CSI/CSI:Miami Crossover Fic - The Albatross Club
The Albatross Club
By: Firefox
Disclaimer: Not mine. No infringement intended, no money made (forward all requests to Fat Chance Department) and litigation will only get you possession of an eye-watering Visa bill and a woman already possessed by these guys anyway…
CSI/CSI: Miami crossover
Characters: Horatio/Speed
Gil, Nick.
Rating: I still suck at this. More slush than slash, nothing graphic.
Notes: Huge {{HUGS}} to my partner in purple crime Sammy Girl, who also did the gorgeous icon for me! Love ya loads hun! Spoilers for ‘Lost Son’ and ‘Grave Danger’ (as if you needed telling)
Brit author, so Brit spelling. All mistakes I selfishly claim as mine own.
__________________________________________________________________
That was the trouble with Las Vegas, Grissom thought as he locked the Tahoe and trotted up to the front door of his townhouse through the pouring rain; the word 'moderation' did not figure in the city's vocabulary.
Las Vegas was a 'full on' kind of place. If the weather was hot, it was oven-hot, hot-as-Hades-hot. If it was wet, like this morning, it made you wonder if Noah had left the ark plans anywhere accessible. Great fat raindrops, soft and warm as blood, plummeting out of the sky in a never-ending deluge, as if someone had upended a bucket. No light showers here. Oh no. Not in Vegas. Vegas just had to be hotter, wetter, brighter, louder. You left 'moderation' at the city limits.
By the time he had located his door key on the overburdened key ring, unlocked the door and opened it, he was soaked. In less than two minutes. He could feel an uncomfortable trickle running down his back, under his shirt, and his hair looked like he had just stepped out of the shower. As the door swung inward, he heard the telephone ringing.
Damn it. Let the machine get it. He hefted the pile of files he was carrying on to the small table inside the door, set his briefcase down beside it, and began to take off his soaked jacket.
The ringing stopped as the machine cut in, and he heard what he knew to be his own voice, although to his ears it sounded completely unlike him, say: 'I can't take your call right now, but please leave a message after the beep,' in that rather impersonal tone he used when addressing all things automated.
There was a silence, which seemed to stretch interminably, then an unmistakable voice said softly; "Gil? Are you there?"
Hand halfway to the coat pegs, still clutching his jacket, Gil froze. Something was *very* wrong.
"Sorry…you’re shift hasn’t finished yet… the time difference… I didn’t think …Sorry…"
Suddenly galvanised into action, Grissom let the jacket fall, forgotten, to the floor, and dived across the room to grab the receiver.
"I'm here!" He almost shouted into the phone. "I was just coming in the door." Oblivious now to his wet clothes, his sodden shoes and soaked hair, Gil sat down heavily in the armchair beside the phone. He waited.
There was another silence. Gil held his breath, suddenly conscious of the rain beating a tattoo against the windows.
Still he waited. When the voice didn't say anything else, Gil felt his stomach constrict in anxiety. "What is it?" he said softly into the mouthpiece. "What's wrong?"
The words eventually came out in a harsh, grating whisper, the speaker's attempts at self-control all too evident. "Speed's dead, Gil."
Gil felt his heart miss a beat.
"Take your time." He didn't know what else to say.
Normally so articulate with words, his brain suddenly felt empty - devoid of anything meaningful or even sympathetic. He avoided saying anything that sounded remotely like 'it'll be okay' because Gil knew for certain that for his friend, it would probably never be 'okay' again.
"Speed's dead, Gil. Oh God…"
Gil waited, his own heartbeat sounding impossibly loud in his head. "Talk to me," he said at last, the words little more than a whisper.
There was a huge intake of breath at the other end of the line.
"Take your time, Red, " he said again, softly, "I'm here."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Fourteen months earlier : Chicago
Gil stared at the revoltingly-coloured liquid in the cup he held. Why on earth did every hotel seem to lose its ability to make even partially digestible coffee when asked to do so for a conference? he wondered. As with every other such event he had attended, this gritty, tasteless, tepid, altogether-too-thick liquid was nothing even remotely resembling coffee. He pulled a face.
"I've seen sediment from the bottom of the Everglades that looks more appealing than this," a voice said from beside him.
He turned at the sound, and found himself staring at a pair of startlingly-blue eyes, underlined by a shy smile and framed by a glory of neatly-styled, fiery red hair.
Gil smiled back, somewhat ruefully. "I've never been to one of these things yet where they can produce even semi-drinkable coffee…"
"Probably been laced with something to make sure we don't all fall asleep in there," the shy smile widened.
"Off the top of my head, I can't think of any drug that powerful…"
The hand not holding the coffee cup extended itself towards Gil. "Caine. Miami CSI."
Gil shook the offered hand. "Grissom. Vegas."
The blue eyes widened slightly. "Gil Grissom? *The* Gil Grissom? Entymology specialist? I'm honoured!"
Gil looked suitably embarrassed. "I think 'enthusiast' might be more accurate than 'specialist'."
Caine shook his head. "Not if what I'm told is correct. And Calleigh is a notoriously difficult person to impress - if she says you're a specialist, then I'm tempted to believe her."
"Calleigh?"
"Duquesne," Caine explained, then grinned again, "and don't ask… she tells me 'it's a Southern thing', and no male of sound mind debates the issue with my team's ballistic specialist, I promise you."
Gil grinned back. "She sounds a little like Catherine."
Caine frowned for a moment. "Catherine, as in Willows?"
Gil nodded, slightly taken aback that the name had been recognised, then he remembered. "Of course! You've met Catherine, and Warrick, haven't you? The kidnapping case…"
"That's right. I remember Catherine very well. Very competent… and you're right, there are a lot of similarities between her and Calleigh."
"Catherine's not from the South, though," Gil said with a grin.
"Be grateful! One 'Steel Magnolia' is enough for any man to cope with on a daily basis!"
"Why do I get the feeling you wouldn't have said that if Miss Duquesne was in ear shot?"
"Because you're an astute man… and 100% right!"
The two of them laughed in unison and strolled back into the auditorium together, leaving two untouched cups of coffee on the table in the refreshment room.
Whenever he attended a conference or a seminar, Gil had learned that the early bird avoided the fraternisation, so he always made sure he was early in the bar, early into dinner and early to get-the-hell-outta-here. He had always found socialising at these things rather difficult, and tended to try and avoid it wherever possible. Fortunately, at a forensics conference the size of this one, that was not a particularly challenging task.
Consequently, he found himself one of only three patrons in the private conference bar early that evening. He ordered a beer and retreated to a corner table, where he could bury his head in the newspaper until the restaurant opened. Ever the conservative, Gil’s charcoal trousers and dark blue shirt made him blend into the background of the place until he became almost invisible.
He glanced up as the door to the bar opened, and he couldn’t resist a smile. The first thing he noticed was the sky-blue shirt. The dove grey chinos were, he supposed, fairly understated, but when your colouring was almost guaranteed to get you noticed the very second you walked into a room, that probably rendered your choice of clothing colour almost irrelevant.
To Gil’s surprise, Caine noticed him instantly, smiled and raised a hand in his direction, and pointed to Gil’s drink in an obvious ‘can I get you another?’ gesture. Gil shrugged and nodded, and a few moments later, Caine placed two cold beers on the table and sat down opposite him.
“You hiding out?” he said with a grin.
“Is it that obvious?”
Caine shook his head. “Takes one to know one. I hate these ‘social evenings’ - I always try and make sure I’m at least an hour ahead of everyone else, that way I can retire before the ‘socialising’ begins.”
“My team are always telling me I should get out more, they tell me I’m anti-social.”
“Mine too. I think maybe it comes with the turf.”
Gil bestowed one of his rare smiles on Caine. “They even have a nickname for me…”
Caine thought for a few moments, then shrugged. “I give up. Not enough evidence for me to reach a conclusion.” He smiled back at Gil.
Gil’s eyes sparkled. “The Vegas Vulcan.”
Caine’s laugh was one of genuine delight. “My team just call me H.”
“H”?
“Yep. Lieutenant Horatio Caine is a bit of a tongue twister… too many syllables in all the wrong places.”
“Horatio,” Gil said thoughtfully. “That’s a very majestic name.”
“Not to a high school kid it isn’t. It’s an albatross around your neck - as if being skinny and having hair like a firebrand wasn’t enough!”
“All kids have their ‘albatross’. Mine was poor hearing and absolutely zero ability at sports.”
“Maybe that’s why we both ended up here - courtesy of our respective albatrosses?”
Gil raised his half-empty glass in a toast. “The albatross club.”
They ended up avoiding the hotel restaurant altogether, opting instead for an Italian bistro a few blocks away, eating unexpectedly good pasta and discovering a mutual regard for good chianti, Humphrey Bogart movies and antique books.
Gil liked Horatio, and that was an unusual occurrence in itself. Grissom was an astute judge of character, but more often than not chose to observe rather than indulge. Catherine would roll her eyes at him and accuse him of treating everyone he met like a bug in a jar rather than a person, and he had, on more than one occasion, suspected that she might be right. People were fascinating, but too complicated to get intricately involved with. Much better to stay at a distance. That way you could protect yourself, and them if necessary.
In Horatio however, Gil was experiencing something of a kindred spirit. A man devoted to his job, to the exclusion of almost everything and everyone else in his life. An honest, dedicated, intelligent individual, who suffered the same frustrations with bureaucracy and politicking that Gil did. A man who expressed the same profound belief in the justice system, and saw his role very clearly within it - just like Gil did. It was refreshing. It was interesting.
They were three quarters of the way down their second bottle of chianti before the conversation turned from the professional to the personal. Horatio had an astute way of being direct without being rude, and Gil found himself answering without his normal reservation.
“You married?”
Gil shook his head.
“Ever?”
Another shake. “I’ve never really had the time for all the social niceties that always seemed so necessary for romantic relationships - and I was a disaster at dating - even when I was younger.”
Horatio put his head on one side, and gave Gil a small, knowing smile. “We have more in common than I thought. We should get albatross club jackets.”
“Besides, “ Gil continued, “I’ve never found a woman who could put up with the job. The hours, the science…”
“The smell?” Horatio offered, and they both grinned.
“You? Married I mean?”
Horatio shook his head. “No.”
“Never found the right person?”
Later, Horatio would try and work out why, of all the times, he chose then to reveal it, and why, of all the people to choose to reveal it to, he chose Grissom. He never could work it out, but he never regretted it either.
The startling blue eyes sparked at Gil, and the shy smile returned. “I didn’t say that.”
Gil grinned. “My apologies. First rule of forensics - never speculate. In which case, I shall follow the evidence,” he thought for a moment, idly tapping his chin with one finger. Horatio continued to observe Gil observing him, and the smile remained.
Gil took another sip of wine, then placed the glass down on the table. “The only logical conclusion I can come to is that you have found the right person, but for some reason have opted not to commit to marriage. That leads me to believe that you, or they, are either unavailable or unable to marry.”
“Very good deduction… keep going.”
Gil’s expression clouded slightly. “If it’s what I think it is, you would need to be sure, *very* sure of your feelings…”
“Oh, we are. I promise you.” Horatio interrupted quickly, “It’s one of the very few things in my life I have ever been totally sure of.”
Gil looked almost impressed with the directness and assurance of that statement. If his suspicions were correct, then Caine had to be much closer to a kindred spirit than anyone else Gil had ever met. He also had to be a good deal more courageous than Gil had ever been.
*If* Gil was right. He almost didn't dare ask the question. Almost. “Which one?”
“Which one what?”
“Which one of your team?”
Horatio raised his wine glass to Gil. “Well deduced - maybe you are part Vulcan.”
Attempting to cover his amazement with another sip of wine, Gil tried to gather his rampaging thoughts into some semblance of order. Dear God! Who would have believed it? “It’s a large risk you’re both taking. Do the others know?”
Horatio shook his head. “No, they don’t, and even if they did, it wouldn’t change anything. We are both fully aware of the risk, and have both decided it’s worth it… more than worth it.”
“You can kiss any promotion goodbye if it ever gets out.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about any departmental protocol that tries to tell me how to conduct my personal life. I know the law, and I know I’m honest and my feelings are honest. We are doing nothing wrong, and nothing that jeopardises the department in any way at all. Everything else is irrelevant.” The blue eyes were alight with something now, and Gil found himself looking at Horatio with a new emotion - admiration. It took courage, *real* courage, to forge a personal relationship and keep it going when you knew it could cost you your career. Whoever it was, Horatio Caine obviously felt very strongly about them. Gil found himself hoping that they were deserving of it.
"I know what you're thinking," Horatio said with another of those oh-so-knowing smiles, "you're wondering if my partner has as much at stake here as I do."
Gil nodded. "I was," he admitted. "Becoming involved with a team member, particularly a subordinate, is professional suicide if it's discovered. Both of you may be running an enormous risk. Two careers could be lost - irrespective of the minefield of emotional disaster that awaits you if the relationship flounders…"
"You wouldn't take the risk? Even if you knew it was the right thing to do? Even if you were certain?"
*No, I wouldn't*, Gil wanted to say, *because I don't have the courage. And I know that because that's why I've never done it. Never told…*
He settled for something slightly less revealing. "I admire your sincerity - and I truly hope it works out for you."
"You don't believe that it will, though - not for a second." Horatio was almost laughing at him, eyes sparkling with merriment. Gil Grissom might be approaching genius when it came to bugs, but he was a raw recruit with people and their feelings. "Aren't you curious?"
"About what?"
"Not what - *who*."
Privately, Gil suspected it was probably Miss Steel Magnolia, but he was too polite to say so. Caine didn't strike him as the kind of man who would lose his head over a pretty face, but then he hadn't struck Gil as the kind of man who would jeopardise his career for his heart, either. "There is insufficient evidence for me to come to a logical conclusion," he quipped, referring to Horatio's earlier comment about his nickname.
"His name is Tim Speedle - but to me, he’s just Speed."
It was unfortunate that Gil had chosen that exact second to reach out for his wine glass - his hand seemed to jump, entirely of its own volition, missed its target and sent the glass toppling, the remaining chianti it contained heading directly for Gil's lap. He leapt out of his seat , grabbing his napkin and trying to mop up the red stain on the tablecloth. "Sorry," he mumbled at Horatio, as two waiters materialised bearing cloths and a fresh glass. "Sorry," he said again, trying to cover his embarrassment - not at the wine being spilt, but at his reaction.
Without a doubt, Caine would jump to wrong conclusion, and assume that Gil was shocked. He *was*, but not out of any sense of morality or prejudice - he was, simply, astounded that anyone could be in the situation that he had been avoiding for - God - over a year now. Gil Grissom was shocked, and embarrassed, but not at Horatio Caine. He was shocked and embarrassed at discovering just how much of a coward he actually felt.
The man sitting opposite him had actually done what Gil Grissom had never the courage to do, and that was truly shocking.
Horatio was smiling again. "Now *that* was interesting…" he said quietly.
"My clumsiness? Why?" Gil was still trying to cover his embarrassment.
"No - you aren't the clumsy type - they make bad CSI's. And you don't strike me as homophobic, either…"
"Not at all," Gil interjected quickly - perhaps a little *too* quickly, he realised instantly and decided to illustrate his open-mindedness. "Freud said that the only truly deviant sexual behaviour…"
"…Was no sexual behaviour at all." Horatio finished the quote for him. "So," he continued, fixing Gil with one his patent interrogation room expressions - the one that said; 'no way out of this one, buddy' - "we've established that you're not homophobic, so I haven't appalled your sense of morality. You're also not clumsy, so that leaves us with…"
"Surprise," Gil admitted.
"Why are you surprised? You already knew it was one of my team. If you're not bothered by the fact that Tim's a man, then why the surprise?"
Jesus, Caine was good at this, Gil thought. He must be something to behold in the interrogation room. Gil knew his strengths were elsewhere than interviewing. He did his share, but Catherine, Warrick - hell, all of his team - were much more adept at interviews than he was. He found himself studying the subject rather than interviewing them, and his scientific brain usually wandered off at a tangent, confusing the suspect and, usually, Jim Brass at the same time. Which was exactly what his brain was doing right now. He wasn’t used to being the interviewee, and he found it unnerving. How, exactly, had Caine managed to switch sides on him so slickly, he wondered? One minute he had been the one asking the questions, and now…
“I’ve never believed in coincidence,” he said at last, hoping the left field comment might throw Horatio off the scent.
No such luck. “Neither have I,” Caine said steadily, but with no trace of confusion, “or fate, or destiny.”
Gil gave up. Just like Horatio, he would later wonder what it was, at that precise moment, that made him admit something he had never admitted to another living soul, and why he chose to make that admission to someone he had only just met, but just like Horatio, he would never regret it.
“Which, assuming those abstract concepts do not actually exist, makes this situation rather difficult to explain,” he said softly, meeting Horatio’s frank stare head on.
“Situation?”
One hour, one pot of coffee and one Jack Daniels each later, Horatio leaned back in his chair and ran his hand through his hair.
“And I thought we were doing well with bad coffee and bad memories. I’m starting to think we really should be a club!” His smile faded and he looked intently at Grissom. “You should tell him,” he said quietly.
Gil shook his head. “I can’t. My position as his superior makes that untenable.”
“If Nick is as smart as you say he is, he’ll have worked most of it out for himself anyway,” Horatio offered, “you could be denying yourself - hell, both of you - a real shot at happiness.”
“If I took the risk and was wrong, or worse, was right and we couldn’t make it work - well, then I’ve ruined two lives, two careers and fouled up a damned good professional team.”
Horatio leaned over the table, his voice low. “Speed is my life, Gil. He makes everything I do, everything I *am*, worthwhile. What we are - what we do - it gets inside your head after a while. All that death and pain - all the deception and lies. Speed keeps me level - reminds me that there are good things in life, that good people still exist, that I still know how to laugh. What we have together keeps me alive.”
“I’m not you,” Gil said at last, “and I know I can’t do it - can’t risk it. I’m content with what I have - a friendship and a good professional relationship.” The smile that ghosted across his face was gone in an instant. “It’s enough. It has to be.”
“That’s a mighty big albatross, Gil,” Horatio said sadly.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Eleven months earlier: Las Vegas
“This just arrived for you,” Catherine said, waving a padded postal envelope as she walked into the office. “Marked personal.” She placed the package down directly under Gil’s nose. He pointedly moved it to one side. Catherine made no attempt to move. “Did I miss something? I know it’s not your birthday.”
“You’re right Catherine - it is marked personal - and no, you didn’t, and no, it isn’t.”
She hovered. “You’re not gonna open that while I’m here, are you?”
“Right again.”
Raising her eyebrows in mock annoyance, she retreated, closing the door behind her. Gil looked at the label. It was indeed marked ‘personal’, addressed to him at the lab, the label completed in neat, elegant, hand written script. He tore off the easy-open strip and peered inside. It contained a small, slim book, bound in black leather, obviously very old, but in good condition. The scent of must and old ink caused a smile to surface on Gil’s face. He turned the book spine toward him to read the faded gold lettering: The Courtship Rituals of Solitary Insects.
The smile widened.
There was a single sheet of white notepaper tucked inside the front cover of the antique book, the note written in the same hand as the envelope.
*To Albatross - Codename: Bugs
Saw this, and thought of you.
From Albatross - Codename: Red*
Gil laughed out loud and reached for the telephone.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Ten months earlier: Miami
It was singly the most satisfying, and the easiest, friendship that Horatio had ever experienced. From a chance meeting over a coffee pot in Chicago, Horatio had found someone who inhabited the same strange professional world that he did; someone who understood the pitfalls and frustrations, the highs and lows of the job, and someone who he knew, instinctively, he could trust. It was rewarding without being complicated, fulfilling without being demanding, and Horatio often wondered if they might both have to re-think their previous stance on fate.
The chance encounter had developed into irregular, but always welcome, telephone calls - both business and pleasure oriented, and more than one postal packet containing an item of interest to one or the other had winged its way across the miles. Horatio now possessed, among other things, a mint condition film poster of The Maltese Falcon - currently gracing the wall in his study. Gil, along with the antique book whose title Horatio had been unable to resist, had a splendidly grotesque South American beetle, suspended in a thick glass bottle of glutinous-looking oil, found in a Miami junk shop. That item had arrived packaged in one of the unbreakable flight cases normally used for perishable forensics - Horatio being as imaginative as ever.
He blinked into the early morning sunlight and turned his face upwards towards the cloudless sky, closing his eyes.
He was standing on the small balcony outside Speed’s apartment, white shirt open to catch the early morning breeze, sipping his first cup of coffee of the day, and enjoying the early morning stillness and silence. It was going to be another beautiful day. By the end of it, Horatio knew, he would probably be bone-tired, stinking of sweat and death, his mind full of images of carnage and disaster, but for now, for these brief few minutes, everything was clean, fresh and full of promise.
A movement caught his peripheral vision and he turned his head. Inside the bedroom, Speed turned over in his sleep, dark head stark against the pillow, one long arm flinging itself outwards, one proportionately even longer leg repositioning itself in the tangle of sheets to a more comfortable position.
Horatio smiled, feeling a delicious tingle across his shoulders as his memory rewound a few hours. Sharing a bed with Speed was just about the best de-stressing exercise ever invented. It didn’t matter what the day had in store for him - whatever evils humanity decided to visit on each other, at the end of it he would have here and he would have Speed, and that was more than enough. However bad the day, sharing the nights with Speed eradicated all the darkness and despair. With this place, and this man, he could face anything.
Oh Gil, he thought with a small, sad shake of his head, you really don’t know what you’re missing. If I could give you anything, my friend, it would be the courage to tell Nicky Stokes how you feel.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Five months earlier: Miami
The ringing of the house phone intruded on his dream slowly, metamorphosing itself from a fire alarm in his subconscious. His eyes weren’t open, but he sensed Speed move beside him. The ringing stopped as Speed dragged the receiver from the handset and mumbled something. The next thing he was aware of was Speed’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake.
“H? C’mon. Wake up.”
Very few people had this number, the team only ever used their cellphones, so there was no imminent sense of danger. Horatio opened his eyes slowly. “What? Who is it?”
“Gil,” Speed said, frowning.
Horatio was fully awake in an instant, feeling as if someone had punched him as adrenaline flooded into his system. He all but snatched the receiver from Speed’s hand. “Bugs?” he said, his voice holding a tinge of urgency that always deepened it by several tones, “what is it?”
Gil had never phoned him in the middle of the night. Ever. “What is it?” he said again, slowly, trying to keep his voice level.
“They’ve got Nick.” Gil’s voice sounded strange - small, strained, as if a he were talking through a thick blanket. There was a strange gulping sound as Gil fought for breath.
“Take it easy,” Horatio said, much more calmly than he felt, “start from the beginning.”
“Someone’s taken Nicky…and … and… they’ve buried him alive.”
Horatio felt his heart contract painfully in his chest, listening with sick horror as Gil related what few facts he knew. When he told Horatio about the web-cam and the size of the box Nick was in, Gil’s voice finally cracked.
“I can’t watch him… I feel so… so… useless. Frozen. My mind won’t function… I’ve got to help Nicky and I can’t… I can’t *think*.”
Trying desperately to dispel the horrific pictures that surfaced in his mind of Speed, buried alive, out there God-alone-knew-where, in a plexi-glass box with his air running out, and having to *watch* that happening; Horatio fought to be practical.
“Where are you?” he asked, climbing out of bed, “are you in the office?”
“No…” Gil sounded small, far away, almost lost. “I’m in the parking lot. I… I had to get out of there for a minute… I have to *think*.” His voice rose, fear and anger building in its tone. “I have to get him back… and I don’t have a million dollars to do it.”
“You can hold it together. Nick needs you to hold it together. You can do this. You know you can,” Horatio said softly, “for Nicky, you can do this.”
Fully awake now, Speed got out of bed. He didn’t know exactly what was wrong, but he knew by the tone of H’s voice that it was bad. Gil would never have phoned in the middle of night for anything less than an emergency, and Speed sensed that this was about as urgent as it could get. He caught Horatio’s eye, and pointed to the flight bag, kept on top of the wardrobe and containing a change of clothes and supplies for a couple of days - just in case it was needed. Horatio nodded his understanding, his eyes portraying his gratitude for Speed’s quick thinking. “Gil? I’m on my way. I’ll get on the next plane - I can be with you in about 6 hours.”
“I have to get him back… I can’t let him die like this…”
“Listen to me! *Listen!”* Horatio shouted into the phone, “Nick is *not* going to die! Get back inside and get your team together. Phone me again in half an hour - I’m leaving the house now - right now, and by the time I get to Vegas I want you to tell me to turn right around and come straight back to Miami because Nick is back with you. Okay?”
“Okay,” Gil’s voice sounded flat and lifeless.
“Half an hour, Gil - or I call Catherine instead.”
“Okay.”
Horatio almost threw the phone back on the rest, then headed straight for the bathroom. “Speed?” he called above the noise of running water, “get into the lab, and see what you can turn up in the files about kidnap ransoms for victims buried alive.”
Speed was pulling on jeans and a t-shirt. “What? Buried *alive*? What the hell’s going on H?”
Horatio reappeared, tucking his shirt into his waistband as he walked. “One of Gil’s CSI’s has been kidnapped for ransom. The bastards have buried Nick Stokes alive, and they want a million dollars.”
“Jesus,” Speed said, his face paling. “What are you going to do?”
Horatio was pulling on his jacket. “I’m going to Las Vegas to stop Gil Grissom self-destructing with guilt. I’ll work out the next part on the way.”
“I’ll get your ticket organised and sort out the work rota,” Speed said, his practical nature overtaking his sense of revulsion for the moment, “then I’ll see what I can …” he almost said ‘dig up’ but felt suddenly sick at the unintentional slip, “… find out from the files.” He reached out, one large hand gently resting on Horatio’s neck. “Be careful,” he said slowly, “and take care of Gil.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Horatio heard the door open and stood up from the sofa. Gil walked in, slowly, as if he were in a trance. His face was impassive and expressionless. It took several seconds before he registered the fact that someone was standing in his living room.
Horatio took one look at Gil’s face and knew his decision to come to Vegas had been the right one. Gil looked… hell, Horatio couldn’t find a word for it - exhausted, wired, scared, all of those and more - ‘haunted’ was as near as he could get. The bright, inquisitive gaze was hollow and empty, the animated face set in a grim mask of fear and almost desolation. His hair and clothes were filthy, covered in what looked and smelled like blood, and several dried smears of the same substance could be clearly seen on his face. Horatio was shocked at first, then suddenly thought of how he would look if it were Speed out there and he was the one chasing his own tail, counting down the seconds until the air ran out. Then he realised that Gil Grissom was a hell of lot tougher than he looked.
“There’s clean clothes on the bed and a pizza in the oven,” Horatio said with no preamble whatsoever, “take a shower, you can eat something on your way back out there.”
Gil took a few more seconds to react. “How did you get in here?”
Horatio shrugged almost imperceptibly. “You keep your emergency key in exactly the same place I do,” he said simply.
“Thanks,” Gil said, then suddenly, as if all the energy drained out of his legs, he sank into the nearest chair and dropped his head into his hands. “He blew himself up Horatio… he blew himself apart, right in front of my eyes, and left me with *nothing*!!” His voice was rising, frustration and rage beginning to boil in his throat, “we got the money - Catherine got the money. I thought… I thought that would be it, I thought he would take it and then tell me where Nick is… I thought I understood him… greed and avarice, I was so sure I had him worked out… but I was wrong. I was wrong. He didn’t even want the money! He blew himself up and left us with nothing…”
He raised over-bright eyes to meet Horatio’s gaze. “I wanted to kill him myself,” he snarled, suddenly filled with futile rage, “that bastard stood there, knowing what he was going to do next… and he taunted me!” The eyes suddenly filled, threatening to overflow. “He asked me if Nick was ‘my guy’ - asked me how I felt when I watched him! He asked me if I felt impotent… if my soul died a little every time I clicked the switch! That’s Nick in that box! Nicky! It was as if that bastard *knew*…” Gil ran out of breath, his chest heaving with emotion and effort.
Horatio dropped to one knee beside Gil and gripped his shoulder. “Take a shower, eat something and don’t think at all for the next ten minutes,” his tone was soft, even, calm. “Wash all that crap off you, and I’ll make some strong coffee.”
Gil stood up, obeying Horatio like an automaton. “And that bastard knew nothing,” Horatio added as Gil headed for the bathroom.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The doorbell rang. Horatio considered ignoring it, but it rang again almost immediately, so he decided it would be more prudent to answer it than to risk the noise waking Gil - besides, it could be important, he decided, getting up from his bed on the sofa. Catherine Willows’ face registered shock as the door opened, her eyes widening, then a frown formed as her memory cut in with a flashback. It took less than a second for her to recognise the face the other side of Gil’s door. “Lieutenant Caine? My God! What are you doing here?”
Horatio grinned at her. “Hello Catherine. Do you want to come in? Gil’s still asleep I think…” he turned around, but the door to Gil’s bedroom remained firmly shut.
Catherine was recovering her composure well. She looked tired, Horatio thought, dark circles smudged under her eyes, her skin pale, but there was a brightness about her expression that was encouraging. “I’ve just come from my ‘shift’ at the hospital, and, knowing Gil, I stopped off and picked up a few things.” She smiled at Horatio. “I wasn’t expecting to find anyone here, and Grissom forgets to eat at the best of times.” She shrugged, handing over a brown paper sack of groceries, “it’s just basics - fruit and cheese, and some bagels.”
Horatio took the bag. “Come on in - please - I’m sure Gil will be pleased you’re here.”
She shook her head. “No thanks, I’m completely beat.” Her shrewd eyes narrowed a little. “How long have you been here? Not that it’s any of my business, but…”
“Since yesterday,” Horatio admitted. “I wanted to see if I could do anything to help.”
Catherine looked genuinely grateful. She threw a glance over Horatio’s shoulder. “Is he… okay?”
Horatio nodded. “He’s been asleep for a few hours, which has to be a good sign. How’s Nick doing this morning?”
She pulled a face. “He looks like hell, but then he’s been there… the docs say he’s stable and strong, and should make a full recovery, given some time.”
“That’s great news. He’s a young guy - fit and smart - he’ll be okay.”
“None of us looks too great this morning - though God knows, we all feel better than we did last night.”
“I heard. That was some rescue. You did yourselves proud.”
She looked at Horatio. “Gil was fantastic. You should have seen him out there. We were all down to our last nerve, but he held it together - even when we realised that the box was wired with Semtex. Warrick was losing it, I was losing it, and poor Nick…. That was the worst part, watching Nicky freaking out… but Gil was amazing. Everyone was just about played out, but Gil got in that hole, knelt down on that box, and somehow… somehow, he got through to Nick. It was Gil who worked out how to get him out, Gil who talked him into laying still when every instinct was telling Nick to get the hell outta that coffin…” She shook her head in silent admiration. “He was incredible. He was the boss last night, and it showed.”
“He’s a good man. I’m sorry you all had to go through that, but I’m glad it worked out.”
She touched Horatio’s arm. “I’m glad you were here. Grissom doesn’t say much, but I sometimes think he needs a friend. Someone who understands him and who doesn’t work for him. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Now Nick is safe, I’ll be getting back to where I ought to be.”
“Back to the swamps and the alligators, eh?” She grinned.
“Beats the hell outta the desert and the ants.”
She nodded, turning to walk away. “Take care Lieutenant.”
“You too.”
Horatio closed the door behind her, unpacked the groceries and folded up the bedclothes from the sofa. Then he put a fresh pot of coffee on to brew, wrote Gil a note, and left for the airport.
Gil woke up two hours later, feeling gritty, heavy and as if his head were full of cotton, but better. He definitely felt *better*. His brain was functioning again, he felt connected to himself, instead of that dreadful, fractured limbo of inaction and indecision. Pulling on an ancient pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, he padded out into the kitchen, expecting to find Horatio. He found a full pot of wonderfully fragrant coffee, a plate of fresh fruit and bagels, and the note.
*Breakfast courtesy of Catherine.
Nick is doing okay this morning - docs report is good.
From what I hear, you were doing more than okay last night.
Case closed, except…
TELL HIM.
H.*
Gil smiled. “I damned nearly did,” he said aloud to the empty room. It had been close - too close to call, and all the time Gil had forced himself to watch that ghostly, lurid green image on the screen, writhing in soundless agony, he had bitterly regretted *not* telling Nicky. Several times he thought he might never have the chance to make up for that mistake. Then, in the confusion and relief of that frantic rescue, as Catherine’s voice had screamed at them to get out of the hole, the box was wired, Gil had realised that the team had done their part - now it was down to *him* - to his brain and his ability, to get Nick out of that box. Seeing Nick, frantic, screaming, covered in ant bites but *alive*, had galvanised him. His brain had suddenly snapped back into action - he was *here*, he could act, he could do something and it would be worth it because Nick was *alive*.
Kneeling on the lid of that damned coffin, he knew he could get through to Nick. Gil would never have admitted to anyone except maybe Horatio, but when Nick raised his hand and placed it under Gil’s, through the transparent lid, Gil knew that Nick and he had something between them that even this twisted, evil bastard couldn’t destroy. He suddenly felt as if he could have pulled Nick out of that damned pile of earth all on his own if he’d had to.
Coming home to sandwiches and cold beer in the fridge, and a sleeping Horatio on the couch, Gil had debated waking him and talking it through, but exhaustion and his body’s sudden curtailment of the adrenaline that had been keeping him functioning for so long had left him incapable of anything save falling into bed and a deep, dreamless sleep.
Now, with his usual efficiency, Horatio had decided his work here was done, and left for home. That’s what friends did. Picked you up, dusted you off, then let you get on with life. He raised his coffee cup to the blue sky outside the window. “The albatross club,” he said with a tired grin.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Present day: Miami
In some ways Miami wasn’t all that different from Vegas, Gil thought. Another full-on place, no half measures, no moderation. The heat was stifling, but not the airless heat of Nevada - this was thick, heavy, tropical heat, laden with strength-sapping humidity. The streets and sidewalks were slick and rain-polished, reflecting the whirling red and blue lights of the police vehicles in the cortege.
Gil saw them turn into the wide gates of the perfectly-manicured cemetery. It was raining again, huge, single drops of warm rain, falling from a leaden sky onto the vivid tropical greens beneath. Angels tears.
The scent of the flowers where Gil stood, a respectful distance from the gravesite but close enough for Horatio to see him - to know he was there - was overpowering. Roses - hundreds of them - dense, deep colours swathed in a cloying, overwhelming scent that seemed to settle over the scene like a miasma. The line of vehicles drew to a halt, and Gil watched as the mourners emerged. A tall, elegantly graceful African-American woman, her eyes hidden behind huge sunglasses - that must be Alexx. The broad-shouldered, olive-skinned young man, his square jaw clenched and mouth set in a firm line - Eric. The next to emerge was a petite blonde, her long hair swept back off her pale face. She was small, but there was nothing fragile about her - her red-rimmed eyes radiated sadness but inner strength. A smile ghosted across Gil’s mouth. Calleigh. Horatio’s steel magnolia. He hoped she was as good a friend to Horatio as Catherine was to him. Strong women and solitary bosses - a formidable combination. Horatio emerged last. Completely calm on the outside, clad in a sharp black suit that somehow made him look… different. Hidden. Even that glorious fiery hair looked somehow more subdued - it’s fire dimmer than usual. Gil felt the lump rise in his throat. This could so easily have been him - the flag-draped coffin could so easily have held Nicky…
The mourners assembled at the graveside, the couple who were obviously Speed’s parents - a dark haired woman and silver-haired man, both looking distraught, seated at the front. Horatio and his team stood behind the row of chairs, Calleigh standing tight against Horatio’s left arm, ramrod straight, pale, but utterly composed. Her eyes scanned the people around the gravesite, zeroing in on Gil. Her expression changed, her eyes widening slightly, then she nodded. A tiny, almost invisible movement, but an acknowledgement of his presence. He gave a slight nod in return.
The priest droned on in the grey afternoon, surrounded by a sea of khaki law enforcement uniforms, black funereal clothing and incongruous, flamboyant roses. Gil’s eyes were riveted on his friend, on Horatio’s tired, enigmatic face, those startling blue eyes full of shadows. When the coffin was finally, gently lowered into the rain-soaked earth, and a staccato volley of shots shattered the stillness, Horatio’s eyes closed for a long moment, and Gil felt a familiar flash of the same thing he’d felt when Nick was missing. Wanting desperately to do something, anything, to help, but this time there was nothing he could do. No amount of effort, of brainpower, no amount of logic or flash of inspiration would change this. The impotence he felt made his jaw clench, and the lump in his throat threatened to choke him.
The service over, the mourners began to disperse, drifting away to cars parked elsewhere, disappearing through the rain into the afternoon greyness.
Gil felt a light touch on his arm, and turned to see Calleigh Duquesne. “Thank you,” she said quietly, her clear eyes locking on to Gil’s. He shrugged - helplessly, uselessly, and her grip on his arm tightened slightly. “I’m Calleigh. I know who you are. Thank you for coming all this way.”
“How is he?” Gil asked her. The usual banal, ridiculous question.
Her jaw tightened. “He is… Horatio,” she explained simply. Her eyes searched his face. “They were together you know, when it happened…If it had to happen at all, I’m glad it happened like that.”
Gil’s brow furrowed. “You knew?”
She smiled and nodded, her eyes filling with unshed tears. “Not for certain. Not until I walked into that jewellery store and saw him.” She shivered slightly. “He was on one knee - Speed’s blood all over his face where he had been listening to see if there was still a heartbeat. It was his face… the expression on his face. I’ve never seen so much emotion in his eyes… in anyone’s eyes… It broke my heart when I realised…”
“The others?”
A shake of her head, the blonde hair swishing. “No. It was no-one else’s business. Not even mine.”
She didn’t tell Gil about IAB, or how she had turned on her heel and strode out of that God-awful, gaudy shop, her heart lodged somewhere in her throat. She didn’t tell Gil about the blood - Speed’s blood - still spreading in a ghastly pool on the tiled floor, and on Horatio’s sky blue shirt. It was, by that strange coincidence that neither of them believed in, the same shirt he had been wearing that night in the bar in Chicago, but neither of them realised it. She didn’t tell Gil about Speed’s gun, or the conversation in the locker room, when Horatio had so nearly - so very nearly - finally cracked. Those were things for Horatio to tell his friend in his own time and in his own way, but not now, not here in this rain-soaked cemetery, sickly with the scent of flowers and heavy with the pain of loss.
She grasped Gil’s hand. “Come on, ride with us back to Alexx’s. We’re going to say goodbye to Tim.”
“It wouldn’t be right,” Gil said softly, “I don’t belong there. You are his team. In that part of his world, I’m an outsider.”
She shook her head and looked askance at him. “Right now, Doctor Grissom, you are exactly what he needs.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It was late. Very late. Or very early, depending on which day you were measuring from. Gil and Horatio were alone now, sitting in the dark living room of Horatio’s little-used townhouse, methodically and meticulously demolishing a bottle of Jack Daniels between them. Neither were drunk, but the alcohol had deadened the sharp edge of Horatio’s searing pain, and Gil was grateful for that.
“We always knew it could happen,” Horatio said, staring into his glass, “if you do this job, you have to be aware of that.”
Gil nodded. “No guarantees. There never are.”
A small smile touched Horatio’s mouth. “We shared so much… and it was good Gil, it was damned good. I’ll never be sorry… We grabbed what we had with both hands.”
“And you were - you are - absolutely right. You tried to tell me so many times and you were right. It is worth it…even if…”
Horatio nodded. “It is. Believe me. Even now. Even the way I feel now. If this is the price I have to pay for what Speed and I had, then I would rather pay it for having had it, than never have had it at all.”
“I envy you,” Gil said evenly, looking into Horatio’s face. “I envy your courage and your certainty and your absolute commitment - to the job, to Speed, to the team… I watched them all today, closing ranks around you in a solid wall of loyalty. You may have lost something irreplaceable, but you still have a helluva lot.”
Horatio smiled. “I know.”
“And Miss Duquesne is quite something.”
“Isn’t she just? I’m wondering who separated her and Catherine at birth….” He grinned. “Perhaps another of our albatrosses?”
Gil laughed. “The Ancient Mariner was saved in the end you know - freed from the albatross.”
“He wouldn’t have needed to be saved if he hadn’t killed it in the first place,” Horatio pointed out, waving his glass at Gil, “and I don’t think either of us would be any better off being ‘saved’ from ours.”
Gil agreed.
Horatio stood up from his chair. “Come on - I’ll share the cab ride with you to the airport. I need the fresh air and you need to get going.”
“You sure?”
Horatio put his head on one side and regarded Gil shrewdly. “Isn’t there something important you are supposed to be doing in Vegas? Isn’t there someone you need to talk to?”
Gil smiled. “Yes. Yes there is. But I’m only going back if you…”
Horatio waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “What I need more than anything else right now is to know that the world isn’t stopping. To find something positive and good and *right* to concentrate on. That, my friend, is what you can do for me.”
It was a perfect Miami night. Velvet sky, studded with stars, warm breeze whispering in off the ocean. Gil and Horatio shared the back seat, windows wound down to let in the cool air, travelling in companionable silence.
Horatio stared out of the window, his mind wandering back to a legend his mother had told him when, as a small boy, he had been upset at the death of his grandfather. She had taken him out into the garden and told him to look for the new star, explaining that whenever a good person died, a new star would shine from the sky.
He nudged Gil in the ribs. “Do it, right now,” he said suddenly. “Don’t waste another minute, another damned second. Phone Nicky right now.”
Whether it was the Jack Daniels, the Miami night, his friend’s insistence or the fate neither of them believed in, Gil took his cellphone out of his jacket pocket and began to key in Nick’s number.
Horatio smiled, then turned back to the window, his eyes scanning the sky for a new star.
~The End ~
The moving Moon went up the sky,
And nowhere did abide:
Softly she was going up,
And a star or two beside
The Rime of The Ancient Mariner ~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
By: Firefox
Disclaimer: Not mine. No infringement intended, no money made (forward all requests to Fat Chance Department) and litigation will only get you possession of an eye-watering Visa bill and a woman already possessed by these guys anyway…
CSI/CSI: Miami crossover
Characters: Horatio/Speed
Gil, Nick.
Rating: I still suck at this. More slush than slash, nothing graphic.
Notes: Huge {{HUGS}} to my partner in purple crime Sammy Girl, who also did the gorgeous icon for me! Love ya loads hun! Spoilers for ‘Lost Son’ and ‘Grave Danger’ (as if you needed telling)
Brit author, so Brit spelling. All mistakes I selfishly claim as mine own.
__________________________________________________________________
That was the trouble with Las Vegas, Grissom thought as he locked the Tahoe and trotted up to the front door of his townhouse through the pouring rain; the word 'moderation' did not figure in the city's vocabulary.
Las Vegas was a 'full on' kind of place. If the weather was hot, it was oven-hot, hot-as-Hades-hot. If it was wet, like this morning, it made you wonder if Noah had left the ark plans anywhere accessible. Great fat raindrops, soft and warm as blood, plummeting out of the sky in a never-ending deluge, as if someone had upended a bucket. No light showers here. Oh no. Not in Vegas. Vegas just had to be hotter, wetter, brighter, louder. You left 'moderation' at the city limits.
By the time he had located his door key on the overburdened key ring, unlocked the door and opened it, he was soaked. In less than two minutes. He could feel an uncomfortable trickle running down his back, under his shirt, and his hair looked like he had just stepped out of the shower. As the door swung inward, he heard the telephone ringing.
Damn it. Let the machine get it. He hefted the pile of files he was carrying on to the small table inside the door, set his briefcase down beside it, and began to take off his soaked jacket.
The ringing stopped as the machine cut in, and he heard what he knew to be his own voice, although to his ears it sounded completely unlike him, say: 'I can't take your call right now, but please leave a message after the beep,' in that rather impersonal tone he used when addressing all things automated.
There was a silence, which seemed to stretch interminably, then an unmistakable voice said softly; "Gil? Are you there?"
Hand halfway to the coat pegs, still clutching his jacket, Gil froze. Something was *very* wrong.
"Sorry…you’re shift hasn’t finished yet… the time difference… I didn’t think …Sorry…"
Suddenly galvanised into action, Grissom let the jacket fall, forgotten, to the floor, and dived across the room to grab the receiver.
"I'm here!" He almost shouted into the phone. "I was just coming in the door." Oblivious now to his wet clothes, his sodden shoes and soaked hair, Gil sat down heavily in the armchair beside the phone. He waited.
There was another silence. Gil held his breath, suddenly conscious of the rain beating a tattoo against the windows.
Still he waited. When the voice didn't say anything else, Gil felt his stomach constrict in anxiety. "What is it?" he said softly into the mouthpiece. "What's wrong?"
The words eventually came out in a harsh, grating whisper, the speaker's attempts at self-control all too evident. "Speed's dead, Gil."
Gil felt his heart miss a beat.
"Take your time." He didn't know what else to say.
Normally so articulate with words, his brain suddenly felt empty - devoid of anything meaningful or even sympathetic. He avoided saying anything that sounded remotely like 'it'll be okay' because Gil knew for certain that for his friend, it would probably never be 'okay' again.
"Speed's dead, Gil. Oh God…"
Gil waited, his own heartbeat sounding impossibly loud in his head. "Talk to me," he said at last, the words little more than a whisper.
There was a huge intake of breath at the other end of the line.
"Take your time, Red, " he said again, softly, "I'm here."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Fourteen months earlier : Chicago
Gil stared at the revoltingly-coloured liquid in the cup he held. Why on earth did every hotel seem to lose its ability to make even partially digestible coffee when asked to do so for a conference? he wondered. As with every other such event he had attended, this gritty, tasteless, tepid, altogether-too-thick liquid was nothing even remotely resembling coffee. He pulled a face.
"I've seen sediment from the bottom of the Everglades that looks more appealing than this," a voice said from beside him.
He turned at the sound, and found himself staring at a pair of startlingly-blue eyes, underlined by a shy smile and framed by a glory of neatly-styled, fiery red hair.
Gil smiled back, somewhat ruefully. "I've never been to one of these things yet where they can produce even semi-drinkable coffee…"
"Probably been laced with something to make sure we don't all fall asleep in there," the shy smile widened.
"Off the top of my head, I can't think of any drug that powerful…"
The hand not holding the coffee cup extended itself towards Gil. "Caine. Miami CSI."
Gil shook the offered hand. "Grissom. Vegas."
The blue eyes widened slightly. "Gil Grissom? *The* Gil Grissom? Entymology specialist? I'm honoured!"
Gil looked suitably embarrassed. "I think 'enthusiast' might be more accurate than 'specialist'."
Caine shook his head. "Not if what I'm told is correct. And Calleigh is a notoriously difficult person to impress - if she says you're a specialist, then I'm tempted to believe her."
"Calleigh?"
"Duquesne," Caine explained, then grinned again, "and don't ask… she tells me 'it's a Southern thing', and no male of sound mind debates the issue with my team's ballistic specialist, I promise you."
Gil grinned back. "She sounds a little like Catherine."
Caine frowned for a moment. "Catherine, as in Willows?"
Gil nodded, slightly taken aback that the name had been recognised, then he remembered. "Of course! You've met Catherine, and Warrick, haven't you? The kidnapping case…"
"That's right. I remember Catherine very well. Very competent… and you're right, there are a lot of similarities between her and Calleigh."
"Catherine's not from the South, though," Gil said with a grin.
"Be grateful! One 'Steel Magnolia' is enough for any man to cope with on a daily basis!"
"Why do I get the feeling you wouldn't have said that if Miss Duquesne was in ear shot?"
"Because you're an astute man… and 100% right!"
The two of them laughed in unison and strolled back into the auditorium together, leaving two untouched cups of coffee on the table in the refreshment room.
Whenever he attended a conference or a seminar, Gil had learned that the early bird avoided the fraternisation, so he always made sure he was early in the bar, early into dinner and early to get-the-hell-outta-here. He had always found socialising at these things rather difficult, and tended to try and avoid it wherever possible. Fortunately, at a forensics conference the size of this one, that was not a particularly challenging task.
Consequently, he found himself one of only three patrons in the private conference bar early that evening. He ordered a beer and retreated to a corner table, where he could bury his head in the newspaper until the restaurant opened. Ever the conservative, Gil’s charcoal trousers and dark blue shirt made him blend into the background of the place until he became almost invisible.
He glanced up as the door to the bar opened, and he couldn’t resist a smile. The first thing he noticed was the sky-blue shirt. The dove grey chinos were, he supposed, fairly understated, but when your colouring was almost guaranteed to get you noticed the very second you walked into a room, that probably rendered your choice of clothing colour almost irrelevant.
To Gil’s surprise, Caine noticed him instantly, smiled and raised a hand in his direction, and pointed to Gil’s drink in an obvious ‘can I get you another?’ gesture. Gil shrugged and nodded, and a few moments later, Caine placed two cold beers on the table and sat down opposite him.
“You hiding out?” he said with a grin.
“Is it that obvious?”
Caine shook his head. “Takes one to know one. I hate these ‘social evenings’ - I always try and make sure I’m at least an hour ahead of everyone else, that way I can retire before the ‘socialising’ begins.”
“My team are always telling me I should get out more, they tell me I’m anti-social.”
“Mine too. I think maybe it comes with the turf.”
Gil bestowed one of his rare smiles on Caine. “They even have a nickname for me…”
Caine thought for a few moments, then shrugged. “I give up. Not enough evidence for me to reach a conclusion.” He smiled back at Gil.
Gil’s eyes sparkled. “The Vegas Vulcan.”
Caine’s laugh was one of genuine delight. “My team just call me H.”
“H”?
“Yep. Lieutenant Horatio Caine is a bit of a tongue twister… too many syllables in all the wrong places.”
“Horatio,” Gil said thoughtfully. “That’s a very majestic name.”
“Not to a high school kid it isn’t. It’s an albatross around your neck - as if being skinny and having hair like a firebrand wasn’t enough!”
“All kids have their ‘albatross’. Mine was poor hearing and absolutely zero ability at sports.”
“Maybe that’s why we both ended up here - courtesy of our respective albatrosses?”
Gil raised his half-empty glass in a toast. “The albatross club.”
They ended up avoiding the hotel restaurant altogether, opting instead for an Italian bistro a few blocks away, eating unexpectedly good pasta and discovering a mutual regard for good chianti, Humphrey Bogart movies and antique books.
Gil liked Horatio, and that was an unusual occurrence in itself. Grissom was an astute judge of character, but more often than not chose to observe rather than indulge. Catherine would roll her eyes at him and accuse him of treating everyone he met like a bug in a jar rather than a person, and he had, on more than one occasion, suspected that she might be right. People were fascinating, but too complicated to get intricately involved with. Much better to stay at a distance. That way you could protect yourself, and them if necessary.
In Horatio however, Gil was experiencing something of a kindred spirit. A man devoted to his job, to the exclusion of almost everything and everyone else in his life. An honest, dedicated, intelligent individual, who suffered the same frustrations with bureaucracy and politicking that Gil did. A man who expressed the same profound belief in the justice system, and saw his role very clearly within it - just like Gil did. It was refreshing. It was interesting.
They were three quarters of the way down their second bottle of chianti before the conversation turned from the professional to the personal. Horatio had an astute way of being direct without being rude, and Gil found himself answering without his normal reservation.
“You married?”
Gil shook his head.
“Ever?”
Another shake. “I’ve never really had the time for all the social niceties that always seemed so necessary for romantic relationships - and I was a disaster at dating - even when I was younger.”
Horatio put his head on one side, and gave Gil a small, knowing smile. “We have more in common than I thought. We should get albatross club jackets.”
“Besides, “ Gil continued, “I’ve never found a woman who could put up with the job. The hours, the science…”
“The smell?” Horatio offered, and they both grinned.
“You? Married I mean?”
Horatio shook his head. “No.”
“Never found the right person?”
Later, Horatio would try and work out why, of all the times, he chose then to reveal it, and why, of all the people to choose to reveal it to, he chose Grissom. He never could work it out, but he never regretted it either.
The startling blue eyes sparked at Gil, and the shy smile returned. “I didn’t say that.”
Gil grinned. “My apologies. First rule of forensics - never speculate. In which case, I shall follow the evidence,” he thought for a moment, idly tapping his chin with one finger. Horatio continued to observe Gil observing him, and the smile remained.
Gil took another sip of wine, then placed the glass down on the table. “The only logical conclusion I can come to is that you have found the right person, but for some reason have opted not to commit to marriage. That leads me to believe that you, or they, are either unavailable or unable to marry.”
“Very good deduction… keep going.”
Gil’s expression clouded slightly. “If it’s what I think it is, you would need to be sure, *very* sure of your feelings…”
“Oh, we are. I promise you.” Horatio interrupted quickly, “It’s one of the very few things in my life I have ever been totally sure of.”
Gil looked almost impressed with the directness and assurance of that statement. If his suspicions were correct, then Caine had to be much closer to a kindred spirit than anyone else Gil had ever met. He also had to be a good deal more courageous than Gil had ever been.
*If* Gil was right. He almost didn't dare ask the question. Almost. “Which one?”
“Which one what?”
“Which one of your team?”
Horatio raised his wine glass to Gil. “Well deduced - maybe you are part Vulcan.”
Attempting to cover his amazement with another sip of wine, Gil tried to gather his rampaging thoughts into some semblance of order. Dear God! Who would have believed it? “It’s a large risk you’re both taking. Do the others know?”
Horatio shook his head. “No, they don’t, and even if they did, it wouldn’t change anything. We are both fully aware of the risk, and have both decided it’s worth it… more than worth it.”
“You can kiss any promotion goodbye if it ever gets out.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about any departmental protocol that tries to tell me how to conduct my personal life. I know the law, and I know I’m honest and my feelings are honest. We are doing nothing wrong, and nothing that jeopardises the department in any way at all. Everything else is irrelevant.” The blue eyes were alight with something now, and Gil found himself looking at Horatio with a new emotion - admiration. It took courage, *real* courage, to forge a personal relationship and keep it going when you knew it could cost you your career. Whoever it was, Horatio Caine obviously felt very strongly about them. Gil found himself hoping that they were deserving of it.
"I know what you're thinking," Horatio said with another of those oh-so-knowing smiles, "you're wondering if my partner has as much at stake here as I do."
Gil nodded. "I was," he admitted. "Becoming involved with a team member, particularly a subordinate, is professional suicide if it's discovered. Both of you may be running an enormous risk. Two careers could be lost - irrespective of the minefield of emotional disaster that awaits you if the relationship flounders…"
"You wouldn't take the risk? Even if you knew it was the right thing to do? Even if you were certain?"
*No, I wouldn't*, Gil wanted to say, *because I don't have the courage. And I know that because that's why I've never done it. Never told…*
He settled for something slightly less revealing. "I admire your sincerity - and I truly hope it works out for you."
"You don't believe that it will, though - not for a second." Horatio was almost laughing at him, eyes sparkling with merriment. Gil Grissom might be approaching genius when it came to bugs, but he was a raw recruit with people and their feelings. "Aren't you curious?"
"About what?"
"Not what - *who*."
Privately, Gil suspected it was probably Miss Steel Magnolia, but he was too polite to say so. Caine didn't strike him as the kind of man who would lose his head over a pretty face, but then he hadn't struck Gil as the kind of man who would jeopardise his career for his heart, either. "There is insufficient evidence for me to come to a logical conclusion," he quipped, referring to Horatio's earlier comment about his nickname.
"His name is Tim Speedle - but to me, he’s just Speed."
It was unfortunate that Gil had chosen that exact second to reach out for his wine glass - his hand seemed to jump, entirely of its own volition, missed its target and sent the glass toppling, the remaining chianti it contained heading directly for Gil's lap. He leapt out of his seat , grabbing his napkin and trying to mop up the red stain on the tablecloth. "Sorry," he mumbled at Horatio, as two waiters materialised bearing cloths and a fresh glass. "Sorry," he said again, trying to cover his embarrassment - not at the wine being spilt, but at his reaction.
Without a doubt, Caine would jump to wrong conclusion, and assume that Gil was shocked. He *was*, but not out of any sense of morality or prejudice - he was, simply, astounded that anyone could be in the situation that he had been avoiding for - God - over a year now. Gil Grissom was shocked, and embarrassed, but not at Horatio Caine. He was shocked and embarrassed at discovering just how much of a coward he actually felt.
The man sitting opposite him had actually done what Gil Grissom had never the courage to do, and that was truly shocking.
Horatio was smiling again. "Now *that* was interesting…" he said quietly.
"My clumsiness? Why?" Gil was still trying to cover his embarrassment.
"No - you aren't the clumsy type - they make bad CSI's. And you don't strike me as homophobic, either…"
"Not at all," Gil interjected quickly - perhaps a little *too* quickly, he realised instantly and decided to illustrate his open-mindedness. "Freud said that the only truly deviant sexual behaviour…"
"…Was no sexual behaviour at all." Horatio finished the quote for him. "So," he continued, fixing Gil with one his patent interrogation room expressions - the one that said; 'no way out of this one, buddy' - "we've established that you're not homophobic, so I haven't appalled your sense of morality. You're also not clumsy, so that leaves us with…"
"Surprise," Gil admitted.
"Why are you surprised? You already knew it was one of my team. If you're not bothered by the fact that Tim's a man, then why the surprise?"
Jesus, Caine was good at this, Gil thought. He must be something to behold in the interrogation room. Gil knew his strengths were elsewhere than interviewing. He did his share, but Catherine, Warrick - hell, all of his team - were much more adept at interviews than he was. He found himself studying the subject rather than interviewing them, and his scientific brain usually wandered off at a tangent, confusing the suspect and, usually, Jim Brass at the same time. Which was exactly what his brain was doing right now. He wasn’t used to being the interviewee, and he found it unnerving. How, exactly, had Caine managed to switch sides on him so slickly, he wondered? One minute he had been the one asking the questions, and now…
“I’ve never believed in coincidence,” he said at last, hoping the left field comment might throw Horatio off the scent.
No such luck. “Neither have I,” Caine said steadily, but with no trace of confusion, “or fate, or destiny.”
Gil gave up. Just like Horatio, he would later wonder what it was, at that precise moment, that made him admit something he had never admitted to another living soul, and why he chose to make that admission to someone he had only just met, but just like Horatio, he would never regret it.
“Which, assuming those abstract concepts do not actually exist, makes this situation rather difficult to explain,” he said softly, meeting Horatio’s frank stare head on.
“Situation?”
One hour, one pot of coffee and one Jack Daniels each later, Horatio leaned back in his chair and ran his hand through his hair.
“And I thought we were doing well with bad coffee and bad memories. I’m starting to think we really should be a club!” His smile faded and he looked intently at Grissom. “You should tell him,” he said quietly.
Gil shook his head. “I can’t. My position as his superior makes that untenable.”
“If Nick is as smart as you say he is, he’ll have worked most of it out for himself anyway,” Horatio offered, “you could be denying yourself - hell, both of you - a real shot at happiness.”
“If I took the risk and was wrong, or worse, was right and we couldn’t make it work - well, then I’ve ruined two lives, two careers and fouled up a damned good professional team.”
Horatio leaned over the table, his voice low. “Speed is my life, Gil. He makes everything I do, everything I *am*, worthwhile. What we are - what we do - it gets inside your head after a while. All that death and pain - all the deception and lies. Speed keeps me level - reminds me that there are good things in life, that good people still exist, that I still know how to laugh. What we have together keeps me alive.”
“I’m not you,” Gil said at last, “and I know I can’t do it - can’t risk it. I’m content with what I have - a friendship and a good professional relationship.” The smile that ghosted across his face was gone in an instant. “It’s enough. It has to be.”
“That’s a mighty big albatross, Gil,” Horatio said sadly.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Eleven months earlier: Las Vegas
“This just arrived for you,” Catherine said, waving a padded postal envelope as she walked into the office. “Marked personal.” She placed the package down directly under Gil’s nose. He pointedly moved it to one side. Catherine made no attempt to move. “Did I miss something? I know it’s not your birthday.”
“You’re right Catherine - it is marked personal - and no, you didn’t, and no, it isn’t.”
She hovered. “You’re not gonna open that while I’m here, are you?”
“Right again.”
Raising her eyebrows in mock annoyance, she retreated, closing the door behind her. Gil looked at the label. It was indeed marked ‘personal’, addressed to him at the lab, the label completed in neat, elegant, hand written script. He tore off the easy-open strip and peered inside. It contained a small, slim book, bound in black leather, obviously very old, but in good condition. The scent of must and old ink caused a smile to surface on Gil’s face. He turned the book spine toward him to read the faded gold lettering: The Courtship Rituals of Solitary Insects.
The smile widened.
There was a single sheet of white notepaper tucked inside the front cover of the antique book, the note written in the same hand as the envelope.
*To Albatross - Codename: Bugs
Saw this, and thought of you.
From Albatross - Codename: Red*
Gil laughed out loud and reached for the telephone.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Ten months earlier: Miami
It was singly the most satisfying, and the easiest, friendship that Horatio had ever experienced. From a chance meeting over a coffee pot in Chicago, Horatio had found someone who inhabited the same strange professional world that he did; someone who understood the pitfalls and frustrations, the highs and lows of the job, and someone who he knew, instinctively, he could trust. It was rewarding without being complicated, fulfilling without being demanding, and Horatio often wondered if they might both have to re-think their previous stance on fate.
The chance encounter had developed into irregular, but always welcome, telephone calls - both business and pleasure oriented, and more than one postal packet containing an item of interest to one or the other had winged its way across the miles. Horatio now possessed, among other things, a mint condition film poster of The Maltese Falcon - currently gracing the wall in his study. Gil, along with the antique book whose title Horatio had been unable to resist, had a splendidly grotesque South American beetle, suspended in a thick glass bottle of glutinous-looking oil, found in a Miami junk shop. That item had arrived packaged in one of the unbreakable flight cases normally used for perishable forensics - Horatio being as imaginative as ever.
He blinked into the early morning sunlight and turned his face upwards towards the cloudless sky, closing his eyes.
He was standing on the small balcony outside Speed’s apartment, white shirt open to catch the early morning breeze, sipping his first cup of coffee of the day, and enjoying the early morning stillness and silence. It was going to be another beautiful day. By the end of it, Horatio knew, he would probably be bone-tired, stinking of sweat and death, his mind full of images of carnage and disaster, but for now, for these brief few minutes, everything was clean, fresh and full of promise.
A movement caught his peripheral vision and he turned his head. Inside the bedroom, Speed turned over in his sleep, dark head stark against the pillow, one long arm flinging itself outwards, one proportionately even longer leg repositioning itself in the tangle of sheets to a more comfortable position.
Horatio smiled, feeling a delicious tingle across his shoulders as his memory rewound a few hours. Sharing a bed with Speed was just about the best de-stressing exercise ever invented. It didn’t matter what the day had in store for him - whatever evils humanity decided to visit on each other, at the end of it he would have here and he would have Speed, and that was more than enough. However bad the day, sharing the nights with Speed eradicated all the darkness and despair. With this place, and this man, he could face anything.
Oh Gil, he thought with a small, sad shake of his head, you really don’t know what you’re missing. If I could give you anything, my friend, it would be the courage to tell Nicky Stokes how you feel.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Five months earlier: Miami
The ringing of the house phone intruded on his dream slowly, metamorphosing itself from a fire alarm in his subconscious. His eyes weren’t open, but he sensed Speed move beside him. The ringing stopped as Speed dragged the receiver from the handset and mumbled something. The next thing he was aware of was Speed’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake.
“H? C’mon. Wake up.”
Very few people had this number, the team only ever used their cellphones, so there was no imminent sense of danger. Horatio opened his eyes slowly. “What? Who is it?”
“Gil,” Speed said, frowning.
Horatio was fully awake in an instant, feeling as if someone had punched him as adrenaline flooded into his system. He all but snatched the receiver from Speed’s hand. “Bugs?” he said, his voice holding a tinge of urgency that always deepened it by several tones, “what is it?”
Gil had never phoned him in the middle of the night. Ever. “What is it?” he said again, slowly, trying to keep his voice level.
“They’ve got Nick.” Gil’s voice sounded strange - small, strained, as if a he were talking through a thick blanket. There was a strange gulping sound as Gil fought for breath.
“Take it easy,” Horatio said, much more calmly than he felt, “start from the beginning.”
“Someone’s taken Nicky…and … and… they’ve buried him alive.”
Horatio felt his heart contract painfully in his chest, listening with sick horror as Gil related what few facts he knew. When he told Horatio about the web-cam and the size of the box Nick was in, Gil’s voice finally cracked.
“I can’t watch him… I feel so… so… useless. Frozen. My mind won’t function… I’ve got to help Nicky and I can’t… I can’t *think*.”
Trying desperately to dispel the horrific pictures that surfaced in his mind of Speed, buried alive, out there God-alone-knew-where, in a plexi-glass box with his air running out, and having to *watch* that happening; Horatio fought to be practical.
“Where are you?” he asked, climbing out of bed, “are you in the office?”
“No…” Gil sounded small, far away, almost lost. “I’m in the parking lot. I… I had to get out of there for a minute… I have to *think*.” His voice rose, fear and anger building in its tone. “I have to get him back… and I don’t have a million dollars to do it.”
“You can hold it together. Nick needs you to hold it together. You can do this. You know you can,” Horatio said softly, “for Nicky, you can do this.”
Fully awake now, Speed got out of bed. He didn’t know exactly what was wrong, but he knew by the tone of H’s voice that it was bad. Gil would never have phoned in the middle of night for anything less than an emergency, and Speed sensed that this was about as urgent as it could get. He caught Horatio’s eye, and pointed to the flight bag, kept on top of the wardrobe and containing a change of clothes and supplies for a couple of days - just in case it was needed. Horatio nodded his understanding, his eyes portraying his gratitude for Speed’s quick thinking. “Gil? I’m on my way. I’ll get on the next plane - I can be with you in about 6 hours.”
“I have to get him back… I can’t let him die like this…”
“Listen to me! *Listen!”* Horatio shouted into the phone, “Nick is *not* going to die! Get back inside and get your team together. Phone me again in half an hour - I’m leaving the house now - right now, and by the time I get to Vegas I want you to tell me to turn right around and come straight back to Miami because Nick is back with you. Okay?”
“Okay,” Gil’s voice sounded flat and lifeless.
“Half an hour, Gil - or I call Catherine instead.”
“Okay.”
Horatio almost threw the phone back on the rest, then headed straight for the bathroom. “Speed?” he called above the noise of running water, “get into the lab, and see what you can turn up in the files about kidnap ransoms for victims buried alive.”
Speed was pulling on jeans and a t-shirt. “What? Buried *alive*? What the hell’s going on H?”
Horatio reappeared, tucking his shirt into his waistband as he walked. “One of Gil’s CSI’s has been kidnapped for ransom. The bastards have buried Nick Stokes alive, and they want a million dollars.”
“Jesus,” Speed said, his face paling. “What are you going to do?”
Horatio was pulling on his jacket. “I’m going to Las Vegas to stop Gil Grissom self-destructing with guilt. I’ll work out the next part on the way.”
“I’ll get your ticket organised and sort out the work rota,” Speed said, his practical nature overtaking his sense of revulsion for the moment, “then I’ll see what I can …” he almost said ‘dig up’ but felt suddenly sick at the unintentional slip, “… find out from the files.” He reached out, one large hand gently resting on Horatio’s neck. “Be careful,” he said slowly, “and take care of Gil.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Horatio heard the door open and stood up from the sofa. Gil walked in, slowly, as if he were in a trance. His face was impassive and expressionless. It took several seconds before he registered the fact that someone was standing in his living room.
Horatio took one look at Gil’s face and knew his decision to come to Vegas had been the right one. Gil looked… hell, Horatio couldn’t find a word for it - exhausted, wired, scared, all of those and more - ‘haunted’ was as near as he could get. The bright, inquisitive gaze was hollow and empty, the animated face set in a grim mask of fear and almost desolation. His hair and clothes were filthy, covered in what looked and smelled like blood, and several dried smears of the same substance could be clearly seen on his face. Horatio was shocked at first, then suddenly thought of how he would look if it were Speed out there and he was the one chasing his own tail, counting down the seconds until the air ran out. Then he realised that Gil Grissom was a hell of lot tougher than he looked.
“There’s clean clothes on the bed and a pizza in the oven,” Horatio said with no preamble whatsoever, “take a shower, you can eat something on your way back out there.”
Gil took a few more seconds to react. “How did you get in here?”
Horatio shrugged almost imperceptibly. “You keep your emergency key in exactly the same place I do,” he said simply.
“Thanks,” Gil said, then suddenly, as if all the energy drained out of his legs, he sank into the nearest chair and dropped his head into his hands. “He blew himself up Horatio… he blew himself apart, right in front of my eyes, and left me with *nothing*!!” His voice was rising, frustration and rage beginning to boil in his throat, “we got the money - Catherine got the money. I thought… I thought that would be it, I thought he would take it and then tell me where Nick is… I thought I understood him… greed and avarice, I was so sure I had him worked out… but I was wrong. I was wrong. He didn’t even want the money! He blew himself up and left us with nothing…”
He raised over-bright eyes to meet Horatio’s gaze. “I wanted to kill him myself,” he snarled, suddenly filled with futile rage, “that bastard stood there, knowing what he was going to do next… and he taunted me!” The eyes suddenly filled, threatening to overflow. “He asked me if Nick was ‘my guy’ - asked me how I felt when I watched him! He asked me if I felt impotent… if my soul died a little every time I clicked the switch! That’s Nick in that box! Nicky! It was as if that bastard *knew*…” Gil ran out of breath, his chest heaving with emotion and effort.
Horatio dropped to one knee beside Gil and gripped his shoulder. “Take a shower, eat something and don’t think at all for the next ten minutes,” his tone was soft, even, calm. “Wash all that crap off you, and I’ll make some strong coffee.”
Gil stood up, obeying Horatio like an automaton. “And that bastard knew nothing,” Horatio added as Gil headed for the bathroom.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The doorbell rang. Horatio considered ignoring it, but it rang again almost immediately, so he decided it would be more prudent to answer it than to risk the noise waking Gil - besides, it could be important, he decided, getting up from his bed on the sofa. Catherine Willows’ face registered shock as the door opened, her eyes widening, then a frown formed as her memory cut in with a flashback. It took less than a second for her to recognise the face the other side of Gil’s door. “Lieutenant Caine? My God! What are you doing here?”
Horatio grinned at her. “Hello Catherine. Do you want to come in? Gil’s still asleep I think…” he turned around, but the door to Gil’s bedroom remained firmly shut.
Catherine was recovering her composure well. She looked tired, Horatio thought, dark circles smudged under her eyes, her skin pale, but there was a brightness about her expression that was encouraging. “I’ve just come from my ‘shift’ at the hospital, and, knowing Gil, I stopped off and picked up a few things.” She smiled at Horatio. “I wasn’t expecting to find anyone here, and Grissom forgets to eat at the best of times.” She shrugged, handing over a brown paper sack of groceries, “it’s just basics - fruit and cheese, and some bagels.”
Horatio took the bag. “Come on in - please - I’m sure Gil will be pleased you’re here.”
She shook her head. “No thanks, I’m completely beat.” Her shrewd eyes narrowed a little. “How long have you been here? Not that it’s any of my business, but…”
“Since yesterday,” Horatio admitted. “I wanted to see if I could do anything to help.”
Catherine looked genuinely grateful. She threw a glance over Horatio’s shoulder. “Is he… okay?”
Horatio nodded. “He’s been asleep for a few hours, which has to be a good sign. How’s Nick doing this morning?”
She pulled a face. “He looks like hell, but then he’s been there… the docs say he’s stable and strong, and should make a full recovery, given some time.”
“That’s great news. He’s a young guy - fit and smart - he’ll be okay.”
“None of us looks too great this morning - though God knows, we all feel better than we did last night.”
“I heard. That was some rescue. You did yourselves proud.”
She looked at Horatio. “Gil was fantastic. You should have seen him out there. We were all down to our last nerve, but he held it together - even when we realised that the box was wired with Semtex. Warrick was losing it, I was losing it, and poor Nick…. That was the worst part, watching Nicky freaking out… but Gil was amazing. Everyone was just about played out, but Gil got in that hole, knelt down on that box, and somehow… somehow, he got through to Nick. It was Gil who worked out how to get him out, Gil who talked him into laying still when every instinct was telling Nick to get the hell outta that coffin…” She shook her head in silent admiration. “He was incredible. He was the boss last night, and it showed.”
“He’s a good man. I’m sorry you all had to go through that, but I’m glad it worked out.”
She touched Horatio’s arm. “I’m glad you were here. Grissom doesn’t say much, but I sometimes think he needs a friend. Someone who understands him and who doesn’t work for him. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Now Nick is safe, I’ll be getting back to where I ought to be.”
“Back to the swamps and the alligators, eh?” She grinned.
“Beats the hell outta the desert and the ants.”
She nodded, turning to walk away. “Take care Lieutenant.”
“You too.”
Horatio closed the door behind her, unpacked the groceries and folded up the bedclothes from the sofa. Then he put a fresh pot of coffee on to brew, wrote Gil a note, and left for the airport.
Gil woke up two hours later, feeling gritty, heavy and as if his head were full of cotton, but better. He definitely felt *better*. His brain was functioning again, he felt connected to himself, instead of that dreadful, fractured limbo of inaction and indecision. Pulling on an ancient pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, he padded out into the kitchen, expecting to find Horatio. He found a full pot of wonderfully fragrant coffee, a plate of fresh fruit and bagels, and the note.
*Breakfast courtesy of Catherine.
Nick is doing okay this morning - docs report is good.
From what I hear, you were doing more than okay last night.
Case closed, except…
TELL HIM.
H.*
Gil smiled. “I damned nearly did,” he said aloud to the empty room. It had been close - too close to call, and all the time Gil had forced himself to watch that ghostly, lurid green image on the screen, writhing in soundless agony, he had bitterly regretted *not* telling Nicky. Several times he thought he might never have the chance to make up for that mistake. Then, in the confusion and relief of that frantic rescue, as Catherine’s voice had screamed at them to get out of the hole, the box was wired, Gil had realised that the team had done their part - now it was down to *him* - to his brain and his ability, to get Nick out of that box. Seeing Nick, frantic, screaming, covered in ant bites but *alive*, had galvanised him. His brain had suddenly snapped back into action - he was *here*, he could act, he could do something and it would be worth it because Nick was *alive*.
Kneeling on the lid of that damned coffin, he knew he could get through to Nick. Gil would never have admitted to anyone except maybe Horatio, but when Nick raised his hand and placed it under Gil’s, through the transparent lid, Gil knew that Nick and he had something between them that even this twisted, evil bastard couldn’t destroy. He suddenly felt as if he could have pulled Nick out of that damned pile of earth all on his own if he’d had to.
Coming home to sandwiches and cold beer in the fridge, and a sleeping Horatio on the couch, Gil had debated waking him and talking it through, but exhaustion and his body’s sudden curtailment of the adrenaline that had been keeping him functioning for so long had left him incapable of anything save falling into bed and a deep, dreamless sleep.
Now, with his usual efficiency, Horatio had decided his work here was done, and left for home. That’s what friends did. Picked you up, dusted you off, then let you get on with life. He raised his coffee cup to the blue sky outside the window. “The albatross club,” he said with a tired grin.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Present day: Miami
In some ways Miami wasn’t all that different from Vegas, Gil thought. Another full-on place, no half measures, no moderation. The heat was stifling, but not the airless heat of Nevada - this was thick, heavy, tropical heat, laden with strength-sapping humidity. The streets and sidewalks were slick and rain-polished, reflecting the whirling red and blue lights of the police vehicles in the cortege.
Gil saw them turn into the wide gates of the perfectly-manicured cemetery. It was raining again, huge, single drops of warm rain, falling from a leaden sky onto the vivid tropical greens beneath. Angels tears.
The scent of the flowers where Gil stood, a respectful distance from the gravesite but close enough for Horatio to see him - to know he was there - was overpowering. Roses - hundreds of them - dense, deep colours swathed in a cloying, overwhelming scent that seemed to settle over the scene like a miasma. The line of vehicles drew to a halt, and Gil watched as the mourners emerged. A tall, elegantly graceful African-American woman, her eyes hidden behind huge sunglasses - that must be Alexx. The broad-shouldered, olive-skinned young man, his square jaw clenched and mouth set in a firm line - Eric. The next to emerge was a petite blonde, her long hair swept back off her pale face. She was small, but there was nothing fragile about her - her red-rimmed eyes radiated sadness but inner strength. A smile ghosted across Gil’s mouth. Calleigh. Horatio’s steel magnolia. He hoped she was as good a friend to Horatio as Catherine was to him. Strong women and solitary bosses - a formidable combination. Horatio emerged last. Completely calm on the outside, clad in a sharp black suit that somehow made him look… different. Hidden. Even that glorious fiery hair looked somehow more subdued - it’s fire dimmer than usual. Gil felt the lump rise in his throat. This could so easily have been him - the flag-draped coffin could so easily have held Nicky…
The mourners assembled at the graveside, the couple who were obviously Speed’s parents - a dark haired woman and silver-haired man, both looking distraught, seated at the front. Horatio and his team stood behind the row of chairs, Calleigh standing tight against Horatio’s left arm, ramrod straight, pale, but utterly composed. Her eyes scanned the people around the gravesite, zeroing in on Gil. Her expression changed, her eyes widening slightly, then she nodded. A tiny, almost invisible movement, but an acknowledgement of his presence. He gave a slight nod in return.
The priest droned on in the grey afternoon, surrounded by a sea of khaki law enforcement uniforms, black funereal clothing and incongruous, flamboyant roses. Gil’s eyes were riveted on his friend, on Horatio’s tired, enigmatic face, those startling blue eyes full of shadows. When the coffin was finally, gently lowered into the rain-soaked earth, and a staccato volley of shots shattered the stillness, Horatio’s eyes closed for a long moment, and Gil felt a familiar flash of the same thing he’d felt when Nick was missing. Wanting desperately to do something, anything, to help, but this time there was nothing he could do. No amount of effort, of brainpower, no amount of logic or flash of inspiration would change this. The impotence he felt made his jaw clench, and the lump in his throat threatened to choke him.
The service over, the mourners began to disperse, drifting away to cars parked elsewhere, disappearing through the rain into the afternoon greyness.
Gil felt a light touch on his arm, and turned to see Calleigh Duquesne. “Thank you,” she said quietly, her clear eyes locking on to Gil’s. He shrugged - helplessly, uselessly, and her grip on his arm tightened slightly. “I’m Calleigh. I know who you are. Thank you for coming all this way.”
“How is he?” Gil asked her. The usual banal, ridiculous question.
Her jaw tightened. “He is… Horatio,” she explained simply. Her eyes searched his face. “They were together you know, when it happened…If it had to happen at all, I’m glad it happened like that.”
Gil’s brow furrowed. “You knew?”
She smiled and nodded, her eyes filling with unshed tears. “Not for certain. Not until I walked into that jewellery store and saw him.” She shivered slightly. “He was on one knee - Speed’s blood all over his face where he had been listening to see if there was still a heartbeat. It was his face… the expression on his face. I’ve never seen so much emotion in his eyes… in anyone’s eyes… It broke my heart when I realised…”
“The others?”
A shake of her head, the blonde hair swishing. “No. It was no-one else’s business. Not even mine.”
She didn’t tell Gil about IAB, or how she had turned on her heel and strode out of that God-awful, gaudy shop, her heart lodged somewhere in her throat. She didn’t tell Gil about the blood - Speed’s blood - still spreading in a ghastly pool on the tiled floor, and on Horatio’s sky blue shirt. It was, by that strange coincidence that neither of them believed in, the same shirt he had been wearing that night in the bar in Chicago, but neither of them realised it. She didn’t tell Gil about Speed’s gun, or the conversation in the locker room, when Horatio had so nearly - so very nearly - finally cracked. Those were things for Horatio to tell his friend in his own time and in his own way, but not now, not here in this rain-soaked cemetery, sickly with the scent of flowers and heavy with the pain of loss.
She grasped Gil’s hand. “Come on, ride with us back to Alexx’s. We’re going to say goodbye to Tim.”
“It wouldn’t be right,” Gil said softly, “I don’t belong there. You are his team. In that part of his world, I’m an outsider.”
She shook her head and looked askance at him. “Right now, Doctor Grissom, you are exactly what he needs.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It was late. Very late. Or very early, depending on which day you were measuring from. Gil and Horatio were alone now, sitting in the dark living room of Horatio’s little-used townhouse, methodically and meticulously demolishing a bottle of Jack Daniels between them. Neither were drunk, but the alcohol had deadened the sharp edge of Horatio’s searing pain, and Gil was grateful for that.
“We always knew it could happen,” Horatio said, staring into his glass, “if you do this job, you have to be aware of that.”
Gil nodded. “No guarantees. There never are.”
A small smile touched Horatio’s mouth. “We shared so much… and it was good Gil, it was damned good. I’ll never be sorry… We grabbed what we had with both hands.”
“And you were - you are - absolutely right. You tried to tell me so many times and you were right. It is worth it…even if…”
Horatio nodded. “It is. Believe me. Even now. Even the way I feel now. If this is the price I have to pay for what Speed and I had, then I would rather pay it for having had it, than never have had it at all.”
“I envy you,” Gil said evenly, looking into Horatio’s face. “I envy your courage and your certainty and your absolute commitment - to the job, to Speed, to the team… I watched them all today, closing ranks around you in a solid wall of loyalty. You may have lost something irreplaceable, but you still have a helluva lot.”
Horatio smiled. “I know.”
“And Miss Duquesne is quite something.”
“Isn’t she just? I’m wondering who separated her and Catherine at birth….” He grinned. “Perhaps another of our albatrosses?”
Gil laughed. “The Ancient Mariner was saved in the end you know - freed from the albatross.”
“He wouldn’t have needed to be saved if he hadn’t killed it in the first place,” Horatio pointed out, waving his glass at Gil, “and I don’t think either of us would be any better off being ‘saved’ from ours.”
Gil agreed.
Horatio stood up from his chair. “Come on - I’ll share the cab ride with you to the airport. I need the fresh air and you need to get going.”
“You sure?”
Horatio put his head on one side and regarded Gil shrewdly. “Isn’t there something important you are supposed to be doing in Vegas? Isn’t there someone you need to talk to?”
Gil smiled. “Yes. Yes there is. But I’m only going back if you…”
Horatio waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “What I need more than anything else right now is to know that the world isn’t stopping. To find something positive and good and *right* to concentrate on. That, my friend, is what you can do for me.”
It was a perfect Miami night. Velvet sky, studded with stars, warm breeze whispering in off the ocean. Gil and Horatio shared the back seat, windows wound down to let in the cool air, travelling in companionable silence.
Horatio stared out of the window, his mind wandering back to a legend his mother had told him when, as a small boy, he had been upset at the death of his grandfather. She had taken him out into the garden and told him to look for the new star, explaining that whenever a good person died, a new star would shine from the sky.
He nudged Gil in the ribs. “Do it, right now,” he said suddenly. “Don’t waste another minute, another damned second. Phone Nicky right now.”
Whether it was the Jack Daniels, the Miami night, his friend’s insistence or the fate neither of them believed in, Gil took his cellphone out of his jacket pocket and began to key in Nick’s number.
Horatio smiled, then turned back to the window, his eyes scanning the sky for a new star.
~The End ~
The moving Moon went up the sky,
And nowhere did abide:
Softly she was going up,
And a star or two beside
The Rime of The Ancient Mariner ~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge.