himself. When Nick strained his ears closely enough, it almost sounded like the man was mumbling Shakespearian verses to himself. Nick chuckled; he knew that, were Grissom a robber, that's probably how he would spend his time in the given situation.
Footsteps interrupted his train of thought, and he cursed silently at the distraction. Neither Biggs nor Richie seemed to know much about investigating crime scenes, nor about professionalism. They would only serve to detract from Nick's work, and from the speed with which they all could, ideally, get out of the stifling backrooms. Nick ignored whatever rude words were drifting out of Richie's mouth at the moment.
A third set of footsteps followed -- these ones Nick recognized, even though they normally bore so much more enthusiasm. Nick looked up, casting Greg what he hoped was a gentle, reassuring glance. Nick had been in enough stressful situations that he was confident in his ability to calm another person with such a glance. Then again, Greg was an unusually frenetic presence and Nick knew firsthand how hard it was to calm Greg down in the worst cases.
Greg gave a slight nod as he moved forward to join Nick in front of the wall.
"What do you need help with?" he asked quietly.
On most occasions, Nick would have expected the lower-level CSI to figure out what to do on his own. But today was different, and Greg could have any number of rationales behind the question.
"Help me with the wall," Nick responded.
They began to look over the wall in silence, removing spots of blood and other fluids... and unidentified things... whenever they saw them.
To Nick, the silence was peaceful. The older CSI had already evaluated the situation and determined the best course of action. His plan was simple: Remove all evidence possible, no matter how minute, and get out as quickly as possible.
Still, the robbers looked to be getting bored.
Nick felt a presence approaching him from behind, and Richie's breathing quickly made itself known at the back of Nick's neck.
"Can I help you?" Nick asked coolly.
"Nah. Just inspectin' your method."
"Richie. Give 'im some room." Without looking up, Nick could tell it was Biggs speaking. The larger man, clearly the enforcer, had a notably low voice.
Nick glanced over at Greg, who was holding his breath and glaring while watching the exchange. Had the situation been different, Nick would have been slightly aroused by the firm, focused expression on Greg's face and the possessive, protective sentiment it underlaid. But this was not the time for that.
Greg nodded at Nick in a gesture of solidarity and encouragement, and Nick redirected his thoughts back to the wall.
Greg tapped lightly on the wall from his spot a few feet down, to get Nick's attention again.
He leaned in to whisper in Nick's ear. "Why don't we find something for them to do. It'll make this go faster and get them off our backs."
Nick nodded, impressed with the logic.
"Hey," Greg addressed the three men, though he faced Julian (who seemed the least intimidating) most.
Richie sneered back at Greg, but Greg didn't back down.
"You gettin' bored?" Greg asked, returning Richie's stare.
Richie snorted and Julian looked up questioningly. Biggs just continued to stare.
"O' course we are," Richie replied. "Why? Ya got some better way ta' keep us entertained?"
Greg nodded. "You guys could help us process."
Richie snorted again. "Do your job for you?"
Julian, however, seemed appeased. "Actually, that makes sense. What help do you need?"
"Start in that room," Greg replied quickly -- almost a little too quickly.
Nick caught the slack. "We're almost done with this room. We need you to start in the room next door. There were some fibers in there."
"But we weren't even --" Biggs started.
"Yes we were," Julian interrupted. "I know the drill. We clean up the fibers, use some o' that fancy cleanin' stuff from your kits and wipe up everythin' that looks like a person's been near in the last day."
Greg and Nick nodded, impressed with the man's expertise. Then again, it made sense that someone in the operation would have to be intelligent and well-informed in order to pull off such a heist.
The three men made their way out and Greg and Nick both let loose sighs of relief.
"Nick, sweetie, we need to talk," she said gently as she shut the break room door behind them. "You might want to sit down first."
He lowered himself mechanically to the sofa. She sat down next to him, and he scooted over on instinct.
His eyes were so empty, yet frantic and sad, his face covered in stubble. Warrick had finally convinced him to shave after three weeks, telling Nick that he was starting to look like Grissom, though the stubble had begun to make its way back again. He hadn't cut his hair in more than a month, since before the incident.
Nick looked frantically around him, as if for papers he thought he needed. "If it's about the Hernandez case, I swear I'm on top of it."
"It's not about the Hernandez case."
"Oh." Nick furrowed his brow, as if confused. But he had to have known this was coming. He'd been acting this way for weeks -- a month to be exact, or at least for the last three weeks.
Catherine looked up to make sure the break room was empty.
Warrick was standing by the coffee filter, pouring himself a glass and trying not to stare at what was happening on the couch. The coffee hadn't tasted the same since they lost Greg. Nick had taken the last of the Blue Hawaiian from the break room. He couldn't keep it together at work if he had to smell Greg's coffee. But the team would still recognize that scent on Nick every so often. He'd never actually disposed of it, and who could blame him? It was good coffee, though Catherine and Warrick both knew that wasn't the reason Nick still drank it in the still safety of his home.
Catherine gave Warrick a look. He knew the one. He always would. Warrick made his way out, and Catherine could still see him standing guard. She knew he was at least a little curious -- she almost would have expected some protest. After all, Warrick was Nick's best friend, or at least had been. Catherine had never known where the line had been drawn between best friends, particularly as it applied to Nick, Greg and Warrick. Gradually, especially as Warrick got closer to Tina, and with Greg in the field, the lines had changed; alliances had shifted. And, obviously, somewhere along the line, Nick and Greg had become something more than friends.
Catherine didn't notice the silence -- Nick certainly had no complaints -- until she saw Nick reach for a Kleenex. She smirked. Nick wouldn't be the one to break the silence. He had grown so accustomed to it as of late. She missed the noisiness of the team -- the rowdiness of the boys, the chuckles and laughs as various combinations of six tired bodies gathered together for coffee. But nothing would be the same -- certainly not the noise and rowdiness -- without Greg.
She put a hand on Nick's shoulder. He didn't flinch. He didn't seem to notice it there, but he turned around nonetheless. His face held nothing but apathy -- a blank stare -- but she knew there was pain, among the many other layers, hidden behind the surface. Nick had always been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, and the fact that Catherine, who was normally good at reading people, couldn't see directly into his emotions in that moment, scared her. Nick was buried further into his own grief than she had thought.
"Nicky, it's been a month."
Nick nodded. He knew what she was talking about. Of course he did. "They found him?"
She looked down painfully. That's what he expected, she thought. He thought I'd tell him they found his -- Greg's -- body. It was still too weird to be thinking of it as finding a corpse, not of finding Greg. That the dead body wouldn't contain the riotous laughter, that fierce, yet jovial and amicable personality they had all come to love. "No. They haven't found it yet."
Nick nodded, pursing his lips. "I figured as much. Why would they make him a priority?" he said as his voice broke. He didn't even try holding back the tears. Catherine could tell he'd been holding them back all day, most likely. It was in the safety of the break room, knowing that this was a personal chat with Catherine about what had been on his mind every minute for the last month, that Nick could break the stiff, cold façade he'd struggled to construct. Catherine wondered how he got through each day without breaking down in tears. He probably goes home and breaks down as soon as he's out of here, she thought ruefully.
With all of that in mind, Catherine couldn't figure out how to break the news. Nick had been a walking zombie since the incident. While she could say she wanted him to get over it, she knew that wasn't realistic, nor would it even be healthy. There had to be a healthy grieving process out there, but it would take a while. She just wasn't sure if the news she was about to give Nick would help that process along, or if he was even ready for it.
It was a simple task, in theory. 'A simple task' is what Ecklie had labeled it. And that man had as much humanity as a fruit fly from Grissom's collection. The graveyard shift, and probably even Ecklie, knew it meant so much more than that. Saying goodbye was easy. Just forming the words. Cleaning out Greg's locker was a goodbye, a simple task, but that wouldn't make it any easier for Nick.
"Nicky. You probably know there's gonna be a new CSI coming in." Judging by the surprised expression permeating the blank stare, Catherine could tell that he did not, in fact, know that. Maybe he knows that at the back of his mind, but everything at the back of his mind has been drowned out by thoughts of Greg. Catherine didn't want to blame her dead colleague, but his death really had left Nick a changed man, and not at all for the better. "The new CSI..."
"New CSI? Wait --" She could see Nick's face contorting, finally showing his realization as to who they'd be replacing. "Oh," he said, sorrowfully looking down.
"Grissom..." She struggled to get out the next words in the most diplomatic, gentlest way possible. "Grissom wants you to... err.... it doesn't have to be you -- but we thought you'd want to --"
Nick looked up. "I'm not training the newbie."
Catherine couldn't help but stifle a bitter chuckle. Nick, in his present, cold, oblivious state, was the last team member, aside from Greg, that would be assigned to training the new recruit. That would be a sure way of driving away the new CSI 1 within hours.
Nick looked up puzzled at Catherine's masked laugh. She coughed, reaching for the Kleenex box that seemed to stay permanently in Nick's hands. He didn't seem offended.
"No. We don't want you to mentor him -- or her, whoever it is."
Nick nodded.
"But they're gonna need a locker."
Nick nodded again. "You want me to share? I don't really end up using mine for much anyways anymore." Catherine looked down sadly, remembering the happy team photos -- all of them including Greg -- that used to litter Nick's locker. Then she saw the truth dawn on him. "You want to use his locker?" It was barely a question.
Catherine nodded.
"He really is dead, isn't he?" Catherine could see the stale chocolate pooling up in Nick's eyes. She wanted to cry for the broken man sitting next to her.
"Yes," she whispered, holding back her own tears for the whole situation, for Greg, and for that treacherous night one month ago, but mostly for the man -- her friend -- sitting in front of her. She knew Nick would never be the same again. "Yes, he really is."
***
Catherine sighed sadly, staring at the dismal sight and clearing way for Nick. There was barely a need. He hardly noticed her presence as he dashed out of the locker room. Even Grissom could have seen the tears building in Nick's eyes, had he looked. She followed on light feet as he rushed away, hands barely shadowing his quickly tearing eyes.
Nick couldn't even handle clearing out Greg's old locker. It was hard to imagine him being able to take the news that Greg's case was closing -- that his boyfriend's body would, most likely, never be found. Catherine was glad that she hadn't tried to drop the second bombshell on Nick today.
Her eyes intent on Nick, Catherine hardly noticed Warrick standing still -- He's probably already missed his date -- also watching and almost blocking her passage. He was good at camouflaging and pretending not to watch. But she knew better. Nick had already made it to the men's restroom by the time Catherine had spotted her reliable, almost expressionless friend. "You wanna go talk to him?"
Warrick nodded, an understanding passing yet again in a split second before he rushed -- but not quickly enough to be conspicuous -- after Nick into the bathroom.
Nick finished dusting everything within a five foot radius of the corpse, as well as anything likely to have come into contact with it.
He carefully looked over the dead body for any clues one last time. The corpse looked to be that of a higher-level employee. He was killed cleanly with a shot to the head. No defensive wounds or other markings were present.
Had their processing not been interrupted, they would have still had at least an hour-long wait for Super Dave, the assistant coroner who, like Catherine, had first been dispatched to the desert 419, where Warrick still was. Nick wondered what would happen when Super Dave arrived now, or why Caveliere hadn't noticed anything yet. Then again, the detective was probably expecting them to take another few hours to finish with the scene, so he probably didn't expect to hear anything from them.
Nick looked back at the body, then scanned the room again. The room was so barren. He got up to try to find something else.
That was when he noticed the spot on the wall. It was tiny -- only the expert eye of a CSI trained to notice the smallest details would have seen it. It looked like it could be a fiber, maybe even from the body. The DB was a man, middle-aged and wearing a white shirt and black dress pants. The shirt was only slightly brighter than the room's off-white walls, and Nick hoped the fiber, which looked to be black, was from the vic's pants. It was smaller than a fingerprint and almost camouflaged with the wall. But the key word was almost, as he bent down to inspect it, quickly finding that it was not a fiber over the wall but a hole that bit into it.
Curious, he bent down further to look through the hole, in case there was any clue hidden inside. Looking in, he was greeted not with a small hole filled with insects, nor even with a few stacks of bills. A gap was revealed.
"Hey Greg! Come here!" he whispered loudly to his partner, who stood feet away.
Greg turned his head quizzically. Curiosity was mixed with the lingering stress of the situation on his face.
"Come 'ere. Take a look at this," Nick said, waving Greg towards him. He pointed to the hole.
Greg looked at him inquisitively before a look of realization hit him.
Nick looked at his partner, questioningly, as Greg leaned down to see his estimation confirmed.
"The Braun safe! Congratulations, Nicky! You just found a fortune!" Greg whispered excitedly. The tension on the younger CSI's face was temporarily gone, and Nick himself breathed a sigh of relief in response.
Nick turned around, raising an eyebrow incredulously. "Are you sure Greg?"
"You can go ahead and check it out, but I bet that's what it is. It's sure what it looks to be. By the way, according to my confidential interviews with Lily Flynn, the locker combinations for the safe are likely to be 6-8-47, 6-9-36, 8-2-6 and 22-8-4. "
"You memorized all of those?!" Nick asked, shaking his head in greater disbelief as he tried to memorize the numbers. He looked over his shoulder to confirm that the robbers were still gone.
"Sort of," Greg said, smiling. "I'll tell you how I figured it out someday," he added with a wink. "For now, I'll get back to the wall. You check out the safe and I'll cover for you. Don't take long in there. I kinda doubt they were ever in there. If they were, they would have gotten out hours ago."
Nick fiddled around before finding a button on the inside of the hole. A small enough part of the wall pulled back to reveal a lock. Plugging in the numbers Greg had given him, Nick was surprised when the wall moved back, revealing a tiny room barely big enough to contain both Nick and its treasures.
He still couldn't believe the luck of the find. Money could buy anything. By that logic, finding the opulent safe had to win them something. "Maybe, if we're lucky, we can buy them off with some of the money from the safe."
"That doesn't seem like such a good idea," Greg responded, rather despondently.
"How come?"
"We can't just give away money that's not ours."
"We're trying to get out of here."
"Yeah, but it's still not our money."
"Greg. Last I checked, I've dealt with more of this sort of situation than you have."
Greg rolled his eyes. "Yeah. I can barely count back all the times you've been stuck in a hostage crisis at one of the biggest -- and richest -- Vegas landmarks. Cause it's sooo darn many."
"Oh shut up. You know what I mean." Now really wasn't the time for another argument with Greg, even if this one was over professional, rather than personal issues.
"Yeah, but you don't seem to be getting what I mean. This casino" -- he gestured at his surroundings -- "is a big part of Vegas." He paused, clearing his throat. " As in a big part of the Vegas economy. As in, if we just let these guys take all the money here, the casino would lose major money. People would lose their jobs... It would affect the entire city. It's not our place to just give the money away. Not to mention it would be rewarding these guys with what's basically an infinite amount of money."
"There's no such thing as an infinite amount of money. Greed knows no bounds."
Greg chuckled, shaking his head. It astounded Nick how Greg could always find something to laugh or smile about, in even the direst of situations. It reminded him of Sara telling him how Greg had even been joking around -- flirting with Sara, even -- when she'd come to see him after the beating in the alleyway, even as he laid on the dirty pavement, bruised, bloody and in excruciating pain.
"What?" Nick asked, wondering what was so funny.
"You, my friend, have been spending way too much time with Grissom. 'Cause that is not something you'd be sayin' on your own."
"Hey now. Just 'cause I'm a hick doesn't mean I'm not edumacated," Nick joked back, overdoing his accent. Still, he quickly brought himself back to the situation, in all its gravity. "In all seriousness, Greggo --"
"No. We're not giving them the safe. And that's final."
"Greg. You don't have the authority to --"
"Nick. We have to get to work. Now. Before they realize we're not working. We can talk about the safe later. But this damn room has to get processed either way --"
"Not if we pay them off first."
"What makes you think they won't just blow our brains out once they've gotten the chance? Huh?"
Nick nodded, recognizing Greg's logic.
"This way," Greg continued, "at least we're guaranteed some more time. We already know their names, so the likelihood of them just letting us go is pretty darn low. And yes, you may have been in more scary situations on the job, but I still know how hostage situations work. Right now, given the circumstances, time is on our side."
"I'm not sure about that. And, if time is on our side, then why send them over to help processing?"
"To get them to leave. Plain and simple. We can BS all the processing we want. Take as much time as we want. But giving them the money could mess that all up."
"I still don't think you're right about that. Hostage situations are different if nobody knows you're taken hostage. So far, as far as we can tell, there's no lot of SWAT officers waitin' outside to take 'em out. So we might want to get them out sooner, before LVPD shows up."
Greg nodded, recognizing the validity of the statement. "Fine. But, speed aside, we still can't give them the safe. It's wrong."
Sensing the noise of -- no doubt -- the robbers talking coming close, he accepted Greg's logic, for the moment, and closed the door to the safe before returning to work processing.
Soft footsteps behind them tore away their focus.
"How're you two doin'?"
"Uhh." Greg moved over, as if to show Julian his progress.
"I don't see anything." Julian's voice was soft, but powerful, and more than a little creepily foreshadowing.
"What have you done?" he asked Greg.
"I... I just got here. I started dusting the wall --"
"I've been watching your friend here" -- he gestured at Nick -- " for over a half hour. And I've seen how long he takes to dust walls. He finished at least a full side of the wall in that half-hour. Sure enough, it looks like he's gotten a third of that wall over there done, after ten minutes. But in the same ten minutes you've gotten done maybe a foot or so. You wanna explain to me why that is?"
Greg gulped. "I... err... helped him with that wall."
"You're lying."
"No, I'm not."
Julian leaned in. "I suggest you start telling the truth or it's gonna get uglier here. The girl in the other room is special. To Ari. As I'm sure you've noticed. That guy, your boyfriend" -- he gestured at Nick again -- "actually gets his work done. He's useful." He leaned in to look Greg in the eye. "You, however, are disposable. You're not workin' fast. In fact, judgin' by the progress you two have made in the last ten minutes, and by the amount of talkin' I'm hearing from this room, I'd say that, if anything, you're slowing down the work here. And that makes you less than disposable. It makes you trash. Something that maybe we should dispose of."
Greg shivered and leaned as far away from the man as he could. Julian seemed uninterested in his movement and backed up himself before leaving the room. However, when he headed not for the room he'd been clearing out, but for the one where Ari and Catherine were, Greg and Nick both knew that they were in trouble -- or at least one of them was.
Nick was washing his face. Warrick knew instantaneously what that meant. Nick had been nowhere near hygienic in the past month, to the point that Warrick and Catherine were left to remind him of simple things like washing his face, shaving... They'd gotten to the point of trading off weeks to stop by Nick's apartment to pick up his laundry. The man was a mess, to say the least.
And, the mess that he was, Nick wasn't washing his face because of dirt. Warrick gently walked up behind him, and Nick didn't even notice.
Nick looked up from the sink, checking his face for signs of crying, when Warrick's eyes met his in the bathroom mirror. Nick's sad expression morphed quickly -- but not quickly enough -- into an almost angry stare, as if challenging Warrick's place behind Nick at the sink.
"There are more sinks."
"My hands are clean. Because, unlike you, I've been on top of my hygiene lately."
Nick scowled. "If I want to grow back my hair and stuff, that's up to me." It's not like Greg's here to complain anymore.
Warrick rolled his eyes. He knew Cath had already played 'good cop,' or maybe the gentle mother, in the locker room to Nick. That clearly hadn't worked. It wasn't about telling Nick his grief was wrong, but he needed to be functional. "Dude. Cath and I have been doing your fuckin' laundry for the past month." Seeing Nick's hollow eyes, Warrick couldn't resist losing at least part of his 'bad cop' routine to his gentler side -- the one that had been Nick's best friend, and felt for his friend's anguish. It's Nick, for cripes' sake. Softening his voice, Warrick spoke again, knowing Nick probably wouldn't respond anyways. "You're not acting like Nicky anymore. You haven't been yourself."
Nick furrowed his brows at the last statement before replying sharply -- bluntly -- "Well, Greg isn't Greggo anymore, either."
"Nick --"
"I'll wash my own laundry from now on. I'm a grown man."
"Well, you're not acting like it."
Nick scowled. "What do you want, Warrick?"
"To help you!" Warrick couldn't help but shouting. It had seemed obvious to him. "Honestly, getting out of doing extra laundry didn't make that much of a difference for me anyways," he added, shaking his head with a sad chuckle. "I just want my friend back."
Nick looked to be contemplating Warrick's last words. He gently nodded his head in understanding, before speaking. "It's just... today... Cath and Griss wanted me to clear Greg's locker. And... I..." He struggled for words. "I just couldn't. I couldn't... just... say goodbye like that. I couldn't admit that he's not coming back."
Warrick contemplated his options. It was tempting to go for tough love again, explaining that Nick had to accept that Greg wasn't coming back, whether he wanted to or not. Because, ultimately, that was the truth. Greg wasn't coming back. Seeing the tears threatening release yet again, however, forced the softie out of Warrick, and quickly at that. "I'll clear his locker out for you, if you want."
Nick was silent for a moment, considering the proposal. "There's a big backpack I left in the locker room. Can you just... stick everything in there? Carefully. I'll sort it out later."
"Sure."
A small smile blossomed on Nick's face -- the first one Warrick had seen on Nick all day. Warrick doubted he was doing the right thing, but it made Nick happy, and Catherine would hopefully be appeased by the temporary resolution. If Nick -- or, more appropriately, Greg's family -- felt like sorting through it later, they still could. But this allowed more time for Nick to find closure on his own terms. And God knows closure is what Nick needs, Warrick thought with a sad sigh as he closed the door.
Warrick headed to the locker room, grabbing a bag from his own locker -- it was nicer than the backpack Nick had left out -- and carefully began folding the contents of Greg's locker and tenderly putting them in the backpack. He finished quickly.
Grabbing his keys out of his own locker, he headed out.
Julian returned from the room, face still stoic. Greg and Nick silently let out breaths of relief as the older robber moved toward the room that Biggs and Richie were supposed to be clearing.
But their relief was cut off mid-breath when Julian looked back at them with a chilly, frightening smile.
"One of the boys will want to give you an incentive not to take your time and lie to me," he spoke, again smoothly and venomously, to Greg. Greg shivered.
Richie reappeared in the room, scowling. Greg could tell in an instant that they had had little luck with cleaning, and with finding whatever it was they were looking for.
"You got somethin' for me to do, Julian? Or somebody?"
Greg glared. "The only thing for you to do is what you were doing. So get back to it if you want to get out of here."
Richie growled, and Greg instantly knew the smart talk had been a bad idea, as Richie approached him.
"You gonna get snooty with me, boy?"
Greg stood up to face him, and show that he was no longer a boy to be taken lightly. No matter the derogatory names the world seemed intent on throwing at him, he was a man.
"You wanted us to help process and clear the scene of your crime. It's hardly beneficial for you to agitate us while we're attempting to do what you asked of us."
"Quit it with the big words," Richie replied, glaring Greg down. "Tryna sound all smart, huh?" he added as Biggs entered the room. "I'll show you."
Greg eyed the increased threat, watching Biggs' eyes turn into a leer. Greg took a step back.
"That's right, boy," Richie said, sneering. "Back it down." He pulled out a gun and twirled it around. Greg was surprised that he'd just thought to use that, but, then again, he probably wouldn't have needed it in the first place against Greg.
He pointed it at Greg, gesturing to sit down. "Hands on your head."
Greg glared. The additional order was unnecessary. Greg clearly wasn't carrying a gun.
"Biggs, you wanna search 'im? Or can I?"
"Be my guest."
"You already searched me," Greg replied with gritted teeth. But the men ignored him, continuing as if he hadn't spoken.
"Nice. You spot 'im, then."
"Sure thing," Biggs replied, taking Richie's gun.
As much as Greg would have liked to take the opportunity to knee Richie in the groin or such, and bolt, he knew the idea was beyond unrealistic.
He could feel Richie's breath on his neck as the smaller man moved behind him to frisk him for a weapon. Greg rolled his eyes, and tried to distract himself from the moment, as the hands made their way over him.
That was when he heard the tapping. It was coming from the wall -- from Nick. Nick stared angrily at him, mouthing the word 'safe.'
Greg rolled his eyes. He wasn't giving the combination over.
Richie repositioned himself in front of Greg, and sneered up. Greg could feel a larger body -- no doubt Biggs -- move behind him.
Julian seemed to have picked up on Nick's words. "What's your boyfriend tryin' to say to you?"
"None of your business," Greg replied icily.
"You gonna tell me what he's goin' on about?" Richie asked, still sneering.
Greg just glared back.
"Why's it takin' it so long to process, kid?" replied the gruff voice -- Biggs -- behind him. "It seems like you needed an incentive, huh?"
Greg shook his head.
Richie's glare was venomous. The hands grabbed his shirt collar, and moved down his chest, kneading hard, as Biggs held Greg's back steady.
Greg grunted at the pain.
Biggs yelled out, "Hey Ari! We got somethin'!"
Greg could hear a gentle shuffle in the other room and, gradually, Ari made his way in, carefully aiding a still-wounded Catherine.
"What seems to be the issue?" Ari asked impatiently, as he shot worried glances at Catherine.
It was Julius that replied. "Something's up with this one." He pointed to Greg. "He's either a really bad investigator, or he's been spending his time on something else."
Greg glared, but underneath he was genuinely worried. Julian had an uncanny ability to guess his activities, or so it seemed.
Biggs leaned in, to whisper urgently in Greg's ear. "So what was it you were doin,' huh?"
Greg ignored the question, despite the hands' painful progress.
Richie's sneer turned away from Greg, and towards the wall. Greg gulped. It turned back to the leader.
The leader turned back to Greg. "Is there a reason you're not answering my colleague's question?"
Greg snorted at the word 'colleague.' "I was processing the scene. Like I told your other colleague." He tried to lift a hand to point to Julian, but Biggs retained a hard grasp on Greg's arms, so the CSI simply nodded his head toward the older robber.
Ari spoke this time. "You're hiding something." His voice was even more frightening than Julian's -- it wasn't quite low, nor was it quite high. It was, however, more than quite confident.
Greg shook his head furiously, still too terrified for words.
"Just leave him alone. He was just working slowly. He can speed up. Just leave him alone so he can concentrate. So we all can concentrate." Greg was grateful to see that Nick was, in this case, the voice of reason.
"Fine, Tex. Tell us what he's hiding," Julian replied. "Because I know he'd hiding something."
"We found the safe."
"The safe?" Julian raised an eyebrow.
Ari, however, broke the excuse. "That still doesn't cover all the time he wasn't doing anything."
Greg looked over at Nick, pleading with his eyes for Nick to not say anything more, but it was all in vain.
"We were arguing about whether to open it."
"How is that relevant if you don't even know how to open it?" Richie replied, eyebrow raised in clear anticipation of a verbal victory.
Nick looked over at Greg apologetically before replying. "We do know the combination."
Even Julian gasped, though it was quickly replaced by a guffaw. "Like hell you do."
"We do. Or, rather, Greg does."
"Does he?" Julian eyed Greg with increasing interest. "Prove it."
Greg shook his head vehemently.
"Well then. I'd say your bluff is called." He turned to Richie, who punched Greg in the stomach. "That's for your lie," he said to Nick.
Nick glared. "I'm not lying. Greg. Tell them the combination."
Greg shook his head again.
"I swear, he knows it."
"Well, in that case, we'll just have to beat it out of him," Julian replied stiffly. He turned to Ari, who nodded his head in affirmation.
Richie grabbed Greg's chin, forcing him to look Richie in the eye. "You're gonna tell us how to get in. Otherwise, we're gonna make you regret it."
Greg realized the meaning of Richie's words when Richie's hand found its way back onto Greg's chest, falling down to grope him. Greg squirmed and let loose a small cry at the sudden, painful contact. But he still shook his head. Especially now, knowing what the men were capable of. He wasn't going to give them the money that would, no doubt, guarantee them free run of the streets.
Greg was relieved to finally feel the release from Richie's hands. The leader -- Ari -- moved toward him, looking him in the eye.
"Tell us now." The man's gaze was intense, and Greg practically squirmed away, just from the hard stare of the deep blue-green eyes.
Greg didn't answer. He was too scared to think, which meant no risking giving away any information.
"Where is the safe?"
Ari's hands gripped Greg's chin more harshly, and Greg could feel the hard, strong skin and nails biting into cheeks.
Ari gestured outward to his three co-conspirators. "You know what they'll do to you if you don't cooperate?"
The robber ran his hand softly up Greg's chest, eliciting shivers from his captive.
Greg turned his face downward, or at least as downward as it would go, in shame at the implications. He gave a small nod.
Ari's voice grew gentler. "Then why won't you give us the answers?"
"Because it's not the right thing to do." The answer was soft, scared and vulnerable.
Ari shook his head, clearly in exasperation at Greg's obstinacy. He gestured to Biggs, who moved forward. Greg felt Richie grip on his back tighten. What's going on? Why are they moving?
Greg was terrified, not knowing what was coming next.
The fist in his gut interrupted his train of thought. He doubled over, against Richie's tight shoulder lock, and let out a startled cry.
As soon as he had fallen, hands reached down to pick him up again. Greg squirmed against the arms holding him still.
Ari edged toward him, staring him in the eyes again. Then, he reached down for the hem of Greg's t-shirt. Greg squirmed again as the t-shirt was brought up and over his head, effectively blinding him. It covered his head, and he worried about suffocating. He hated not seeing what they planned on doing to him.
A new pair of hands -- probably Ari's or Julian's -- reached down to trace his stomach. He felt the hands push and prod, as if searching for something. Finally, they settled on a spot, and Greg knew why. They didn't want to kill him. Greg screamed in pain as a sharp pain hit the spot, even as he knew, thanks to Ari's knowledge of anatomy, that the knife or whatever it was had avoided any key internal organs.
Greg moaned, and he could hear Richie chuckling in his ear.
Greg was finally allowed to fall to the floor, but was quickly met with cruel kicks to the stomach. He could hear -- and feel -- at least one rib cracking. He whimpered in pain at each blow. Breathing was hard as it was, and he couldn't see the source of the blows through the t-shirt still covering his head. He felt panicked, blind and helpless.
He tried to roll over, but was rewarded with a kick to the back. Another foot slammed down on his side, eliciting another shriek of pain.
Suddenly the attacks stopped, and Greg groaned in relief, finally succeeding in curling into a protective ball. He could feel someone approach him; the heated breathing gave whoever it was away. Greg flinched reflexively from the presence.
He felt hands reach for the shirt that still covered his face. Greg was both relieved and afraid to have the obstacle removed, improving his breathing, but forcing him to face one of the assailants. He immediately tried to shirk away from the face as soon as the shirt was off, but a hand stopped him, eliciting a scared whimper.
"This is your last chance. Tell us how to get into the safe. I know you know how." The man gestured at the safe. "Or, at least, your boyfriend seems to think so. Either he's a liar, or you are. Either way, one of you is going down."
Greg glared. Even if Nick seemed to think giving them the safe would help in some way, Greg wasn't giving in. He didn't know who the robbers were or what they wanted, but they definitely were not touching Nick. Which meant Greg played the liar.
The man was about to say something when Catherine rolled over, pushing a reassuring hand towards Greg. But her eyes, Greg could see, were clearly on the man standing over Greg.
"Ari. Please. Don't hurt him."
The man took a step back, clearly taken off guard by the request.
Her voice grew softer, but more imploring. "Don't -- Stop touching him. He's not Tam."
The man stared at Catherine, horrified. "How -- ah --" He struggled for words, like someone gasping underwater for some airy relief. Finally he cut off the stumbling with curt, angry words. "You don't know what you're talking about, Cath."
"Greg isn't going to tell you how to open it. He's a stubborn one," she almost sobbed out, with a mirthful, sad, dry chuckle. "Ask Nicky."
"I'm fairly certain that if Nicky knew the combination, he would have given it to us by now."
Catherine shook her head. "He only needs to know part of it. I think I can figure out the rest."
Somehow, her words seemed to convey more than Greg could see to the man, who now seemed speechless. Still visibly perturbed, for whatever reason, by the conversation, he nodded, following Catherine's instructions to the far wall. He paused before turning back, where he reached for Catherine and gently helped her up. Together, they hobbled over to the wall to speak to Nick.
Greg stared, astonished by the betrayal, even as he was grateful for the temporary reprieve in violence towards himself.
He watched Nick repeat whichever numbers he had managed to remember to Catherine. And then he saw Catherine's face light up. Greg should have guessed that Catherine would have been able to make the connection. It was just his luck that one of the other two people alive, in the whole world, that knew the combination for the safe, was in the same room and willing to give the information over.
He saw Catherine and the man moving around in front of the hole, and crossed his fingers that something good would come of their actions. At least Catherine seems to get along with him...
Then the door opened.
Wendy was distracted from the pile of DNA samples waiting to be processed by a tap on the shoulder. Finally, she thought, as she looked up at Catherine's smiling face. More to do for the case.
She had worked her butt off at the scene, but the thoroughness, Wendy knew, would be worth it. She wanted to know her case inside and out. Rather start off putting in 120 percent and slow down from there, as needed, than to start off doing the minimum amount of work per case, especially when even having a career as a CSI depended on it.
She followed Catherine out of the lab, presumably to view results or interview the source of the hair found on the dresser.
That work ethic had always been her style. That was what had allowed her to finally succeed as a DNA technician for the Vegas crime lab, where two before her had failed. Greg, she suspected, had succeeded due to a combination of hard work and phenomenal brain power. People had given him crap -- a lot -- especially as a CSI 1, but they failed to appreciate just how smart he was. She had little doubt that he could have beaten any other lab employee -- maybe even Grissom or Sara -- in a game of chess, a Mensa puzzle or any other test of mental prowess. He had been a force to be reckoned with, which left her all the more unsure of her path toward replacing him.
Wendy was immersed in thought as the pair headed toward the locker room.
She had always taken pride in beating men in their own games -- fields they expected to excel at, and men that took her as a trophy wife bimbo type, not an intelligent, sentient being. She had always taken pride in their looks of surprise as she, through sheer hard work, surpassed their own efforts. But she had no intention of beating Greg, or rather, his record, as a CSI 1. She doubted she even could. Greg had never been the kind to underestimate, and certainly not the type to dismiss someone's mental abilities because of a pretty face. He had been, truly, a good person.
She struggled against his shadow, legacy and memory every day, as both a person and as a professional.
Which made Catherine's next words evoke all the more thundering of emotions.
"Wendy. You've done a good job. I know you haven't passed all of your proficiencies yet, but I trust you will. Gil, Warrick and I all do." Nick's name wasn't even worth mentioning, Wendy knew, because he probably wasn't even aware that she was training to become a CSI, given his oblivious hyper focus of the last month.
Catherine led the way to the locker room, pointing at locker number 7.
"Here's the key to your new locker."
Nick kneeled over the prone man in front of him, watching beads of sweat cling to flushed skin and, ever so slowly, disappear down the ridges of Greg's face and arms and neck. Nick ran a hand over his boyfriend's face, and Greg leaned in to the gesture.
"How'd you get yourself into this, Greggo?" Nick whispered as he stroked Greg's sweat and blood drenched hair. "Why not just cooperate?"
"Had to do the right thing," Greg whispered, looking up into Nick's eyes.
Nick sighed, understanding, at least somewhat. "You're lucky that wound was planned out. And that Ari knew what he was doing. That he was trying not to kill you with that one, because he easily could have."
Greg looked up and nodded without meeting Nick's eyes. "I can get it checked out when we get out." His voice was surprisingly -- and scarily -- hoarse, which almost brought tears to Nick's eyes.
Greg gently pushed one of Nick's hands away and Nick looked down questioningly.
"Don't touch. I've got evidence."
Evidence. The word had never held such horrific possibilities before, Nick thought with a startled shudder. The robbers clearly understood the concept of investigating crime scenes. They would understand that they'd left evidence all over Greg from the beating. And they couldn't leave behind evidence.
Nick choked back a sob and clutched Greg closer.
***
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