One Step at a Time

A/N: My apologies for leaving y’all hanging like that. I had to spend the week studying for a chemistry test and didn’t have any time for writing. Next week’s not looking much better, but I’ll see what I can do. My unending thanks to all of you for your feedback! It’s really encouraged me to keep writing on this story. Love, D

Chapter 12


Greg’s response was an explosion of movement.

The preliminary file in Grissom’s hand didn’t name names. The team had only a barebones description of the situation, but the location was enough to send the young man running for the door while screaming “Pick up! Pick up! Goddamn you, pick up!” into his phone. He ran down the hall, knocking people out of his way and not even bothering to shout back apologies. His concern was with the constant ringing on the other end and the voice that never answered.

Warrick’s response was one of numbing horror.

He’d heard Grissom say the name ‘The Blue Note’ and he knew that The Kinsey Quintet was scheduled to play there. Logically, he knew this placed Jack at the scene. He also knew that the odds of Jack being involved were extremely slim, since Jack was supposed to be on stage, not in a fight. And yet, despite his mind supplying reasonable excuses for him not to panic, his fear was eating him from the inside out.

He was quickly growing tired of this particular fear.

But things were different this time around. The shoot-out at the club didn’t have the same impact on him as seeing Nick’s face on the computer screen--it was a thousand times worse. When Nick had been buried, he could at least see him, see what was happening, know he was still alive. Without any concrete images of the club in front of his eyes, his mind provided all the visuals he needed. He could picture bullet holes riddling Jack’s body, Jack missing half his face, Jack raising a stump of an arm where his hand used to be, or Jack lying in a pool of blood, empty velvet eyes gazing up towards the ceiling.

Slowly, Warrick pushed away from the table already surrounded by the chaotic confusion of his colleagues and ignored Nick’s call as followed his lover’s path out the building. Greg was still in the parking lot, standing at the door of one the lab’s Yukons, staring at it with a helplessness that made Warrick’s heart plunge. Had he heard from Jack? Had something happened to him? Or had Greg reached one of the other band members, and they’d told him the bad news?

He placed a hand on his lover’s shoulder. “Greg?”

The tearful brown eyes turned to him. “I. . . I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

The younger man held up his hands, which were trembling so fiercely he could barely hold onto his keys. Warrick immediately grabbed the key ring and pushed Greg away from the driver’s side door.

“Get in. I’ll drive.”

Turning on the flashing blue and red lights, Warrick left treadmarks on the parking lot as he pulled out. Neither of them flinched when he nearly drove them head-on into an eighteen wheeler, which told him more about their emotional state than the quiet tears sliding down Greg’s face as he repeatedly pressed redial on his cell, or the blankness he saw in his own eyes each time he looked in the rearview mirror.

They both jumped when Warrick’s phone rang and Greg reached over to snatch it out of his pocket. “Jack! . . . Oh,” he said, his entire body slumping, “never mind.” He turned off Warrick’s phone and lifted his own back to his ear.

“Greg?” Warrick asked when it was clear the younger man wasn’t going to tell him who had called.

“Only Grissom.”

“And you hung up on him?”

“We need to keep the line clear,” Greg explained, pressing redial on his phone again. “Just in case.”

Warrick knew they were going to get in a lot of trouble for this, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Nothing mattered except getting to The Blue Note, assessing the scene, determining who the victims were, and then, if Jack were among them. . . if they found him. . . if they lost him. . . He took a deep breath, trying to calm his thoughts. They would get to the scene, and then. . . and then. . .

“Warrick!”

Greg’s shout woke him and he steered the Yukon back into the correct lane.

“Sorry,” he said, and reached up to wipe the moisture that had appeared on his cheek. Greg turned away without another word, staring out the window with unblinking eyes. Neither of them had anything to say that they didn’t already know.

The Yukon’s tires screamed as they stopped in the street in front of the club, coming to a halt amidst a fleet of police cars, ambulances, fire trucks, and dozens of dazed witnesses and curious tourists. Greg and Warrick pushed their way into the club, flashing their I.D.s in order to get past the officers on the scene, who didn’t seem to question their arrival despite the fact the club had not yet been cleared.

“‘Rick,” Brass began, but was ignored by both CSIs as they headed for the stage, the place where Jack was most likely to be.

It was the head of silky brown hair Warrick recognized first, curls lying limply amidst the dirt of the raised platform of the stage. He didn’t have to see any more to know it was Jack, and couldn’t if he wanted to through the busy actions of the medical personnel attending to the red pool gathering around them. He grabbed onto Greg and held him, preventing his struggling lover from interrupting the paramedics as they worked.

“Clear!” one shouted, and Warrick’s stomach clenched as Jack’s body jerked from the force of the pulse.

“Still no heartbeat!”

“Again! Clear!”

Warrick’s fingers bruised Greg’s flesh as the younger man choked back a sob.

“We have a heartbeat. Let’s get him out of here!”

They may have gotten Jack’s heart started, but Warrick swore his own stopped as he watched the still, white form of their lover being carried by. Jack’s chest was covered in smears of red, and he could tell the worst of the damage lay beneath the paramedic’s hand pressing down on his stomach, the very stomach that had been one smooth, unbroken expanse of flesh which had just that morning had helped to trap his arm between their bodies. There was not supposed to be a hole torn into that stomach. Warrick trailed his tongue over that stomach a dozen times a week, if not more. There was no hole. How could there be a hole?

“Jack!” Greg broke free from Warrick’s grasp and ran after the stretcher, Warrick following with lead feet he almost had to drag in order to get them to move.

“Sir, you can’t go in there!” a paramedic said, trying to push Greg out of the way when he tried to climb inside.

“I am not leaving him!” Greg snapped, pushing the man back. “He is my partner and he is not going anywhere without me!”

“Stop arguing!” the paramedic in the ambulance said. “We don’t have time! Let him come!”

With a triumphant look, Greg climbed into the back and sat down, taking hold of Jack’s hand. He turned to find their missing lover, but as Warrick took a step towards the ambulance, he froze, feeling as if his mind was unraveling. He’d already made this trip. He couldn’t get into the ambulance again. He’d already made that agonizing drive, gripping the hand of someone he loved as they faded in and out of life. He wanted to join Greg, he wanted to be there for them, but he couldn’t make himself step inside. He was terrified he might witness Jack’s last breath, just as he had witnessed Nicky’s before they’d gotten his heart started again. He couldn’t bear to feel Jack’s heart stop. If he had to lose him, it wasn’t going to be like that.

“I’ll be right behind you,” he said as the doors closed. He watched until the ambulance had driven out of sight, then turned around and walked back towards the club.

“Friend of yours?” Brass asked and Warrick gave a little nod. “Are he and Sanders really. . . ?”

“Yes.”

Brass sighed, shaking his head. “Poor kid. I’ve seen a lot of men take a shot to the gut, and I don’t think his pal’s gonna make it.”

Warrick gritted his teeth, fingernails digging into his palms as he resisted throwing his arm back and punching the prediction of doom from Brass’s face. Instead he returned to the Yukon and grabbed his kit while he waited for the cops to finish clearing the scene. Grissom and the rest of the team arrived five minutes later, his boss wearing on his face that extremely tight expression that told him Grissom was pissed, but was going to hold off on passing judgment until he got the whole story.

“You okay, man?” Nick asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah. Fine. Why?”

“Well, you kind of took off without saying anything back there, and you look a little strange. You sure everything’s all right?”

“Course. I was just worried about Greg, that’s all.”

“Oh, okay. So, where is he?”

“Huh?”

Nick’s smile was a little befuddled as he looked at his best friend. “Greg. Where is he?”

“Oh. He went to the hospital. His boyfriend was playing here tonight.”

“No shit,” he said, his face turning pale beneath the desert tan. “Is he all right?”

“Which one--Greg, or Jack?”

“Both.”

Warrick tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Damnit--he was not going to give in. He was going to carry on as if nothing had happened. If he collapsed now, he’d be no use to anyone.

“Jack’s hurt,” was all he managed to say.

“Hurt? How bad?”

“Bad,” he whispered.

“Shit. Someone should be there with Greg, make sure he doesn’t freak out. You want me to tell Grissom where you are?”

“Why me?” Warrick said, glaring at Nick. “Why do you think I want to go?”

“Because,” Nick answered with narrowing eyes, “you and Greg are friends.”

“And you and he aren’t?”

“Come on, man. You think I haven’t noticed how much you two have been hanging out lately? I’m not stupid. Y’all finally found some common ground, which is great, even if that common ground does have to be jazz. But that ground doesn’t just fall away when something goes wrong. If you think he needs you, you should go.”

Warrick sighed, shaking his head. The last thing he wanted was a lecture from Nick, and that he was getting one was a sure sign he was fucking up somehow. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out the keys he’d confiscated earlier from Greg. “If Grissom needs me, I’ve got my cell.”

“Tell Greg we’ll get there as soon as we can,” he said, turning towards the club.

“Nicky,” Warrick said as he opened the door.

He stopped, glancing back over his shoulder at his friend. “Yeah?”

“What you said before? You’ve got it all wrong. The ground’s fallen out from under both of us, and we’re falling with it.”

Before the Texan could ask the question rising to his lips, Warrick slipped inside the Yukon and closed the door, escaping from the scene. He didn’t immediately go to the hospital--he just couldn’t make himself turn the steering wheel towards that antiseptic hell where the only thing waiting for him was hours of pacing and nerve-wracking uncertainty. He instead drove around the city, trying to build up the courage just to call Greg and let him know he would be there, eventually.

He couldn’t do it.

Instead, he turned his phone off and kept driving.


Nick absently ran his fingers through the blond hairs of the head resting on his thigh. Greg had finally fallen asleep with the help of a sedative, and even though his leg was going numb, Nick wasn’t going to move and risk waking him. The kid had been practically in hysterics by the time he was able to reach the hospital after tearing himself away from the scene, and Nick did his best to bury his anger at Warrick, concentrating on being there for Greg. He was damn sure, though, that next time he saw his best friend, he was going to knock him down and wring his neck.

In the entire ten hours since Greg had first arrived, they’d only gotten one update from the doctors. Jack had finally gotten out of surgery but was still in intensive care and had yet to wake up. The musician had lost a lot of blood and the damage to his stomach had been severe. Though the doctor tried to remain neutral in her report, Nick could see from the look in her eyes there wasn’t much hope. Greg, however, refused to see the despair. He only heard the words--Jack was still alive, and he was fighting. Nick had waited until after Greg had left to make a phone call before asking the doctor what Jack’s chances were.

“If he survives the next twelve hours, it’ll be a miracle, but if he does make it through those twelve hours, he’ll have a twenty-five percent chance of survival, his chances increasing with every hour after that. But he still needs to make it through the first twelve.”

“Can he have visitors?”

The doctor shook her head. “Not right now, no. But, if things take a turn for the worse. . .”

“Thanks,” Nick said, understanding in his voice. “I appreciate it.”

“I wish there was more I could do.”

“You’ve done everything you can. That’s all we could ask,” he said, offering her a weak smile, then went to find Greg. Halfway down the hall, his phone rang. “Stokes.”

“Nick, where are you?”

Nick froze, fighting back the wave of anger that threatened to overtake him. “Funny, that’s what I want to know! God damnit, ‘Rick, you’re supposed to be here! Where the fuck are you?”

“How’s Greg?”

“How’s Greg? How do you think?! He’s a fucking mess!” Nick hissed into the phone, trying to keep his voice down after getting a dirty look from one of the nurses. “Jack’s probably not going to make it through the night and if he doesn’t, Greg’s going to need you here.”

“Jack’s. . .” Warrick began in an oddly tight sounding voice. “Are they sure?”

“The odds aren’t good, man, and when this goes down, if you’re not here to help Greg--”

“Damnit, Nick! This isn’t just about Greg! Jack’s my--he’s my friend, too!”

“Then get your ass over here and be his friend! I’m not telling you again, ‘Rick. Get here. Fast.”

Nick turned off the phone and stared at the wall, wanting nothing more than to punch it, but he knew that would likely get him thrown out of the hospital and he couldn’t risk it.

“Fuck!” he swore and continued in his search for Greg. He’d found him and caught the tail end of a frantic message he was leaving on someone’s voice mail, probably another friend of Jack’s. He tried to get some food into the young CSI’s stomach, but Greg wouldn’t even drink a cup of coffee. He barely succeeded in getting Greg to swallow the pill the doctor had given him earlier, which got him calmed down enough to sleep.

Fuck, he hated hospitals. The way Nick saw it, he’d already spent more than his fair share of time in them, and he was convinced every extra minute was some sort of punishment he wasn’t sure he’d earned. It took all his concentration to remind himself that this time the punishment wasn’t his, it was Greg’s, but he was pretty sure Greg had also done nothing to earn it.

Poor kid, Nick thought, stroking the longish hair. He knew Greg felt things too deeply. If he loved this guy--even if he just really liked him, Nick knew that to lose him would tear Greg apart. Greg had told him this was his first real relationship since starting in the field. The fact that he’d held onto it despite the long hours, despite never getting to see each other, told Nick just how serious it was. A relationship with any CSI could only last if the two were truly dedicated to each other, and someone that special didn’t come around every day.

“He’ll make it, G,” Nick whispered to the sleeping man, “he has to.”

He has to.

[Posted June 11, 2005]