Home of Greg Sanders Slash Fiction
Author: ne'ichan
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: Greg/multiple
Rating: FRAO overall,
Category: Slash, m/m. Multiple partners. H/C. Dark subjects, troubling topics. Mutilation.
Status: WIP
Archive: Yes, if you let me know. Currently at WWOMB.
Feedback: Yes. [email protected] No mean stuff.
Email: [email protected]
Authors Web Site: none
Series/Sequel: series, in progress
Disclaimers: I do not own any of the characters from the show.
Authors Notes: The story deals with human trafficking. A real criminal problem even in the US. Perhaps my view is extreme, perhaps it is not. I am not in the Justice field, I don't know much about CSI. Or the technical stuff. I am in the medical field and will do my best to be accurate in that realm. Also, I have no beta for this fandom. I am looking.
Spoilers: I don't know the show well enough to spoil anything.
Summary: A case begins, and one of the members of the CSI team vanishes. The rest of the team reacts.
Warnings: difficult subjects. Sale of human beings. Imprisonment, Non-con. Mutilation.
Part One (This part rated FRT)
Greg knelt down next to the grate and shone his flashlight in at an angle. The hardwood floor hurt his knees a little, but he barely noticed. He shifted the beam minutely several times, shuffling on his knees, until he had it just right. He saw the lazy, drifting dust motes, but beyond them he saw something much more important.
His sharp eyes picked up the fragment at once. There. Half buried in the ash, resting at a slant. A burned paper. Charred black. But intact, fragile, yet legible. He directed his breath away from the paper as he called to Gil, backing a little away, to make room for the bigger man. Any touch, any wind, might cause the paper to crumple into unreadable powder.
"Hey. Come look at this." Greg pointed with his chin. The older man got down on his hands and knees, bending low enough that his short brown and grey hair brushed the flooring. He let out the sound Greg was beginning to recognize as Grissom's way of expressing awe. Reverence. For the perfect inconsistency of chance. Why some bits were left to be found, while others, more durable, vanished without a trace.
"Beautiful." The smile was so blatant in his voice, Greg didn't' have to look at the older man's face to know it was there. Gil simply radiated his excitement. His love of his work. Gil sat up, and he was smiling. Greg smiled back. Then Gil bent back down.
"Can you read it?" Gil Grissom prompted the younger man. He adjusted his glasses, squinted, saw some of the indentations that were words, but not so clearly that he could read them. That was an inevitable part of growing older. It was why there were tools and younger eyes around. His experience, coupled with younger senses and high technology. It worked well.
"Yes. But, I am not sure how to preserve it for evidence." Greg whispered. Gil was so close Greg could smell his spicy aftershave, faint but unmistakable. Gil shifted, his elbow sliding along the length of Greg's arm as they looked the fragment over.
"Read it first. We'll scribe what it says. Then we'll preserve it as best we are able. Try to photograph it. I don't' think we are going to be able to do more than that. Moving it and taking it in as hard evidence, not likely, Greg. But, we can do everything up to that. Let's get the words down first. In case we lose it." Gil sat back on his heels. He had lost weight recently, joined a walking and exercising group. Went religiously, when he was not embroiled in a case. It made getting up and down so much easier.
After Greg read the words he could see, and Gil wrote them down, they'd used a mister to discharge a preservative into the air high enough above the paper to avoid any air currents disturbing the fragile evidence. They hoped the liquid would soak into the ash and hold it together. At least long enough to move the grate and get a camera angle on it.
Patiently, over and over they'd sprayed, one spray, let the mist fall, soak into the charred piece, and dry. Then they repeated it, a second spray, let it drift down, dry. And again.
Finally they lifted the grate, both men holding their breath, and used slanted lighting to photograph the visible indentations, the writing. The preservative bought them time to snap the pictures they needed, but not a second more. The ash chose that moment to crumble. And that quickly, they were left with nothing. Nothing but the photos. And they would be enough for evidence.
An address. Clear as day. Greg grinned at his boss in triumph as they leaned in over Gil's note pad, and carded through the dozen Polaroids. They had a lead to the man or group of men who were responsible for trafficking in human cargo. Gil beckoned one of the officers over to him, reciting the address while the cop wrote it down. He radioed it in.
The case had broken when one young woman had escaped. Bruised and traumatized, nearly naked, she managed to get to a neighbor's house. She was taken to a hospital, then a translator had to be found, she spoke only Greek.
Two hours later, she told her story to the physician caring for her. She had been kidnapped, transported and was being prepared for delivery to the man who had purchased her.
The horrified doctor notified Las Vegas police. And the police came to this house. Only three hours after her escape, and the house was already empty of it's alleged human cargo. But, full of evidence left behind. Some papers had been hastily burned. Though not well enough to hide all the information in them.
CSI was notified. And now were processing the scene.
Catherine chose that moment to enter the room. Medium height, as sexy and slim as when she'd been an exotic dancer. Moving with a sinuous grace that drew the eyes.
"What do you have?" She asked, walking up to them, tossing her glossy, blonde hair back from her fine boned face. Knowing Grissom so well she could read his excitement instantly from a dozen feet away. Greg showed her the address. She patted him on the shoulder. Squatting down next to them both, maintaining her balance with the hand she left on the young man's shoulder.
"We are out of film," Gil announced and hour later, stretching his stiffening back. Greg was looking over his shoulder, watching as he worked his way through the house.
Catherine and Warrick had, by this time, gone out to meet Nick at the other scene, the address Greg had found. That address had also yielded no people, but plenty of additional evidence. Sara was here, having stayed with Gil and Greg to process this house. She sat back on her haunches, long limbed and far more limber than her older boss.
"I have some in the van." She said. Preparing to stand. Greg waved at her to stay where she was. He was just observing for the most part, watching their field technique, helping only when one of them asked. Trying to learn what he could.
"I'll go get it." Greg offered getting to his own feet. He turned. "Where..."
"In the back, in the zip bag, square, insulated. Purple." Gil told him abstractedly, attention already diverted, already back on what he was doing before he ran out of film.
Greg nodded and left to go find the film. He did not come back.
Minutes passed, half an hour. Gil reached for the camera again. Stopped, frowned. He lifted his head. Looked around the room they were in. Dim. Mostly empty. With a hollow echoing quality that abruptly raised the hair on the back of his neck.
Gil looked around. He saw Sara, but not Greg. He frowned, trying to recall the last time he'd seen the boy.
"Where is Greg?" He asked out loud. His internal monitors had started to rev up. Too late, they were whispering to him. It's too, too late. The alarms started to get ready to ring next. His eyes met Sara's. He watched as her lips pursed.
Sara shrugged, slow, as if she was thinking. "Haven't seen him for a while. Not since he went for the film." And that was enough to set the alarms off. Gil put the camera down. He frowned.
"He was just going out to the van to get it for me. Shouldn't have taken more than a minute or two." Gil remarked, his attention beginning to focus on something besides evidence collection. They exchanged a look. Both standing in tandem. Heading out to the van. Both feeling a sense of dread. Something telling them they were too late.
He was gone. They looked everywhere. They found the scuffle marks in the dry dirt behind the van. Grissom questioned the officers who had been outside, monitoring the traffic in and out of the crime scene area. None of them remembered seeing anything. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Greg was simply gone.
Then one of the neighbors came over. To thank the police for having the pizza delivered. As an apology for being so disruptive in this very exclusive neighborhood.
Only the police hadn't sent the pizza. But they had let the van past. Going in and going out.
Gil sat on the back bumper of his SUV. Holding his head in his hands. He didn't want to think of Greg in these people's hands. He didn't want to think of anyone in their hands. But, especially not Greg.
Part Two (This part rated FRT)
Once it became clear that Greg was not going to be found, Gil took out his cellphone and hit the speed dial. He waited until the person on the other end answered. His heartbeat, normally regular and slow in the most difficult circumstances had started to race. Even so, his voice was unchanged, low key, as if nothing was wrong, as if Greg was not gone.
"Catherine? Gil here. No, we are still here. Who is there with you? Anything to report?OK. Greg there? No. Let me know when he gets there, will you?" And he disconnected before the questions started, before it occurred to the other CSI to wonder why Gil was asking about Greg when they'd agreed Greg was going to spend the day observing Grissom.
"Where is Greg?" Was the first thing out of Catherine Willows' mouth when Gil and Sara showed up at the second scene. Warrick, standing a few feet beyond her, looked up and froze at her tone. The brush in his hand, dotted with fingerprint powder, hung suspended, the powder falling grain by grain to the floor.
Catherine's face, always light skinned, was now bloodless. Gil watched her turn towards him, heard her breath hitch. Warrick furrowed his brow, seeing her react to something he wasn't aware of yet, and looked back at Gil, hand staying still in the middle of his task, even as he stepped back away from the railing he'd been dusting.
"He's not here? I...we don't know. We don't know where he is." There had been the tiny hope that Greg had headed out to this scene, for whatever reason. I possibility Warrick, Nick or Catherine had called him asking him to come. Gil knew better, naturally, still he'd hoped. But, now that hope was dashed. Grissom shook his head at last. Faltering under the two gazes, one puzzled the other panicked.
"What do you mean, you don't know?" It came out sharper than she intended, but she did not apologize. She was shaking, Gil noticed absently, hands trembling visibly.
'She is usually stronger than this,' he thought. But, she'd always had an extra fondness for Greg, a connection to him, hadn't she? Just as he had adopted the lab tech, decided to play a part in fulfilling the boy's dream of working as a CSI. Because, as quirky as he was, as strange and odd his sense of humor, he reminded Gil so much of himself as a young man. Not quite fitting in, on the edges despite his incredible intellect. Yet, in the midst of all his weirdness, he had an endearing awkwardness, a sweet charm. Gil had wanted, at times, to smooth down that unruly, wild shock of hair and hug him. Hold him. Assure him he belonged.
"He disappeared from the first scene." Sara said into the charged silence. She of all of them was the calmest. Her face set, and observant, not showing worry or pain, or fear. Watching the rest. "We looked, and couldn't find him."
"The police..." Catherine croaked, throat desert dry, tight. She was growing paler, her eyes larger, darker.
"Them, too." Sara said. She frowned, her mouth twisting, perplexed, eyes sharp."Are you alright?"
"Gil...." Catherine's legs collapsed out from under her. One minute upright, the next on the floor, before Grissom could do anything, before he knew he should be ready.
She huddled on the floor, as he hurried over to her, dropping his case. Her eyes, huge and...lost, filling with tears. Her hands were braced on either side of her thighs, in the dust. Fingers spread like a white spiders tipped with pink nails. Grasping, holding, as if she might fall further.
"I know." Grissom said, putting a careful hand on her back, rubbing in a circle, wondering if it was going to be alright. He knew she was thinking exactly what he was. Greg, caught in the hands of the kind of people who made a living buying and selling human beings.
Sara was kneeling next to Catherine, still the watcher, and Warrick came to stand next to Gil. His confusion was gone. His voice rough, deeper than normal, as if it was stuck in his throat and he was forcing the unwilling words out.
"How long has he been gone?" Warrick was asking. Gil looked up, momentarily disoriented. His hand stopped the careful circles, stayed on her thin upper back. He thought hard, then found he could answer. "Less than two hours." Grissom said. Still no emotion in his voice, no revelation of the adrenaline, the terror that was clawing through his body, his imagination.
"Have you figured out where it happened?" Warrick followed up with the next question. He grimaced. Now Gil was going white, his breath coming too fast. And he seemed unaware of it. "You'd better sit."
"Uh huh." Grissom said, distantly. Landing on his butt next to Catherine.
"Processed? Did you process the scene? Was there a scene? Should I go and take a look, Grissom?" Warrick pressed, face lined with worry.
"What little was there, yes. We went through it. Sara and I. We found where he was taken. In a pizza delivery truck. The police waved it in and then out again. Five, ten minutes tops. Went without a hitch. No one wondered, no one thought anything was amiss. The driver, it was a man, went to a house, dropped off the pizza, all normal activity. Then, Greg was gone." Gil said from his place on the floor, Catherine crouched next to him.
"And you are sure it was them?" Catherine's words, her question. He nodded, though she was not looking at him. She felt the movement, and let out a pained sound.
"I am sure. This feels like something they would do, Cate. I should have watched him. He is so trusting." Grissom started, her hand was like stone, gripping his arm. She squeezed and he stopped. Turned, gazes locking.
"You know what they are going to do to him, don't you? We've found records, pictures, *orders* put in by *customers*...." She faltered, seeing he'd found the same things where he'd been.
"Yes. I'm afraid that I do."
"I am so sorry, Gil." Warrick said in a tone that drew Grissom's eyes to his face, frowning. Looking up at the tall, younger man. Surprised by the statement, by what it said, without using words.
"We aren't lovers, Warrick. Greg and I, we aren't involved. We're friends." Gil said. Because, the way Brown had spoken made it clear that it was assumed they were. The dark skinned man flushed. His full mouth thinning just a touch.
"No?" He said. I the same tone he'd have used if Grissom said the Pope *wasn't* Catholic.
"No. Is that what every one thinks?" Grissom looked around. "Catherine? Sara?" Sara simply nodded. Catherine, with tears running down her face, still looking at him. Offering nothing else.
"Where is Nick?" Grissom asked the group, his voice firming again, growing stern. "I don't want anyone going around alone until this case is closed. They could be waiting to grab another one of us. Go find Nicky." Warrick took off through the door, tossing the brush aside, not caring that it missed the counter and dropped to the floor, powder spraying off the bristles. It doesn't matter, not now.
Grissom didn't add that Nick was also attractive enough to appeal to the traffickers. Probably the only one safe from them, Gil thinks bitterly, gazing from face to face, is me. I'm too old.
Sara is young and female, always a market for that. Catherine is still beautiful, and also female. Warrick has a certain masculine charm, a good build, and he is young enough. And those eyes... eye-catching, literally. Then Nick. All the same attributes as Warrick, and a killer smile. So. Me and Brass, we're the safe ones. If we are kidnapped, they'll just use us as hostages, or kill us. That's all.
But Greg? Oh, God. Greg.
Part Three (This part rated FRT)
Nick was not as easy to capture as Greg had been. His years as a police officer served him well. He was walking the perimeter around the house, off to one side and hidden from the road, when he sensed he was no longer alone. The awareness stole over his skin like creeping insects.
He had been shining his flashlight into the thick bushes, dividing the area into quadrants and going over it all meticulously. Looking for something, anything that might prove important to the case. He'd made it as far as the end of the side wall, almost ready to go around to the back.
Then the hair at the back of his neck headed north, standing on end. Immediately, he knew there were eyes on him, and he was pretty sure they weren't friendly ones. He turned smoothly, his grip shifting just a fraction on the shaft of the heavy flashlight, so the tool became a weapon, just that quickly.
The man approaching him from the right got his full attention. Tall, about an
inch or two taller than he was, sturdily built, strong looking and intent. Dark hair, dark eyes, big hands, holding a pipe. His flat eyes told Nick more than anything else about his intentions.
The young CSI knew he was facing a man who was connected with the case he was currently working, there was no doubt in his mind. A man who would not hesitate to do what it took to take him down and out.
Nick stepped away from the bushes and to open ground, he felt the prophetic calm radiate through his muscles and nerves, preparing him to fight for his life. The sound behind him, heralding the second man, didn't result in him turning curiously, being easy prey for either of them.
He moved, fast, wanting to get into view of the road, or find a clear path out of the trap he was in. Three rapid steps and he was free of the vegetation, able to move without tripping over it, or falling into it and being concealed from all but a close examination. The men didn't give him enough time for anything else, only time to turn in their direction. To catch the initial attack. The second guy was just an impression of light skin and movement as they rushed him.
Greg was an academic, catching him off guard was no sweat, and the men stalking Nick now, had become complacent, expecting Nick to fall victim just as easily. Nick responded instead with the hand to hand training that had been drilled into him.
He twisted out of one man's reaching grip, his arm slipping down and away before the hold could close fully, and moved hard and fast, back and another half dozen rapid steps toward the road. Not giving the man time to use the pipe. His boot connected with the side of one assailant's knee, but low, not a direct hit on the joint, the man stayed on his feet, slowed but still mobile, though he did drop the pipe.
Nick was more effective with the flashlight, catching the second man a glancing blow on the side of the head. That man dropped like a sack of potatoes to the grass, blood blossoming across the area of impact, splashing back and onto the grass. His eyes blinked, stupidly, then rolled up, showing white.
Nick leaped to the side and away from both men, hand going for the grip of his sidearm. He had the gun out and pointed, quick and efficient, finger tightening on the trigger. Knee man wasted no time, heading away even as the gun cleared it's holster. Before Nick found a bead on his chosen target, the man on the ground. One man to question was better than none.
The first man ran, fast even limping on his injured knee, disappearing around the back of the house, the second froze lolling onto his back, moaning, staring up into the barrel of Nick's gun with uncomprehending eyes.
Concussion, Nick guessed with more than a little satisfaction. The handsome face of the CSI was grim and angry, as he stood over the injured man, jaw clenched as he fought to slow his breathing. One twitch and the guy was going to be history. His eyes never flickered, not even as he saw help show up behind the man in the form of the other young, male CSI. Brown.
Warrick loomed over the prisoner. Grabbing his cuffs, going to one knee, the moisture of the churned lawn seeping damp into the fabric of his jeans. He slapped the cuffs on the dazed man. Looked up at his teammate.
"You all right?" He asked.
"Fine," Nick answered, shaking the residual adrenaline out of his arms, rotating his head on his neck, holding his gun loosely down by his side. He was not putting it away, yet. The nausea that always followed a physical altercation was fairly light this time. A few deep breaths and it started to fade. "What was all that about?"
Greg's POV
Greg woke because he recognized the smell. He'd been in places like this before. Too many times, mostly when he was a child, and had no say about it Mums or Da would tell him he had to go. Or grandpa Olaf, and then they'd take him, no matter how he pouted. Now-a-days he avoided hospitals if it was within his power at all. But, he was in one now.
He ached. His legs, his back, his hips, his groin. Throbbing in fact. Not good. He wondered if he'd been in a car accident. Pelvic fracture? Or a lot of deep bruising. He could believe either one, the way he felt.
His throat was sore. Much like it had been after he had his tonsils out. Or even more like the time he'd needed surgery to repair his broken leg. A compound fracture that time, the bone pushed through the skin. Surgery, to clean out the wound, and screw a plate over the bone to hold the ends together while they healed. And antibiotics. Because you don't want to let a bone get infected. Osteomyelitis. He'd never forget that word. For that surgery he'd been intubated, and on a respirator, just while he was knocked out in the OR. But, you never forget the sore throat it leaves you with.
This time, it was that feeling. The tube down your throat feeling. Not the tonsillitis feeling. He'd had surgery. What for? That was beyond him to figure out. Last thing he recalled...Sara and Gil and a crime scene. Absolutely nothing after that, until now. He turned his head minutely. It worked, which was a relief. No spinal injury then, at least not in the cervical spine, the neck.
And he realized what one of the other sensations was. A burning, where no man wants to feel burning. A urinary catheter. A latex tube going into his bladder and draining his urine out into a bag. Unpleasant. Definitely the first thing to go as soon as he found someone to ask. His hand lifted to one of the metal rails, gripped it.
"H...." He croaked. He cleared his throat. Ready to try again. Someone heard him, because there was someone beside him very quickly. With a syringe. Shushing him. An older woman. Grey hair. Grandmotherly face. Giving him some medication into the IV port.
Needle-less port he thought. Nice, new and high tech. Nothing but the best. An innovation to reduce needle sticks for patients and for staff. Greg tried to catch his drifting brain and ask the woman a question. But, the fog was too fast. Had to be a pain killer, or a sedative. He puzzled about it the few moments he stayed conscious. Painkiller? Sedative? Narcotic.
He floated away.
He didn't hear the doors slamming open or the shouted orders as S.W.A.T. officers stormed into the room.
Part Four (This part rated FRM)
Grissom sorted through the evidence on the table top. Greg had been missing for just 3 days. Not very long in the scope of things. More than enough time to do unbelievable damage to the young man.
After his rescue, Greg was in the hospital, this time a real hospital, not a private house adapted for illegal surgery. But, it was too damn late.
Slavery was alive and well, even within US borders. Finding men, women and children to fill the orders that were apparently overwhelming the traffickers was not difficult. People disappear every day, many never to be found again. But, many times a little nip or tuck was required to make the product match the orders. So the traffickers had their own surgeons on call. And a busy surgical schedule.
Women might need larger or smaller breasts, or fuller lips, larger buttocks, in order to satisfy a customer's preference. Liposuction, or augmentation. Both men and women might need plastic surgery to alter their appearance, add or subtract epicanthic folds, a nose job, flatten or raise cheekbones, be made to look more like a celeb the prospective owner found attractive.
And then there were the men who wanted other men, or boys, who were no longer fully male, from the extreme of gender reassignment to simple removal of the testes.
For top end buyers, who could throw one hundred thousand dollars around with ease, the cost of surgery was incidental to getting what they wanted.
There had been six young males in the recovery room that had been raided. All to fill the order of one client. A man who imagined himself a re-incarnation of an ancient Indian Rajah, according to the few traffickers captured. They'd sneered at his fantasy even as they sold him people to fulfill it. A man wealthy enough to set up his own harem, complete with eunuchs to guard it, and be part of it. He was by no means an isolated case as far as his desires went, if the traffickers were to be believed.
Two of the teen-aged boys had not been taken to surgery when the raid occurred, they were rescued intact. One had been in the OR, and had lost one testicle. Greg, who was the oldest of all the victims, and two others, had lost both testicles to the surgeons knife.
Gil dropped his head in his hands. They had missed saving Greg from mutilation by only a few hours.
"Grissom." The word was snapped out, impatient. It was Brass. Gil looked up startled. Brass softened his tone at the bewildered look the other man wore.
"Come on, let's go. Greg's doctor called. No way am I going to let you drive anywhere. I've been trying to get your attention for two minutes. You didn't hear a word of it. Standing right here talking to you." Brass pointed to his feet and the institutionally carpeted floor, he was shod in heavy, brown/black shoes, the kind Gil always associated with police men.
"The good news is," Brass said once they were both in the car and on the road, "The surgeon was a good one. There is no risk of infection and the scarring will be minimal. We know the bad news."
"He's been kidnapped and surgically altered without his knowledge or his permission. There are going to be extreme hormonal fluctuations, and psychological factors. They can treat him with testosterone, replace what he's lost the ability to secrete himself, but it is never quite the same as nature intended. In other words he has a long road to recovery." Grissom added after Brass had finished.
Brass nodded. "Yeah, what you said."
"He is going through something very few people go through in this day and age, aside from people with gender dysphoria, and then it is a voluntary procedure."
"Uh, huh. So, they can fix this?" The officer asked, doubtfully. "It's happened before and they know what to do?"
"They can do plastic surgery, give him a normal appearance, but he is going to need medication for the rest of his life in order to function normally." Grissom told the other man in almost an absent tone. His brain clicking through all the information he had researched.
"But, he isn't going to be living any time under the care of the pervert who made him like this. The guy who ordered him like he was a Christmas turkey." Brass said. "And we have some clues as to who the man may be. We'll catch him, Gil."
"Forgive me if I wish it had been last week that we got the break in the case." Grissom said, acerbically.
Nick had taken it hardest. That surprised everyone. Gil wasn't prepared for anything worse than Catherine's reaction. But Nick had sat down hard, collapsed really, shaking after they found out. Slammed a fist into the side of the couch. And screamed once, loud and rage filled. Then he'd gone frighteningly quiet.
Gil learned the hard way in this job, never to be surprised, but Nick Stokes yelling like that, had surprised him, caught him unaware and unprepared. He saw the underlying fury and clenched fists, then Nick had stormed out of the lab. Grissom had been so shocked he'd just let the young man go.
Catherine was the one who had insight to offer on Stokes' reaction. He'd been sexually abused by his baby sitter as a child.
Gil was shocked he'd never known it. Yes, Nick was more intense than the rest of the team when they dealt with cases where children were victims. But, those cases were harder on everyone. Nick's behavior was professional, he hadn't done anything during any of those cases that concerned Grissom
It made sense after that information. Grissom and Catherine had only their imagination to work off of, Nick had memory. He knew how it felt to suffer violation, the loss of control, the feeling of worthlessness that came after that kind of assault. It had taken some time for him to calm and return to the CSI building. Then he'd insisted on going to visit Greg, his jaw clenched a s tight as a slab of granite.
Catherine had gone with Nick. When Grissom and Brass walked into the hospital room, Catherine was in the bedside chair, and Nick was seated on the edge of the bed. Holding hands with Greg, who was awake, but groggy. Nick's hand was larger, darker, just stronger looking, Grissom automatically cataloged the differences. His darker fingers were wrapped around the slender wrist of the man in the bed. And Greg's long, pale ones were loosely around Nick's wrist.
Gil fought to keep his eyebrows from rising. Another surprise from macho Nick. Greg and Nick traded barbs all the time in the lab. Enjoying a mildly adversarial relationship in Grissom's opinion. He had not guessed they were friends. Friends enough to hold hands without the least sign of discomfort from either man.
Brass moved into the room stepping out from behind Grissom. He showed no reaction to Nick's position, moving up to the bedside. Speaking in a gentle, fatherly voice.
"How are you doing, son?" The older man asked.
"I'm doing pretty good. They are giving me a lot of pain medication. A lot. Too much. But when they don't, I feel like someone kicked me in the balls." He said slowly with a distant smile on his face. Then Greg winced.
"Ow! Nicky! Not so tight." He shook their coupled hands but didn't relinquish his hold. "I should have been born a few hundred years ago. I could make a living as a castrato, you know a male singer, soprano, who used to be castrated to keep their voices from changing." He smiled crookedly.
Clearly high, Grissom thought. Greg was right. Too much pain medication.
"We just dropped by to see how you are doing." Grissom said, joining Brass at the beside.
"Oh, hi Gris. Boss." Greg's voice was fading. "I'm a little sleepy."
"We'll let you rest, then." Grissom told the lab tech.
"I'll stay for a while if it's OK, Gris." Nick said, when the two older men and Catherine started for the door.
"That will be fine, Nick" Gil said. "Get some rest, Greg."
Brass led the way out. He inclined his head at the closed door, when they'd made into the hall.
"You think they are an item?" He asked.
Part Five (This part rated FRT)
"So. Do you think they are together?" Brass repeated after the two men were in his department car exiting the hospital parking lot, having just left Nick and Greg in the hospital room holding hands.
"Together? Who?" Grissom asked, absently looking out the window.
"Stokes and Sanders." Brass reminded the other man patiently. Grissom was probably the smartest man he knew, but also the most oblivious at times.
"Huh. Uh, no. I don't know. They thought I was with Greg." Grissom replied. Still sounding like he was a million miles away. Probably solving the Sunday crossword in his head, purely by memory. In virtual ink.
"Naw. Who thought that?" Brass was stunned at the idea of Grissom involved with anyone. Man, woman or beast. If any creature ever caught Gris's attention to that degree, his money was on some form of insect life.
Grissom was still deep in thought. "Oh. Catherine, Sara..." His voice petered out.
Brass kept driving. It took just about all his will not to shake his head in disbelief. 'Don't say it,' he chided himself warningly, biting his tongue. 'Don't you dare ask it.' Because he wasn't sure he wanted to find out Grissom was having sex with the young man they'd just left.
Jim Brass headed down the corridor of the hospital. He was here to give Greg a ride home, and to conduct a formal interview, and get it signed.
Back at the precinct he had twelve photos tacked to his cork-board. Twelve men and women arrested so far. For trafficking approximately 600 human beings, give or take, over a two year period. He wanted Greg to take a look at them. See if the pictures jogged him memory at all, see if he'd suddenly recalled the face of whoever abducted him. So far Greg was a complete blank on the incident.
One of the men on the board had been identified by Nick as the one who had attacked him, been wounded in the leg, and escaped. A thirteenth was sitting in the county jail with stitches along side his temple after Nick took him down. That perp was sporting a nice, healthy sized goose egg. And Brass had enjoyed a hearty feeling of satisfaction learning Nick still had the moves.
Now that the young lab tech was being released, Brass wanted to see if his memory was better off of drugs than it had been while he was medicated to the gills. Greg had been almost amusing then, even considering the fucked up situation, but not all that helpful. The interviews had not yielded any usable information.
The other interviews had been informal, as the young man was under the influence of prescribed pain killers. The police needed a real one, recorded, transcribed and signed. The dosages of the pain meds had been dropped a little every day as the pain lessened with healing. The son-of-a-bitch who had done the surgery had been good at his job, Greg was healing faster than expected. Just without his balls.
Brass winced even thinking about it. He'd seen the evidence photos of what had been done to Greg. Now they were under lock and key, to keep out people who had no business but prurient interest in seeing something horrific that had been done to someone they knew. The same kind of people who would slow their vehicles to a crawl when they passed and accident, hoping to see blood, gore and suffering up close. Willing to chance a second accident just to get the thrill.
Grissom had said he'd meet him at the hospital. But, Brass was late. A cursory check of the front lobby revealed no absorbed geek buried in a magazine or trade journal article. He assumed Grissom had gone up, and didn't stop to wait.
He took the elevator to the third floor. Stepping off and holding the door for the transport orderly and wheelchair the middle aged man was pushing. Then he headed down the corridor to the room he'd been in too many times in the last few days.
Brass opened the door, noting the room's lights were dimmed, ready to call out a greeting when he saw what was on the bed. He halted in his tracks, eyebrows climbing for his hairline. The door swung noiselessly shut behind him with muffled whoosh. He stood right where he was, unable to look away, knees locked. He hoped his face looked less shocked then he felt.
Greg was laying on his side facing the door, on top of the bed, awake, alert. One arm was bent under his head, pillowing it. He held a finger to his lips urging Brass to silence. A wheelchair stood at the ready next to the bed, unoccupied, waiting for Greg's obligatory, discharge ride to the front of the hospital.
Spooned up against Greg's back, one muscular tanned arm snuggly around him, hand in a relaxed curl as it rested against the lab tech's belly, was one of the last people Jim Brass expected to see in such a position.
Though the slumbering guest was mostly hidden behind Greg's body, Brass could not mistake the thick, kinky, brown hair. Warrick Brown, usually pretty reserved and full of macho, at least from Brass' perspective, was curled up, asleep, snoring slightly. Brass could see the hilt of the other man's holstered gun on his upper hip, the strap unsnapped, so a split second might be saved if the gun needed drawing.
Greg's eyes met his. Serious eyes. Not panicked, not defeated, not destroyed. But not the happy, mischievous eyes he remembered from the joke-cracking, spiky haired, young lab tech, either.
The door opened behind the detective and he turned quickly, something making his own hand go for the hilt of his gun. His hand stopped in mid-motion. Grissom entered the room, seemingly unaware of the low lighting, his face frowning as he scanned a sheaf of papers he held in his hand. He looked up, mouth opening, preparing to say something when Brass' grip tightened on his arm, holding up a warning hand.
"Whoa?" Was all that made it out of Grissom's mouth, almost soundless. It was half whisper, half question. Brass pulled him out of the room, backing up, eyes fastened on the sleeping CSI's face, and into the hall, managing as far as he could tell, not to wake the drowsing man.
"Damn it, Grissom. Why didn't you tell me?" Brass hissed at the other man, who had, predictably, returned to his reading with no comment on the bizarre tableau they'd just witnessed.
"Tell you what?" Grissom's face was irritated and curious at the same time, as if wondering what he'd missed.
"That those two were the couple." Brass snapped. Annoyed that he'd been left to assumed it was Stokes and the kid who were involved. He was also not happy that he'd even briefly wondered about Grissom and Sanders.
"I don't know that they are." Was Grissom's response. His sharp eyes fully focused on Brass' uncomfortable expression.
"Oh for crying out loud....." Brass bit off what he was going to say. He was pretty sure that unless he'd woken up in an alternate universe, that Warrick Brown didn't go around sleeping in hospital beds with just any of his male colleagues. Now Greg, he was quirky enough that Brass wouldn't have been surprised by anything he did.
The door to Greg's room opened and Greg was wheeled out followed by Warrick pushing the conveyance, his plastic, hospital issued, belonging's bag, hooked over one handle. Brown had the wrinkles from the bed linen impressed into one side of his face. The police officer refused to allow himself to stare at them.
"Hey," Grissom said, patting one of Sander's slender shoulders.
"Where are we dropping you?" Brass asked, forcing himself not to look at Warrick too long without finding something to say, trying to see how he'd missed this.
"Me? I am going to work. Greg, after you get his statement, is staying with Sara. It's her night off. Nicky will pick him up in the morning, when he gets off work." Warrick explained as they walked. Greg was both uncomfortable and shifting in his seat by the time they reached the car. Grissom helped him into the back of the car, Warrick sliding in on the other side, fastening Greg's belt, then his own. He let his thigh rest against the smaller man's.
"You up to this? Or you want to go to Sara's? Do the interview later?" Warrick asked. Greg shook his head.
"I'd rather get it over with. Then I'm going to take some meds and go to sleep. I just got up and I am already exhausted. Went to bed twenty-six and woke up fifty." Greg groaned.
"Hey!" Gil and Brass said, simultaneously. "What's wrong with fifty?"