Home of Greg Sanders Slash Fiction
by ne'ichan
Part 11 (Rated FRAO)
"Brass." Jim answered his cell. He listened to the even, controlled voice on the other end. His lips thinned. "So no one knows where he's gotten off to?"
Brass didn't point out the obvious, that Greg Sanders was an adult, had been for a number of years. That he was capable of making his own decisions. Even capable of going out on his own at night. Without his mommy or daddy trailing along.
He didn't say that, because in his gut, he knew there was a chance that Greg might not make the right decision. The safe decision. He was Greg...and Jim Brass was worried.
He hung up after gleaning all the information he could from Grissom. Grissom had come right out and said it. He was worried. Greg had recently had another shock. No he couldn't go into details. Yes, the shock was sexual in nature. He felt it put the young man at risk. He'd feel better if Brass would make sure Greg was all right. If he would find him.
Jim Brass closed the phone thinking over his options. Putting out a formal BOLO was not an option. Not yet. He flopped open his phone again, speed-dialed.
"O'Reilly." The deep voice of the big man rang in his ear.
"Problem." Jim said. "Sanders has gone off the radar. Just tonight. No real signs of foul play. But definite stressors. Grissom wants him found. Might be no problem at all. But...he worries." He didn't say that he was also worried. Let Gris take the heat for that. Gris could get away with being thought of as the mother hen. Captain Jim Brass, however, didn't want to test how well he'd get along with the tag.
The deep voice again, agreeing to meet him down by the strip, near that area where the locals went. Off the tourist track. Where Greg used to have his less than mainstream haunts. Because Greg used to be, uh, more than a little weird.
"I'll call Nick, then I'll be there." Brass speed-dialed again.
"Stokes." Nick's voice was clipped, hard, Jim Brass heard the strain in it. "Greg?" The younger man asked hopefully.
"No, Nick, it's Brass. Grissom called about Greg. He wanted our help finding him." Jim was not surprised when Nick accepted that. Started bringing him up to date, rather than ask any questions. Nick had been a cop, he understood how time was important, more important than asking too many questions no one had the answers to.
"We just left his place. No sign of him there. Left his cell on the kitchen counter." Took his car and his keys, his driver's license but we found the rest of his wallet in his dresser drawer.
"O'Reilly and I are going to some of the off strip club sites. I saw him there once. A while ago. Gil mentioned something happening to Greg recently. Any idea what it was? Might help us focus the search." He didn't ask why they'd left Greg alone. They never left him on his own. Why tonight?
"Maybe." Nick sounded like he doubted it. There was muttering in the background. Brass distinctly heard Stokes say..."...confession is good for the soul..."
"Yeah, Captain." Brass recognized the voice as that of Warrick Brown. Which clued him in big time. It had been Brown who was in Sander's bed at the hospital. He felt a surge of protectiveness towards Greg well up in him. If Brown had hurt him.... so help...
The shock of the thought he was about to carry to it's conclusion was enough to allow him to stop it before it continued down a very bad road. Before he said anything out loud, before he accused Warrick of something he had no right to say.
"Warrick. Can you tell me what happened that has Grissom worried about Greg's well-being? Can you give me any idea at all why he might want to disappear for a while?" Then he listened while Warrick talked. Reluctantly, but honestly. Jim Brass thanked him. Clapped the phone shut, forced his fist to relax. Confession wasn't good for his own soul.
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Greg giggled, laying across the laps of six people he'd only just met. He accepted the tiny glass of shimmering amber liquid. His fifth? Sixth? Downed it with the laughing encouragement of all, and lay back head spinning as he laughed. He was being stroked. Rubbed and fondled. It felt good. He could close his eyes and imagine....
His pants were undone, the zipper open, had been for a while, fingers rubbing over his low belly, touching, tugging on the thin trail of hair leading down. He knew he should feel weird, his pants pushed down, his dick laying along the crease of his thigh, half hard. But it felt good, all those hands, touching him, fingers touching his scars.
"Come on," someone said. "Come on. He doesn't have any balls. Feel." And more hands were on him. Sliding over the slick pinkness of his new scars. He had others, scars from the explosion in the lab, but these were much newer, much more sensitive. Not painful, just...sensitive. He shivered as fingers traced them.
"Sexy." Someone said. "Damn. I wanna fuck him. A guy with no balls. I can fuck him. I can fuck a guy with no balls. Does that count? Is he a guy if he has not balls?" The owner of the voice leaned in, big hand cupping the back of Greg's skull. "I wanna fuck you." The man said. Good-looking, young, big, some kind of college athlete type, hair curling on his chest through his half unbuttoned shirt, more hair than Greg had. Greg blinked at him, smiled sleepily. Damn he was smashed.
More hands. Girls. Guys. And suddenly his pants were way, way down his legs, around his ankles. He was turned over, face down on the table, his legs hanging off. Hands on his buttocks, patting him, petting him, squeezing him.
"Whoa." Greg grabbed for the sides of the table, moisture, spilt alcohol, beer soaked into his shirt. "Wait." He said, his tongue feeling thick. "Wait."
Beer bubbling, cold, down the crevice of his ass. More beer. Mouths on him. On his buttocks, the backs of his thighs. Up the middle of his back, his shirt up and out of the way. Mouths sucking at him, points of heat. Music pounding all around him. he lay his cheek back down on the table. That felt so good. So Good. Mouths on him. Licking him.
"Jesus," someone said, "he doesn't have any balls. He really doesn't. Jesus, that is so hot." It was another guy, sounding almost like the one who had said he wanted to fuck him, but not quite. Greg thought, illogically, "I bet they look alike." Though he had nothing to support that conclusion. No evidence. You had to have evidence before you came to your conclusion. First. Gather evidence. Because evidence doesn't lie. Then analyze it. Because evidence doesn't lie. Then come to your conclusion, set your theory... Conclusion, Greg thought,
Warrick doesn't want me....why? Because the evidence doesn't lie.
"Never seen a dude without nuts." A woman was saying as small, sharp tipped fingers played over him, between his legs, up and down his scars. Smearing the wetness of the beer. He felt his shoe being pulled off, heard a thump as it fell.
"Are you going to fuck him?" A face bending down next to his. "Do you want to be fucked? Do you want a dick up your ass, a man who has some balls? Is that what you want? I can give it to you, baby. I can fuck you so good." The man smelled like beer and fruit, maybe cigarettes, but not strongly. Greg wondered what he'd taste like if they kissed.
"Hey," A woman said. "Hey. Stop that." But someone dumped a gooey mass on his butt. Rubbed it in and down between his cheeks. It was slick and slippery and even warmish. He had no guess what it was. But it felt good with dozens of fingers rubbing it in.
"I gotta fuck him. He isn't a guy. Look at him. Look. He's just begging for it. He wants it." The voice changed, deepened. "Damn, Chris, did ya see it? He has no balls."
"Do you want me?" Greg asked the handsome, blurry face. Warrick didn't want him. He reached out his hand, somehow managing to find the man's crotch, his hand massaging the hard bulge. The evidence never lied. "You...want me." Greg moaned.
"Fuck yeah, I want you." The flushed face said. "Hell, yes I want you."
There were hands on him, hands everywhere, holding him down, touching him, stroking him, unbuckling his belt, unbuttoning what buttons were left. He felt the hands, tight and loose, big, medium and smaller, moving and still. He smelled something sweet, thick and almost slippery, like, honey, or caramel, this place served the best caramel sundaes for patrons with the late night munchies...It had to be caramel...smeared over him.
He felt hands and fingers swirling it onto him. Painting him with it. His belly, his groin, his chest, his nipples, up to his throat, down on his thighs, warm caramel. Then they began to clean it off of him. He groaned. Tongues, fingers, mouths suckling, licking, biting the syrup off him, scraping at it with dull teeth, his skin rising in a wash of goose-flesh. Mouths. Nibbling.
Then a tongue, another mouth, his legs pushed out of the way, so the mouth could get to him. Lave at the scars where his testicles used to be. A tongue bathing him, and licking at the thick sweetness, the syrup. Mouths shifting and changing. Hot little points of some tongues and a wide lapping of others. Greg arched his back, felt hands come behind him to support him, lifting him so he could see down his body.
Then he felt someone lick over his hole. "..oh, shit..." He mumbled, his own lips numb. And again, the caramel rubbed in, then the tongue, wide and flat lapping it off, flickering, teasing, crazy. He flushed hot, then shivered, letting out a deep, helpless moan.
'You taste like, candy." A man whispered, low and dark. "Candy man...."
Greg whimpered as the man bent down again.
Intense. He groaned, he struggled to get an arm free, they were all over him, trapping him in the position he was in, on his back now, his legs up. At last, his arm moved, he reached down, touched long hair, silky, straight, moving as the girl lapped at his groin. Hot. Very hot.
Bigger hands cupped his arse. Squeezed. Thumbs pressing into his crevice. He met the eyes of the man, lusting eyes, brown, shining hot. Breath sucked in, harsh, rough, a voice. Familiar as if he'd heard it before. "Gonna fuck you. Wanna fuck. Oh, fuck do I need to fuck you." Big man. Big man, Greg closed his eyes, not wanting to see how big.
"Damn, oh damn, he is hot. He doesn't have any balls. He's not really a guy, right? I can fuck him, even if I'm not gay." The voice muttered on, the tongues and hands moved. People were standing all around him. Fingers touching him, pinching his nipples into hard little peaks, dipping into him.
He was in a bar. Yes, a club. He remembered it, he was drunk, probably drunker than he'd ever been in his life. Drunker than he should be, definitely. And...they wanted him. He smiled, letting his head roll all the way back as someone sucked on him, finally, someone took his cock into their mouth. He couldn't tell if it was a girl's mouth or a guy's mouth. And it didn't matter to him. Not at all.
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Nick trailed Brass and O'Reilly into the club. It was dark but for dimly flashing lights, with a sort of trashy feel to it though expensively decorated. The patrons stared at them, pretty boys and girls dressed way down, then dismissed them, shrugging. Eyes blurred with alcohol and drugs. Except for the boy, he couldn't have been legal, who grabbed a painful, assessing handful of Nick before he could stop it, then was gone like smoke, smirking into the crowd.
"What the hell was that?" Warrick asked from behind him, discomfort in his voice, unease. "That kid assaulted you." He made a move to go after him, but Nick growled at him.
"Nothing. Forget it." Nick answered shortly, back to scanning the club for anyone who looked remotely like Greg. "Greg is more important. I am not getting tied up on some shit complaint because a horny kid goosed me."
O'Reilly forged ahead through the crowd, cutting a wide swathe. The much shorter Jim Brass followed closely, taking advantage of the other man's bulk to make a path. He didn't see anyone who looked like Greg, yet at the same time, many of them did, with their spiky hair and wild clothes, and gangly bodies so similar that at time it wasn't until a person turned and he saw the silhouette of a piquant, nipple tipped breast that he knew if the gender was male or female. He forged on. They were almost to the back door.
Nick saw him first. He couldn't believe it for several moments. It was a context in which he'd never imagined he'd see Greg. Greg. On his back. On a table. Surrounded by a crowd of men and women, laughing, some touching him, some watching, some...down between his legs. Faces smeared with something that gleamed strangely. Licking fingers, sucking...
Nick grabbed one by the scruff and pulled him off, away from Greg. His mouth left a little red mark on Greg's skin, just above his hip, his lips pink/red, caramel smeared over the lower half of his face. Greg moaned, rocking his head side to side, his eyes softly glazed.
A dreamy eyed woman lifted her head from the vicinity of Greg's groin, his penis falling from her swollen lipped mouth. Nick felt his skin crawl. He pushed her back into Warrick's arms. The taller man sat her in a chair, but she stood and staggered away.
There was a man between Greg's spread legs, a big, man, young, an athlete, his erection in his hand, shirt unbuttoned, flapping out, showing his bare chest, his six pack and his penis, hard, in his hand as he rubbed it over Greg's groin and down between his legs.
O'Reilly reached out one great paw and the man was gone, thrust aside, letting ou t a grunt. And the large Irish cop was lifting Greg up into his arms. The young man's head lolled back and forth, Nick unable to stop himself from reaching up and steadying it. Brass pulled up the pants that had been around Greg's ankles, and grimacing, wiped his hand on his own leg. Luckily his shoes were still on, because brass had no intention of crawling around on this floor looking for anything short of the Hope Diamond. O'Reilly cradled Greg against his body and began to force his way out of the press.
A girl put a hand on Brass' arm, and he turned to look at her.
"No, don't take him. He's special. He is beautiful." She said. "Have you seen him? I've never seen anything like it before. He is perfect." He turned and left her where she stood looking longingly after them.
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"Where to?" O'Reilly asked from the back seat of the SUV. He held Greg, wrapped in a blanket half across his lap. Streaks of the caramel syrup from Greg's body coated his shirt and suit jacket.
"Fuck." Warrick slammed a hand against the steering wheel. "Ghod damn it."
"Hey, cool it hotshot." Nick said. He leaned in to the back seat. "Do you think he needs a doctor?"
"That depends. If one of them had intercourse with him, then yes. If all the did was lick caramel off of him, then no." They all shared a look, all but Warrick who looked away over the top of the SUV, his jaw clenched as hard as granite.
"And how do we find out?" Nick asked. "He isn't in any shape to tell us."
Brass started the engine. "Doctor it is. I'll take him to the medical clinic. See if we can avoid an actual hospital. But if the doc says he's been assaulted, we are going to have to do the whole rape kit."
Greg muttered something as Brass pulled out into the traffic. Nick and Warrick were close behind in their vehicle. Brass could see the phone up against Nick's ear while Warrick drove. Probably calling Grissom. Better Nick, than me, Brass thought. Grissom was worse than a mother bear when it came to protecting his young.
O'Reilly grunted. "What?" Bending down closer to Greg's mouth.
"I don't feel so good." Greg said, perfectly clear. Sounding frighteningly sober.
"What, like throwing up?" O'Reilly asked with a degree of alarm, sitting up and searching the interior of the SUV. "I need something, a bucket, Brass. A bag. Now."
Jim found a large evidence bag, passed it back with one had keeping his eyes on the traffic. In time to hear Greg vomiting miserably in the back. And O'Reilly swearing.
"Wipes? Hand wipes? There any in this car?" The Irishman growled.
"He got you?" Brass was sympathetic as hell, he'd had plenty of witnesses and suspects throw up on him.
"Yeah. All over my pants. Shoes. Soaked from the knees down." O'Reilly sighed, resigned as the sharp acid scent filled the car. Brass lowered the window.
"Nick and Warrick will have crime scene suits. You can put one on when we get to the clinic."
'It's OK. No, wait. Any water, Brass?" O'Reilly was fussing over Greg again. Jim handed back his unopened bottle of water. He needed to buy a new flat of it anyway.
"Slow. Just sip it, rinse and spit first. Then you can drink a little. I don't want you throwing up again before we get to the clinic."
Greg moaned when he woke. The mattress he was laying on was anything but comfortable. It was thinner than it should be, harder, and plastic, he could feel that through the thin, rough sheet. He turned his head a little and sniffed. The scent of the sheet decided it for him. It smelled faintly of strong detergent and cleaner. He was in a hospital.
The first reaction he had was the almost impossible to resist urge to scream for help. He suppressed it, but only just. He recalled his last waking unexpectedly in a hospital. It had heralded the worst discovery in his life. He shook with shivers of reaction, fighting to keep his breath even, to not hyperventilate. Where was he?
He groaned, his fear needing to come out in some way. Oh, Ghod, had they found him again? Was he back in his kidnapper's hands? He moaned, hearing the terror in the muffled sound caught behind his clenched teeth and jaw. He couldn't do it again. If he looked down and saw they had done even worse to him, if they had taken even more... He whimpered, and a hand came to rest gently, warm on his forehead. He pushed into the cupped palm, finding it comforting though nothing else was. No one had touched him last time.
His stomach roiled, feeling like he was going to vomit, or had recently been vomiting if the little ache of his belly muscles was anything to go by. He smelled the sharp acid smell of stomach contents, he'd been washed up some, but he had vomited. Nothing less than a long hot shower was going to get rid of the odor of it. The hand, it smelled so much better than he did, and he burrowed his nose against the wrist. Closing down his thoughts, refusing to believe he had been recaptured, at least for now....
"Don't move, son. The doctor is examining you." The hand stroked his skin. It was then he realized he was laying on his back with his legs up in stirrups. He barely defeated the reflex to lower his legs and slam his thighs shut, to kick out in horror over the position, the vulnerability of it. Shuddering in revulsion, fear rising once again as he felt the gloved hand on him, he turned towards the voice, eyes flying open. He gasped.
Gil Grissom was seated at his side, face serious, concerned. A distraction. Greg needed one right now, his skin crawling as the exam went on down below the barrier of the raised sheet. The horror grew, even as he felt his body go limp with profound relief he had not been taken by traffickers again, he felt a gloved finger enter his body, and he stiffened further, trembling. More than trembling, it grew to a whole body shaking.
"Greg? How do you feel?" Gil asked in his kindest voice, with an edge of concern growing, as his young colleague shook harder that much more. Greg gripped his hand hard.
"Make him stop," he gasped out, his voice strangled. Then louder. "Stop touching me! Stop it!" It was almost a scream, tinged with a note of hysteria. Gil turned his head, stood, bending over him, his face turned towards whoever was hidden behind the drape.
"Doctor..." Gil said, and the touch went away, vanishing instantly and Greg squirmed up, out of the stirrups, dragging the sheet around his legs, tucking it around himself, curling his legs up tight to his body, he pushed his face into Gil's shoulder, huddling as small as he could with his lanky limbs, his fingers holding onto Gil's waist and his belt. Gil's arms came up around him as the door slammed open, a cacophony of voices demanding to know what had happened, why Greg had screamed.
The doctor was standing next to the group of people in the doorway, a medium sized, middle aged man with thinning hair, talking to Brass and O'Reilly, telling them what he'd found too low for Greg to hear. He burst into tears.
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Nick and Brass were the ones who rode with him home. Nick's place not Greg's. Greg didn't mind that at all, once again he couldn't bear to think of being alone. Waking up, fearing for those few short minutes that he was back in the clutches of the traffickers...he'd been terrified.
Nick sitting with him, arm around him in the back of the SUV. It was heaven. He hid his face in the hard, strong shoulder. His eyes squinched tightly shut. Keeping everything out. Just aware of Nick. Being held, cared for, breathing in the scent that was the Texan. He'd gotten to know it while sleeping with the man. It was a good healthy smell. Warm and sunny, as if Nick had just come from under the blue sky and wide, dry hay-smelling fields.
Gil was staying at the clinic waiting for the evidence from Greg's truncated exam. Greg hadn't wanted to stay in the clinic. Every part of being there reminded him of the surgery he'd had, the converted house he'd woken up in. The doctor, voice calm and kindly understanding, tried to convince him to agree to finishing the exam, but he couldn't. The horror of the situation overwhelmed him. He hadn't been able to wait, not even long enough to put any clothing on. He was still wearing the clinic's gown and sheet, nothing else. O'Reilly had carried him barefoot out over the gravel to the waiting vehicle.
Warrick had been there, but Greg couldn't look at him, not yet. Greg felt too ashamed by his actions. He'd gone completely out of control, just because Warrick had told him the truth. Warrick offered to carry him to the car, he was big enough, strong enough, but Greg thought the Irish cop was the lesser of all evils and wordlessly looked over at the big, quiet man lounging just inside the door way. O'Reilly had known what he wanted and stepped over without hurry, leaning down and picking him up. Carrying him not without a little effort, but less than he would have had to use a few months ago. Greg had definitely lost
weight.
Greg wasn't really angry with Warrick. It was just that he didn't want Warrick to have to do anything for him. Warrick had made it clear, had been honest that touching Greg was hard on him. He couldn't do it, not they way Greg wanted. So, Greg thought it was much better not to force him. O'Reilly was strong enough, and he was safer in Greg's point of view.
He felt safe. Being held by O'Reilly. Big and fatherly, kind. Like Grandpa Olaf when he'd been only a child. When the old man was strong enough to lift a little boy up and carry him where ever he wanted to go. A long, long time ago.
Nick spoke with Warrick on the way to the car, his words sharp and firm, Warrick listening with a look of stubbornness set on his face. He kept looking over at Greg, but Greg acted as if he wasn't aware of it. Warrick had been truthful to him. Greg had to be grateful for that. He just needed more time to deal. Even so, he strained to hear what was being said.
Greg was only able to hear the tone of the one-sided conversation, Nick's normally soft drawl, much harder. A conversation that ended with Nick dropping a set of keys into Warrick's hand, turning and leaving the other man staring after him, jaw clenched. Pissed. Then Nick climbed into the SUV and put an arm around Greg, held him. And Greg needed the touch too much to protest. He leaned over and put his head on Nick's shoulder closing his eyes.
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Nick put Greg into the shower, hot water cascading down. Then he undressed himself, got in and stood next to the taller man, washing like they were not sharing a tiny shower at all, one that made them bump into each other at every turn. Bare skin sliding over bare skin, no choice about it. Just like they were two friends on a sport's team.
Greg had protested a bit at that, sharing a shower was not exactly what he felt like doing. His head ached and his body felt as if he'd been pummeled, tight and dry and aching. But halfway through the washing up, he felt dizzy, it hit him suddenly, his head spinning, and he conceded that Nick showering with him had been a brilliant idea. Otherwise he'd never have made it out of the cubicle and onto the toilet seat without fainting. Nick stood over him, giving him sips of cold water. Drying his face and back with a soft towel.
Greg moaned. He was so frustrated with all of it. He was not a child, but he was forced to admit he couldn't function alone. He proved it to himself over and over. If his friends weren't so willing to take him in he'd have been in the nut house by now. Or back in the hospital. He couldn't sleep unless someone was with him, couldn't relax if he was alone. At crime scenes he could do the work...as long as he wasn't alone.
He was good, he knew, his mind was sharp, he instinctively got things, understood them, could rationalize and analyze with the best of them. He recognized patterns and could extrapolate what they potentially meant. His background as a forensic lab tech had prepared him very well for the role of CSI. He scored very high in all the areas he was tested in. But. He couldn't be alone. Not now, not yet. Maybe, he worried, not ever. When he was alone...and sober, he couldn't stop looking over his shoulder.
Nick stayed there on the bathroom floor, crouched in front of him while he drank from the glass. Nick, who's dark brown eyes watched him, hyper-aware of everything, alert. Watching to see if Greg was going to topple over. He wore a towel draped over one thigh and between his legs. So when Greg looked down he could see the edge of his pubic hair, but he wasn't staring Nick's crotch in the face.
A few minutes more and Greg was ready to try to make it to the bed. Nick stood first, wrapping and tucking the towel with the comfort of a once high school or college athlete, proud of his body, and in front of other men not feeling the need to be modest. Greg envied him that ease. Then he forgot all of that as Nick cautiously helped him to his feet.
Greg swayed ominously, his fingers digging into Nick's arms, his face buried in the shorter man's neck once more. It was the only way he made it to the bed, hunched over, head full of cotton wool, Nick lowering him into the mattress. Fuck, Greg hated the way too much alcohol made him feel. Sick. Dehydrated, Dizzy. If he'd been feeling anything but incredibly humiliated and full of an irrational fear, he would have stayed at the clinic and begged for an IV. If he'd had any sense open to him stronger than embarrassment.
The doctor had been doing a rape kit and exam on him. Ghod damn. A rape kit. Greg tried to think back to remember if he had been raped, if anyone had been inside of him. But the night was pretty much a blank after arriving at the club. He'd set out to get seriously blotto, and he'd managed just that.
He'd been feeling so sorry for himself. Well, he wished he could go back to then, before the idiotic idea of going to the club. Now...he thought about the possibility he had been raped. He didn't feel bad. Once that caramel sauce was off his skin actually felt extra smooth, sensitive, like after some silly spa treatment. He flushed. Point was he didn't have pain. He didn't think anyone had gotten inside of him. He was pretty sure of it. Just not absolutely sure. He had been awfully relaxed. Maybe whoever it was was small.
He forced himself to think of other things as Nick brought him a tray. Food. Not good. Soup. Well, all right, worth a try. He got half of that down, and a bunch of saltines. The saltines were very bland, and that was good. More plain water. Then he couldn't face another bite.
Nick took the tray away without making an objection. Nick who Greg'd learned to his happy surprise would make someone an excellent mother some day. The vision made Greg smile. Who would have guessed? Nick the nurturer, as much as Warrick had been the protector but not much of a caretaker.
Warrick, who's frank honesty had started all this. Nick's best friend, who Nick was angry with. Which wasn't right.
"Nicky. It wasn't Warrick's fault." Greg said carefully when Nick came back, dressed in his flannel pj bottoms. He never slept nude, not with Greg at least. Not in all the nights they'd spent together, spooned comfortably.
Nick looked at him.
"I am not angry with him and you shouldn't be either. This was my fault not anyone else's." Greg offered more. Watching to see how Nick was taking it. Not well, he decided.
"It was his night. He was supposed to be with you." Nick said, his clenched jaw relaxing no more than necessary to growl the words.
"He didn't want to be. He shouldn't have had to be. I should be over this by now." Greg said next. It was true. He shouldn't still be unable to sleep on his own. Insecure, weak...
"It was his night. He said he would spend it with you." Nick said. "He broke his promise."
Greg blinked. Warrick hadn't promised him anything. Just who was Nick talking about. What promise?
"What promise?" Greg asked, bewildered.
"When we found you, found out what you'd been through, we promised each other we'd take care of you, anything you needed to get well." Nick said. "All of us. We'd do anything to keep you safe. We aren't going to let you die because we aren't watching out for you, like we should. I thought he'd learned better after last time."
Greg sat there speechless. Last time. Last time..... Then it came to him. He did recall that there had been a young woman, a CSI, brand new to the team, who had been left alone, and who had died. But that was all he had known about it. No details.
