Out, Out Brief Candle

By Clarity Scifiroots
Disclaimers apply. (CSI: Las Vegas fandom) (title from a line in Macbeth)
Pairing: Gil/Greg WARNINGS: Main Character Death!
Summary: Greg's claim to fame goes horribly, fatally wrong. (for wizefics' revenge request)
Twenty-second day of June!fic (eight more days!)
For "killed" of the auabc challenge (Sorry! Blame TAteamSB list for dicussing death fics)
Edited July 8, 2006

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"Nice work on the Ross case, Greggo!" Nick wrapped a friendly arm around the younger CSI's shoulders. "Did you see all the reports giving you full credit?"

Embarrassed, Greg tried ducking away. "You know the media..." he hedged. "They don't know their nose from their ass. C'mon, let me get to work."

"But an impromptu celebration is in order!" Nick declared, leading Greg towards the break room.

"Grissom's gonna—"

"Nuh-uh, don't try that. Who do you think found your favorite coffee?"

Greg muttered to himself, "Probably just so he could have some."

"Congrats!" Sara hugged Greg, ignoring how Nick's arm got caught up in the movement.

"You did great," Catherine said once Sara pulled back and Nick decided Greg wouldn't run off. She held out her hand for a professional handshake, although her lips quirked up in a warm grin. "Had to stop in and see you before I headed out tonight."

"It's not like I did all the work," Greg protested fidgeting nervously.

Warrick chuckled and handed over a chocolate-filled croissant. "You deserved it, man. Now eat up and enjoy the moment."

"Care for a cup of outrageously expensive coffee?"

Greg shot a leery glare at Gil, who held out a steaming mug. "Why're you in on this? I was helping you; if they're going to name names, you should be included."

"I'm old news, Greg. Besides, I hate the press." Gil winked, quick enough that Greg doubted the others had caught it.

Groaning mentally, Greg resigned himself to the full night of teasing adoration that lay ahead of him.

"Greg!" At the sound of Gil calling his name, he turned around and waited at the edge of the parking lot. When he'd drawn closer, Gil said, "I need to stop first at my place, then I'll come over to the apartment?"

Smiling at the first real good news he'd heard all night, Greg nodded. "Pick up dinner and you've got a date."

Gil smirked at that and walked away. Greg followed with his eyes, grinning to himself at the bounce he could see in lover's step.

Becoming a CSI had taught him how to quickly analyze details that were out of place. He immediately realized something was wrong when he put his key in the lock and touched the handle. Unfortunately, he barely had the time to register the fact that his lock was broken before the door yanked open and revealed the business end of a semiautomatic.

"Get in here," a voice growled from the dim interior of his apartment.

Greg carefully held his hands out from his sides and stepped inside. He could see the man's outline—taller than himself, wearing jeans and a windbreaker with the hood up. He could also make out the shape of a poorly tended beard.

"Shut the door." The gun never wavered. "Drop the keys and take the jacket off—slowly. Don't try anything."

Silently, Greg complied. His mind raced, searching for some idea of what to do, how to handle himself. He'd been amazingly lucky compared to his friends when in the field. He really hadn't ever had a problem with a perp returning to the crime scene or some lowlife deciding to take advantage of a taped off area. Well, not alone, at least. There had always been a partner or at least a couple uniforms nearby. In his apartment he was alone, unarmed, and he very much doubted that any of his neighbors were still around at this hour of the morning during a week day. In short, he was screwed.

"What do you want?" he asked quietly.

The sneer was audible in the man's voice. "You don't give a rat's ass about that."

Greg decided a nervous smile would not help his situation any. "Hey, don't know until you ask, right? Seems to me you have the upper hand, anyway." He did his best to sound casual.

"Shut up." The man freed one hand to fist in the front of Greg's shirt and drag him further into the apartment. He let go with a shove and Greg stumbled against his small couch. "Sit down."

"Okay, okay." Greg held up his hands and slid onto the seat cushions. "If you don't want anything... can you at least tell me why you're here? Kinda, uh, get this over with? 'Cuz I'm a little hungry—"

"You think you're top notch for getting your name in the paper? Plastered all over the media, new golden boy of law enforcement," his tone was taunting. "I should tell you that's a load of bullshit. Give them half a day and they'll be all over the next sparkling so-called hero."

Greg eyed the guy warily as it inched closer to his face.

"Ever stared down the barrel of a gun, Mr. Sanders?" After a moment of silence, he snapped, "Answer me!"

"Ah, no." Greg swallowed a wave of nausea.

"First time for everything, I suppose."

"I guess..." Greg echoed softly. "Who are you?" From the man's words he knew this was connected to the Ross case he'd helped wrap up the previous shift—an investigation that had taken the better part of a week to clear through and collect enough evidence to pin down their rather famed suspect. Harold Ross looked younger than his twenty-eight years, was handsome and suave, with enough charm to convince both coworkers and family that he was perfectly harmless. A dead secretary and her fiancé, brutally murdered, told a different story.

"It's not important that you know," the man answered coolly. "You screwed up big time." Greg held back a shiver at the man's chilling amusement at the next, "You made a fatal mistake."

Shit, had he heard the elevator open? Greg's eyes shot nervously to his front door, then darted back to the gun in his face. He didn't know what time it was so it could very likely be Gil out in the hallway, heading into unexpected danger. In his mind's eye he could see how it would play out: the gunman startled by the opening door, Gil realizing something was wrong, looking up and then... Bang. Blood everywhere, GSR covering the intruder's jacket and hands, Greg stumbling forward in attempt to wrestle the gun away—

The man's amused voice broke abruptly through his nightmarish vision. "Expecting someone? They're in for a nasty surprise."

Greg looked up, clearly seeing the man's eyes in detail for the first time. Forest green, he noted, and dark blond eyebrows. Cataloguing the other features was cut short by pain piercing his gut and the loud ringing in his ears. His hands dropped leadenly at his sides and he realized he'd pressed back against the couch. Through the echo of the gunshot ringing in his ears, Greg picked up the distinctive sound of bags being dropped in the hall and a familiar voice shouting—probably his name.

The man stood over him, poised to run, but his index finger tugged back on the trigger again... and again. Greg could barely make out his blurred form as he ran.

Ohshitohjesusmaryandjosephithurtlikeasonofabitch...

"Greg. Come on, stay with me. Shitshitshit! I'm getting an ambul— Hello? There's been a shooting, the address is—"

Greg realized his eyes really were open, his vision was just majorly fucked up. He couldn't breath well, so he opened his mouth, hoping to get more oxygen and instead spitting up blood. The taste was horrible. He groaned. "Gil..." he attempted.

"Hang on, love. I've got you. Ambulance is on the way and they're contacting PD. Can you focus on me, stay awake?"

Greg's hearing seemed to fade in and out like a badly recorded song. His vision was pretty much shot—blobs of grey and black meant little to him. He thought he could feel the pressure over his chest and stomach, but he could just be extrapolating from what he knew Gil must be doing.

"Greg. Greg. Listen to me."

His head had drifted to his shoulder at some point; it was tipped slightly back so that more blood was dripping back down his throat than coming from his mouth. With a small grunt, he jerked his shoulders, somehow knocking his head forward with the motion. Shit. Pain definitely still registered.

"Love. Stay with me."

His vision was black now. Greg was pretty sure he hadn't closed his eyes. He felt cold. Utterly, abruptly frozen.

"G-Gil," he chattered. "Was R'ss..." He could feel the blood sticking to his chin. He wished he had the energy to spit it out.

"..'reg... me. Okay...?"

Greg felt the world slipping away and panicked. He clawed at the cold and at the sound of Gil's fading voice, the only things he had left to hang onto.

He'd only wanted to slide into his lover's arms and enjoy a long leisurely screw after work—the first time in days they both had the time. No time, now, he knew. Oh God, no time...

"Hello?" Catherine answered the phone. She'd just gotten out of the shower and was on her way to prepare breakfast for herself. Unlike her daughter, she wasn't fond of the instant meals of Pop Tarts.

"Are you dressed?"

"Excuse me? Brass," she said warningly, any remnants of sleep quickly chased away by his tight voice. "What's going on?"

"I need you to come help me with Gil." Not Grissom. Gil. He very rarely used the name. "Do you know the address of Sanders' apartment?"

She felt a violent sweep of sick dread descend on her. She choked out, "Yeah." Of course she knew. Gil had told her a few months ago, after she'd demanded where he was since she could never get him on his home phone anymore.

"Catherine. Get over here."

"Yeah..." she whispered, numb.

"Aww, c'mon, I haven't even slept for an hour yet..."

"There's been an... incident. Nicky, I need you to wake up and get Warrick and Sara."

"Catherine...? What's going on?" Nick pushed himself upright and scrubbed at his eyes with one palm.

She was silent for too long. "Nicky..." Shit. She was holding back tears. "Get to Greg's."

He couldn't even think of what to ask. After long moments of silence, he heard the dial tone as she hung up.

"What's up, man? I thought you were heading home to—"

"Shut up. 'Rick, we need to get over to Greg's. I'm swinging by the lab to pick up Sara."

Warrick warily turned off the water he'd been running to wash dishes. "What happened?"

"I don't know... Catherine... It's bad."

"I'm there."

"Yeah. Thanks."

Catherine drove carefully through the decent sized crowd that had gathered outside Greg's apartment building. A couple of uniforms moved aside a road block so that she could pull through. As soon as she could she parked and jumped out of the car. Her heart sped up at the sight of EMTs standing idly beside a lone ambulance. She wished she could believe that another one had already taken off with sirens blaring.

She didn't have to look much farther to find Brass standing at the back of the ambulance, head bent forward and lips moving—talking to someone sitting inside. Tears stinging her eyes, Catherine hurried her steps as she approached.

"I got here as quickly as I could," she said. With a deep breath, she made the final step that took her around to Brass' side and stared at Gil. Her mouth opened uselessly, she had no idea what to say.

Gil was covered in liberal amounts of blood—mostly dry at this point—from chest to thigh, down both arms, and it looked like he'd run bloody hands over his face more than a few times. His glasses were missing. He refused to look at either of them, his stare fixated down towards his hands, although Catherine had the sense that he wasn't seeing them.

"I called the others," she told Brass quietly. She darted a look his way and felt the first tear trail hotly down her cheek. He nodded approvingly. "Wh-what...?"

Surprisingly Gil spoke. "Gunshots... I was in the hall. Heard it." He closed his eyes tightly and his fingers curled into fists on his thighs. "Think it was about the Ross case," he said brokenly.

Catherine held back a shudder. Revenge? Jesus.

Wearily Brass said, "Day shift's on top of it. Already have the department running things. This is first priority."

Gil quivered with repressed emotion and it was enough to draw Catherine forward. Deciding in a split second that there was little use of Gil's shirt for evidence, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and guided his head to her shoulder.

"God, I'm sorry..." she whispered. With one hand she stroked his hair, forcing herself to ignore the dried blood that matted patches of hair. "I'm so sorry..."

"Looks like Nick's here," Brass announced quietly. "I'll talk to them."

Catherine nodded automatically, barely processing his words. She closed her eyes and bent her head. As she held Grissom close she realized she had begun to rock slowly side to side and was quietly making hushing sounds despite the distinct lack of noisy sobs. But she could feel the heat of tears soaking into her shirt and the deep, shuddering gasps wracking her friend's body.

Fin

It's not a cop-out, seriously. I was going to cut it off at Greg's POV, before... ;;o0