Spare Parts

By Emily Brunson

©2005

He’s given it a lot of thought. A whole lot. And while he locks his truck, treks tiredly back into the lab with morning sunshine warm on his shoulders, he realizes he means to do it.

It’s not as if he doesn’t realize what it entails. Catherine’s been his friend from the moment he arrived here, five years and three months and some-odd days ago, with his hopes and his anxieties and his heavy accent fresh as the proverbial daisy. She’s been a good friend, pretty much across the board. When his nerves got bad, she steadied him. When hope dangled like a drunken tightrope walker over a bottomless abyss, it had been Cath who said the right things, got him through it, made things make sense again. Even his vague embarrassment over his yeehaw Texanisms faded after she’d asked him just exactly what accent he was supposed to have instead, like maybe he came from Brooklyn or London instead of Plano? And if he had, would he think those accents were somehow better than his own?

Not to mention saving his bacon after Kristy was killed. Murdered. For a while he’d really had to consider just exactly what it would be like to be arrested, to go to trial. He hadn’t been able to think much beyond that; conviction was such a terrible possibility, it didn’t bear considering, and as for prison, well. His mind just flat-out wouldn’t even go there.

But it hadn’t come to that, thanks to Catherine, and until his dying day he’d owe her for that. Know that had it not been for her, for her refusal to be passive, to let that evidence speak for itself, right now he’d probably be doing twenty to life, and probably with an AB boyfriend for company. If he wasn’t already planted in a shady cemetery back in Texas.

Oh, he owes her. And so what he’s thinking now is a type of betrayal, isn’t it? She doesn’t know he’s thinking what he’s thinking, because he hasn’t told her. Hasn’t come clean with it: Hey, Cath, listen. I feel pretty hinky working with you and Warrick lately. I can handle you getting a little power-hungry, a’ight? But I got a really strong feeling that you two are doing some extracurricular things, and it’s not like I care about that, okay, if you’re happy, rock on, but I’m also pretty sure I’m getting the shit work because of it. And I wish I didn’t think it, I really do, but these days I’m not sure you’re giving me a fair shake. So I think I’m gonna ask Grissom if I can’t get back on night shift. No offense, okay? Don’t worry, I’ll make it a scheduling thing, not gonna rat you out. If you and Rick want to have a thing – maybe even a serious thing – I seriously wish you all the best. But I’m kinda sick of the fifth wheel treatment. I can do more than that. So good luck, all that, no hard feelings, okay?

There is of course little chance that she won’t understand it all immediately. Warrick, too; no flies on him, he’s been a good friend nearly as long as Catherine has, and he’ll scope it out in a millisecond. But he won’t say anything, because it’s a guy thing, and Cath – well, she’ll mind. For about ten minutes. And then she’ll get over it, maybe freeze him out for a few weeks but maybe even not that.

Standing with his hand on the door to the locker room, he considers that maybe Catherine will be relieved, won’t give him any grief at all, and digests it for a second before pushing inside.

Whatever. It’ll all work out. Besides, he didn’t come to Vegas all those years ago to hear about Grissom’s exploits from the sidelines. He came here to work with the man himself, pick his brain, soak up his lessons, and even if Nick himself were pretty damn capable these days, he was a long way from being Grissom’s real equal. Might never be that, probably wouldn’t, but that was all right, too. He just wants things back the way they should be. That's all. Easy as pie.

He changes into a fresh shirt and stuffs the soiled one in his gym bag, and takes a deep breath before going to find Grissom.

For a while he thinks all this pep talking has been for nothing. Grissom’s not in his office, not in the break room. It’s so late it’s not night shift anymore, either, and although still being here would not entail the kind of overtime Nick himself has garnered today, it’s still late. Then again Grissom’s salaried, so what does he care?

So no joy. Hell, maybe Sanders is still here. Nick doesn’t see him nearly as often now that he’s in the field. In Nick’s place. Not like he really begrudges him that, not consciously, but there are times, admittedly, when he feels a hot curl of jealousy. He’s not that good with change, never has been. He’s tutored himself in not showing it too badly, trying to let it roll off him, ducks and water, all that. And he’s pretty sure people think of him as someone who just goes with the flow, adapts, deals. But he’s still a little sullen about the whole thing. Greg is a really good friend, as close as Warrick in all the ways that count, and Nick still sometimes thinks it isn’t fair that he’s at Grissom’s side instead of Nick himself. It’s where he belongs.

So he isn’t thinking about anything but the delay in his transfer request when he walks by the fibers lab and sees Grissom and Greggo having a heart-to-heart.

It’s revealing, maybe, that his first thought is that Sanders is getting chewed out for something. It’s been a relief of sorts not to be new, not to be the least experienced for once. He’s been in Greg’s shoes, oh yeah, been there more times than he cares to actually count. He’s heard that patient, long-suffering tone of voice. He knows what it’s like to know he’s let Grissom down, to know that his own embarrassment and disappointment sting even more than the man’s feelings. Oh yeah, been there, done that, have the scars to prove it.

It isn’t until a full thirty seconds of watching have passed that he realizes this is not a lecture. For one thing, they’re both smiling. And they’re standing very close. They haven’t noticed him, but it’s not because he’s so well-hidden. They haven’t noticed him because they’re too engrossed in each other.

He cocks his head to one side, mouth slightly open, and watches Grissom’s hand touch Greg’s shoulder. His fingers squeeze, and linger, and Greg’s expression softens, those pretty teen-idol eyes so limpid they could melt plate steel.

Grissom’s expression is one Nick has never seen. Not in five-plus years, not ever. He looks befuddled, a slanted smile twisting his mouth, making him look – what? Younger? Dazed?

Smitten?

Nick clamps his mouth shut, hard, feels his hands clenching into tight fists. Oh.

Grissom leans forward, and Greg leans forward, and Nick turns blindly and tells himself he did not see anything, not their mouths an inch apart, opening, Grissom’s hand on Greg’s shoulder, thumb stroking the soft skin of Greg’s throat. He turns and takes a stumbling step, and he really doesn’t see them kiss. He doesn’t need to see it. He’s seen enough. He’s fucking seen plenty.

He nods at Laura and Joe from the day shift, agrees that it’s a beautiful morning. Returns a wave from Zeke in ballistics. His feet take him forward, down the hallways, past the break room again and into the lobby and out, out into white brilliant sunshine and a freshening wind, the promise of afternoon heat already palpable.

He unlocks his truck and slides inside, shuts the door and sits there. And then he starts to laugh, because really, what else can he do? It’s pretty goddamn funny. He’s been thinking for weeks about how Catherine and Warrick are probably doing the nasty, not very professional there, crossing the fraternization boundary in a big way. And he’s been all about rescuing himself from that uncomfortable position, and never thought, never dreamed that it might not be different elsewhere. See, Grissom, Cath and Warrick are I’m pretty sure screwing like bunnies, and it’s calling some of their judgement into question, and so I want back on YOUR team, only – Oh. You’re screwing Greggo now.

Well. Isn’t that special?

There are tears in his eyes, but he chooses to view that aberration as fallout from laughter. Funny thing about laughing, that it can make you cry like that. What a screwy combo.

He stares into the hot unflinching sunshine and reaches up to wipe his face. His hands are so cold he can barely feel his skin.

He’s thought he knew what it was like to be extraneous. To be spare parts. But he never had a clue.

There’s a funny feeling in his belly. Heartburn, something. He stops at a CVS on the way home and picks up some Pepcid, chews a handful while he finishes the drive. It doesn’t much help.

At home, he considers making some food, maybe catching up on his neglected email. But after a few minutes of wandering around, he goes to bed instead. He’s tired; it’s been a long freaking day and he has to be back at the lab in nine hours. Could call in sick, but he isn’t sick. He’s just tired.

He stares at the ceiling over his bed and thinks about how it’s maybe time to stop fearing change so much. They said it was inevitable. Like death and taxes, right? Everyone’s doing it, Nicky. Changing, moving on.

Maybe it’s time for some changes of his own.

He sees Grissom reaching for Greg, and turns over violently, pounding his fist into his pillow once and pressing his face against it. No maybes about it. It’s time.

He closes his gritty eyes.

END

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