Hourglass

by

Kel

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership to CSI, it's characters, or its plotlines. I make no profit from this fiction.

Summary: I, of all people, should know the way the clock is always ticking down to zero.

Author's Note: My obligatory post-Grave Danger fic.

They probably know that sometimes I'm still in the box.

I am when they tell me how scared they were, and how they almost didn't get to say goodbye.

I want to scream at them. I want to tell them to stop talking like I'm dead. You still don't get to say goodbye, because I haven't gone anywhere. I'm not dead.

I'm not.

But it's just human, I guess; none of them can help it. We all know about the need to say what almost would have fallen on dead ears. To tie up loose ends before the end surges to meet us once more.

But I wonder if they know . . . that their goodbyes sometimes leave me expecting to wake up underground, like a bad rerun. To wake up in my coffin, delirious, dehydrated, and desperate. To wake up dead.

Sometimes the expectation closes in on me like plexiglass walls. Like I'm running out of time. I, of all people, should know the way the clock is always ticking down to zero.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that I can breathe. But sometimes . . . sometimes, I step out into the fresh air and just do.

Sometimes it's bad – sometimes it's so bad that I just know I've lost it completely. But sometimes it's good, like feather softness and cool breezes kissing my skin.

Because I'm grateful for any 'times' at all.

I want to thank her when she places a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. Not just her either, but she's standing right here and now, while all the others are off god-knows-where, chasing down identities and the kind of thieves I know too well. It doesn't matter. Even if it's only her right now, I can't pass up this chance.

I have to tell her, again and again, until she gets it. She's probably not going to get it at all, but that doesn't matter either.

She sits across from me at the table in my kitchen, here to make sure I'm alright, the way the people who care about me have been every hour since. They won't let me be alone in this. "Thanks, Cath," I say, barely able to float above a whisper and a vague but strong undercurrent.

And she must understand what I'm talking about, even if I'm too dumbstruck and clumsy to actually speak the words. Even if I can't make myself form them.

She must understand, because she smiles that beautiful, knowing, Catherine Willows smile of hers and says, "Always, Nicky."

Always. Not, 'much obliged,' or 'yeah well, you look like you could use the caffeine,' or even 'any time.'

Always. And suddenly, I'm grateful – not again, because I never stopped – but just so much more. For now, and sometimes, and always.

Because I know how close it came to being never.

End.