Disclaimer: I don't own CSI
Chapter 1: Happy Birthday
"Get down, or I'll blow you away." The words were spoken softly, and the voice was deadly. Grissom gritted his teeth as the cold hard steel of the gun muzzle was pressed against his temple, and he slowly lowered himself to the ground, grimacing as his knees protested violently.
He was suddenly enveloped in the sounds of the small store, the sights, the feelings, and the smells as the adrenaline pumping through him heightened his senses. The harsh, fearful breathing of the woman, the man, and the young child next to him assaulted his ears, and beyond that the droning of the freezer at the back of the store.
He could smell the sweat emanating from the robber.
The gun pressed against his temple was felt with his whole body; the cold hardness of it, the perfect circle formed by the muzzle opening. Was it good or bad that the hand that held the gun was steady? Good, he told himself. It means he won't panic at the slightest sound or movement and shoot you on accident. He smiled ironically, humourlessly, at that. Right. He won't shoot you on accident; he'll do it on purpose.
"All right," the robber announced, pulling back from Grissom. "If you do what we tell you, none of you will get hurt."
Classic, Grissom thought, careful to keep his eyes lowered. He didn't want to give them the impression he was trying to memorize faces. You only need a glance, Gil, he told himself. Just one glance; you're the best CSI in Vegas. You're the best in Nevada, for God's sake. One glance is all you need. You aren't going to let a seventeen-year-old juvenile delinquent push you around, are you?
He kept up the running commentary inside his head, minimizing and diminishing the threat by finding humour in it; it was the only thing keeping him sane.
It had only been five minutes since he had walked into the small convenience store. All he had wanted was to pick up some beer for Nick's party, and get the hell out. He hadn't even wanted to be at the party. He had only agreed to go because Catherine wouldn't get off his back; he had only agreed to pick up some more beer because he thought it would be a convenient way to stall. The fact that the party was for him – a 'surprise' birthday party – didn't make the idea of going any more fun.
Now, as he listened to the sounds of a safe being broken into, and money and stolen goods being stuffed into some type of bag, he thought about what he would give to be at that party right now. Happy birthday, Gil, he thought bitterly.
"He's probably stalling," Catherine sighed irritably as she lounged on Nick's couch, watching as the Texan paced. Every once in whileNick wouldglance out the window. The rest of the graveyard shift sat around the apartment talking quietly, along with Greg Sanders, Doc Robbins, and Jim Brass. Every once in a while they would glance up and watch amusedly as the two friends went at it.
"It's his birthday, for God's sake," Nick snapped. "It's his birthday party! Why would he stall?"
"Uh, hmmm, let's see," Catherine said sarcastically. "Because he doesn't know it's his birthday party. It's a surprise, remember? And do you know how long it took me to convince him to come?"
"Catherine," Nick said, with a raised eyebrow. "The guy's supposedly a genius. You think he won't put two and two together? A party, with us, on his birthday?"
"Nick," Catherine imitated him, "The guy's supposedly a genius scientist. He won't put two and two together. He's probably forgotten it's his birthday."
Nick gave an exasperated sigh and threw up his arms. "Whatever," he exclaimed. "So what if he skips out completely? He hates parties. Even if he does figure out it's for him, he still won't like it."
Catherine gave an evil grin. "He won't skip out on it. I made sure of that."
From the other end of the sofa, Jim Brass chuckled. "I'm sure you did, Cath," he said. When she just smiled, and glanced at Nick again, he ran a finger across his throat suggestively.
Nick burst out laughing.
At the grocery store, Grissom tried to work out how long it had been. More than eight minutes. Less than ten minutes. And for at least the past two minutes the robber had lounged in a chair in front of his captives, eyeing them idly, when he could have been gone and away. Grissom could feel cold eyes boring into his back. Cold eyes, cold gun, cold floor; I guess Vegas isn't always hot as hell. He gritted his teeth again. But God do I wish it was warmer in here.
He was jerked from his thoughts as the robber finally spoke, and Grissom added 'cold voice' to his list.
"Maybe I lied," the robber said, sounding amused with something. "How rude of me. I guess I should have told you the truth at the beginning but you know... I've always been a liar."
The gunshot drowned out the screams of the little boy and the woman as the man beside them was blown backwards, and his blood sprayed over them all. Grissom's head jerked up, but no sound escaped his lips as watched in horror.
Do something! his mind screamed, but he couldn't move. He couldn't speak. And the child was shot next as his mother tried desperately to save him. And then the gun was pointed at Grissom.
He was already covered with the blood from the other victims, who lay sprawled on the floor behind him, and he felt something in himself die as he rubbed desperately at his skin, trying to clean himself.
"Hope you enjoyed my company," the robber said, an amused smile gracing his features, though it didn't reach his eyes. His finger started to move on the trigger.
Squeezing, not pulling, Grissom thought.
It was then that it really sank in. Grissom stared blankly down that cold, dark tunnel. There was no light at the end. And he suddenly felt a surge of fury race through him, fury with himself, for not helping those other victims, and with the robber, for bringing this on him and the other victims.
"Son of a bitch," he swore, lunging up from the floor. His body slammed against the robber's and the gun went off into the ceiling.
"What the..." The robber's face contorted with rage and fear as Grissom got a hand on the weapon.
It went off again, and this time Grissom felt a sharp burning in his side, and hegasped as he realized he'd been hit. The robber, seeing the look on his face and realizing what had happened, swung his free hand and slammed it against the wound. Black lines raced across Grissom's eyes, and he heard a roaring in his ears as his knees buckled.
"No!" he screamed, and his hand closed on the gun once again as he tried to drag the robber down with him. The robber, however, retained his balance, and Grissom grunted in pain as a steel-clad toe slammed into him. He felt something snap in his chest, and he could barely contain a scream as blows continued to rain down on him.
The trigger, he thought hazily. Where's the Goddamn trigger?
Right where it always is, the voice in his head whispered, and his finger groped around for it. He found it then, and he nearly passed out from relief as the thought ran through his brain that at least the gun was already pointed where he needed it to be. Squeeze; don't pull.The sound ofthe gunshotfilled the room.
The robber staggered backwards, losing his grip on the gun as he stared down at the red stain spreading over his chest; the look on his face was one ofdumb shock. "What..." he slurred, and then his knees buckled, and he slumped to the ground.
Grissom lay still for a long moment staring at the ceiling, his body pressed against the cold floor as pain rushed through him in incessant waves. The gun lay forgotten at his side.
Finally, he stirred, and his right hand slid hesitantly over his body as he tried to remember where exactly he'd been shot.
He couldn't contain a groan of pain as he came in contact with his chest. Broken ribs for sure, he thought as he grimaced, and continued down to his stomach, more slowly now.
He found the gun wound just above his right hip, and he pressed his hand to it dazedly.It wasn't too bad – the bullet had only grazed his side, and the bleeding was already slowing.
It took him a moment to collect himself again, and then one word ran through Grissom's brain. Phone.
Pushing away the pain and the haze that was enveloping him, Grissom racked his brain as he tried to remember where the phone was. On the back counter, he thought.
Gritting his teeth, Grissom lifted his head up. With a trembling hand, he took a hold on the shelf just above him, and pulled himself up. He was forced to wait a few minutes while the nausea passed, and then he slowly made his way over to the counter, and the phone.
By the time he reached it, he was panting heavily, and it was sending waves of intense pain through his chest. Grabbing at the phone, he slid weakly to the ground. It took him three tries to dial 911 as the numbers blurred in front of him.
He gave a groan of relief as the operator picked up. "It's Gil Grissom," he gasped, trying to focus. "Supervisor... Vegas Crime... Crime Lab. Shooting... ambulance... police. Grocery store..."
Grissom frowned and gritted his teeth as he tried to remember where he was, or at least what the grocery store was called.
The operator was speaking to him, but he couldn't make outthe words. "Ricky's, or Rick's, or something," he mumbled into the phone. "Dunno where... can't remember... supposed to pick up some beer... for Nicky's party. Damn it... Catherine's gonna kill me..."
It was his last thought as he lost his fight for consciousness.
Catherine herself was beginning to wonder whether Grissom had, indeed, skipped out on the party, but she wasn't worried until suddenly Brass' cell phone rang.
The police captain groaned as he answered it. "Brass... what... Ecklie?.. No, I'm not pleased to hear from you... What? Is he all right? What happened?.. Shit, Conrad, what the hell... I'll be right down... Yes, they'll be there with me... they won't touch your God damn crime scene... he's their friend, and he... you ass hole!"
The other occupants of the room were completely focused now, faces pale as they waited expectantly.
"Yeah, well, deal with it!" Brass bellowed into the phone finally, as he hung up. His face was white. "A holdup went bad over by Grissom's place. He was there."
The room was suddenly dead quiet as everyone sat, stunned.
"What?" Sara finally forced out, the colour drained from her face. She swayed uncertainly where she stood, staring at Brass with wide, terrified eyes. "Is he...?"
Brass felt his chest tighten. "No," he reassured her frantically, suddenly realizing how his words must have sounded. He grabbed Sara's arm to steady her. "No," he repeated, more calmly now. "He's gonna be all right. He'll be fine. We need to get down there."
The first things Grissom realized as he came around were that he was once again lying on his back, and people were touching him. It hurt.
"Screw off," he said, his voice slurred, and his gaze slightly unfocused. He pushed weakly at the hands. "That hurts, goddamn it."
The paramedic glanced up at him. "It's going to hurt for a while, Mr. Grissom. You've broken a few ribs, and your side will need to be bandaged, but nothing life-threatening. Just stay still; we'll take care of you."
"You better do as she says, Gil."
Grissom gritted his teeth as he heard the voice. He was distracted almost immediately though as the paramedic's hands brushed over his chest again, and an intense wave of pain ripped through him. For a moment he thought he'd pass out again.
He bit back a harsh moan.
"Just take it easy, Gil, we can talk later," Conrad Ecklie informed him, and then he turned to return to his crime scene.
"God damn it, wait," Grissom spat, recovering momentarily. He tried to sit up, but the pain and the paramedic forced him back.
He found himself panting for breath again, his mouth slightly open as his chest heaved painfully. Ecklie had turned when Grissom called, and Grissom wasn't surprised to see the annoyance on the dayshift supervisor's face.
"Call Catherine," he gasped.
"I've already phoned Captain Brass," Ecklie said coolly. "He and your team will be in shortly."
Grissom was unable to contain a sigh of relief as he let himself relax. "All right," he said tiredly; he couldn't bring himself to say thank-you to the man. As Ecklie turned and disappeared around the counter, Grissom's eyes drifted to stare at the off-white ceiling. "Seem to spend a hell of a lot of time staring at the ceiling these days," he mumbled quietly to himself.
The paramedic, hearing him, gave him a wry smile. "And you'll probably be spending a few more days doing just that," she told him apologetically. "At least your injuries weren't worse."
At least, Grissom thought, sudden feelingsickonce more as he saw it all in his headagain, and the gunshots and screams echoed in his brain. You could have saved them, he told himself bitterly, if you had only been quicker.
A few minutes later Grissom was transferred from the floor to the gurney – not at all gently, fromas far as he was concerned, and he had to grit his teeth to stop from crying out.
"Aren't you trained to do this carefully?" he hissed sharply through his teeth as he fought to control the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him.
One of the paramedics – a certain Hank Peddigrew, as Grissom had noted with disgust – gave him a look.
"Just relax, Mr. Grissom," the man said irritably. "You'll be fine."
Grissom didn't reply, as suddenly the loud screeching of tires and the smell of burnt rubber cut through the air.
"The cavalry has arrived," Conrad Ecklie said icily from where he stood at the doorway.
Grissom was going to reply, but at that moment the gurney he was strapped to was lifted down off the curb, and he let out a barely audible groan of pain as his chest protested violently to the move.
"All right, Mr. Grissom?" one of the paramedics asked, giving him a smile.
"Fine," Grissom replied curtly, as he closed his eyes tightly against the bright Vegas sun.
"We'll get you to the hospital, and then..."
Hank was interrupted suddenly as Catherine came barreling up, the team racing a half-length behind her.
"Grissom!" she screamed when she saw him.
"Hey," Grissom said, squinting up at her tiredly. God, it was good to see them.
"Oh my God, Grissom," Catherine grabbed his hand, and her eyes filled with tears. "What happened? Are you all right?"
"I'm all right Cath, honestly," he murmured, trying to reassure her as he felt a heavy exhaustion beginning to take over his body. "Just a few broken ribs... some bruises."
"Damn it, Grissom," Nick cried. "Why couldn't you just get the beer at another store? You had to pick this one, didn't you?"
Grissom chuckled softly at the younger man's exasperated words and then grimaced, and let out a moan. "Nick," he gasped, "don't make me laugh."
"Sorry," Nick apologized weakly. "You just scared me."
"You scared all of us," Warrick confirmed, trying and failing to smile. He had been terrified when he had heard what had happened, but he hadn't shown it. Now he was finding it hard to bounce back from the awful place he had been when he thought Grissom was dead.
"Speak for yourself," Brass muttered in response to Warrick's words. "He's too damn ornery to let himself get killed that easy."
"Thanks, Jim, glad you were worried," Grissom murmured tiredly as his eyes closed involuntarily, and he slipped into sleep. The last thing he saw before drifting off was Sara, her tear-filled eyes focused on his, the worry and pain obvious in them. I'm all right, Sara, he thought. He wanted to say it, wanted to make sure she knew he was all right, but the blackness engulfed him and he lost himself in it.
"He'll be all right," the doctor told Catherine and the rest of the team later as they stood outside Grissom's room. "He lost a bit of blood, but the gunshot wound and the ribs should heal nicely. As far as physical wounds are concerned, we'll keep him a couple of days, then he'll be home free. So that's not your main concern." The look he and Catherine exchanged was loaded with meaning, and not a single person in the group misread it.
"How bad will it be?" Greg asked nervously, suddenly feeling way out of his depth.
The doctor glanced at the lab tech and shrugged as he shook his head. "There's really no perfect way to tell. He could be fine, for all I know. It might not have any affect on him at all. But chances are good he'll need to see someone about it."
"Grissom's gonna have to see a shrink?" Nick asked, looking upset. "He's going to be so pissed when he hears that."
The doctor shook his head. "Not necessarily. But I would recommend it. And when he gets back to work, watch him, especially at crime scenes. In your line of work, there are millions of things that could trigger a flashback or a panic attack."
When the doctor left them, they quietly entered the sleeping Grissom's room and took up their places around his bed. Catherine and Sara sat on either side, each holding one of his hands. Sara was a bit more hesitant than Catherine, but in the end she couldn't help herself.
"He'll be all right, won't he?" Greg said nervously, wondering if he was the only one that was worried, hoping they would understand what he was asking.
He felt his stomach turn over as Catherine glanced at him sadly. "Who knows, Greg," she said quietly, so as not to wake Grissom. "With Grissom, who knows?"