TITLE: Flashes of Mortality

AUTHOR: Demon Faith

SUMMARY: Epilogue to ‘Who Are You?’

NOTES: Inspired by the amazing George Eads and TWoP. For J9.

The limp plastic glove shook in his hand as he fought to regain control. Grissom would be back soon – Grissom, of all people, and shouldn’t he get a grip? Yes, yes, of course, that was rational. Get a grip, Stokes, stop crying like a baby.

Nick sank to the ground, legs crossing in kindergarten fashion, and buried his head in his trembling hands. There was nothing rational about this. He had solved the case, found the mystery weapon, and then click in his ear.

He looked up then, remembering her standing there, the gun shaking between them. She didn’t want to fire it, he could see that, but she was hovering on the edge and it would only take the gentlest breeze to push her over. He had backed away slowly, stutter-stepping, trying to make her wait, desperate for a minute, one more minute please...

They say your life flashes before your eyes. He had known nothing but the present – the edge of the gun glinting darkly; the unsettled note in her voice as she tried to explain, to justify his death; the thickened tears crawling over his skin, death’s rain playing slowly down his cheek.

It’d make such a mess, a gunshot that close, and they’d all see it – Sara and Warrick and Catherine and Grissom, all see the way it ended. Not Greg though, and he was absurdly grateful for that fact alone.

“But...I’m not dead.”

The words scratched at his throat, a low murmur, but it was true. It was true.

“No, you’re not.”

He opened his eyes – when had they closed? – and Grissom stood there, staring down as if processing the scene, outlining the victim, replaying the crime. Maybe he wasn’t real, maybe he was just haunting this place, a shadow, a spectre...

“Nicky? We’re going back to the lab now, someone will drive you home.”

He shook his head, trying to protest, but Grissom knelt down in front of him, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, Nick, you can’t stay here.”

He unfolded slowly, standing with Grissom’s support, still shaking. This was wrong, this was all wrong – he was trained to deal with this, it shouldn’t feel this way. His mind shied away from the logic, and urged him just get out, leave, move on.

Somehow, it felt like he should stay, as if this was...final, that he had nowhere else to go. He opened his mouth to say something, but shut it quickly. Tell Grissom something that deep, that absurd?

He valued his life.

~

The ride to the lab was short, blurred, and he knew that he was losing it. It was a few moments of his life, barely a minute in the day, and he knew he should be stronger. He could’ve stopped her, he knew how – one sudden move, and she would’ve been disarmed, restrained. He should’ve done that, reached for his gun, pulled the trigger first.

His hand ghosted over the gun on his hip – he had reached for it, far too late; he hadn’t remembered at all, hadn’t played the hero. He’d always imagined a showdown, always though he could handle any terror, any pain, any person. He had failed.

The jeep stopped, and he undid the seatbelt slowly, mechanically, and the words burst to his lips.

“Grissom, I’m fine, I can work...”

“You’re going home, Nick.” Gil said, in the voice that brokered no argument. Nick got out slowly, relieved to find his legs beneath him in a stable fashion. He pulled Grissom’s overcoat closer, and then headed for the break room, Gil shadowing him closely, waiting for him to stumble, to break. Nick wouldn’t let that happen again.

Sara and Warrick looked up from their card game as he walked in, and Sara immediately jumped up.

“Nick? What’s wrong?”

His throat closed again, the terrified woman’s face jumping to his eyes, and he shook his head. Gil’s hand on his shoulder steered him to the sofa, and he sat willingly, fighting to stop shaking, damnit, because he was stronger than that.

“He was held-up by our murder suspect. It was...pretty close.”

There was urgent whispering, and then the voices went away. He looked up to an empty room, and clenched his fingers around the coat. How could he look at them, face them when they knew? He was a coward, and now they all knew.

He felt the sofa move as someone sat, and he looked to the side. Greg set a mug on the coffee table, then took hold of him, pulling him close as if never to let go. Nick buried his head in the lab coat, and held on, just breathing and letting go.

“Sara told me what happened. You...must’ve been scared.”

“I thought I was going to die.”

He’d said it, he’d said it to Greg...and he tensed, every muscle tightening beneath Nick’s fingers.

“But you didn’t, you’re here.”

“I feel like...I left something in that room, a part of me. Maybe I should be dead.”

His voice caught, and Greg’s hand forced his head up and he stared into Greg’s paled face.

“You’re here,” he said, and now his voice shook, “That’s all you have to know.”

They stayed in that moment, breathing in unison, still holding on. Greg idly swept a hand through his hair, fingers lingering on his skin. He pulled away slowly, then reached for the mug, pressing it into Nick’s hands.

“Camomile, and then we’ll go home,” Nick tried to protest, but Greg held up a hand, “Grissom’s orders.”

He sipped at the tea, leaning into Greg’s shoulder, letting the defined, crystal moments ebb away. He was still breathing, still there, and he had Greg.

He could live with mortality.