Brother to Dragons I

Classical music was inspiring to work to, even in the most gruesome of jobs.

Or Artistic.

Gil wasn't sure where to classify Paul Millander's work, because there was a certain skill and mastery of the craft even in masks and grotesque sculptures. It seemed fitting with the cooing of mourning doves in the rafters, the music from the somewhat dilapidated stereo that was off to the corner. There was a certain sense of thrift within the walls of the warehouse, and he noted that Paul was wearing almost the same clothes as he'd been wearing when they'd brought him in two months prior. Humble, yes, but well tended. He'd made a home out of a workshop and warehouse.

"Say, w-wo-would you like a cup of coffee? I got instant." Polite, and eagerly offered -- there was some intangible reason why Gil took up the offer, rolled with it. He was tired, and the case was at a dead end again, their criminal too keen-minded to leave them much by way or real, solid evidence.

"Sure."

The smaller workshop had a few chairs, some work tables, high quality lamps and tools out in the open. There was an art sink and a hot plate. On the far side of the wall was another interior door, cracked open a little.

It was habit as much as anything that made Gil scan the room. It was surprisingly sterile and minimalist, and Gil was reminded a little of his own apartment. He had imagined the creative process to be more fluid rather than restrained; there was definitely something about Millander that pulled at him.

Someone somewhere had one of those fake arms, in connection to somewhere he had been. That was the logical evidence trail he had to follow. Not this tweak of instinct.

Paul seemed at ease, after all, while he picked up a steel kettle from the hot-plate to fill two mugs. Then he started to look for a spoon to measure and stir the instant coffee. There was no question that the location was what made Millander seem so much more together and calmer than he'd been when they'd brought him in for questioning months beforehand.

Gil couldn't help but think he would find things a lot easier if he had a workspace like that. No politics, no distractions; just the gift of time, concentration and the ability to see every thing through.

"I envy you, Mr. Millander," Gil noted, as his eyes drifted over the sketches that adorned the walls,"I do. You can work by yourself, no one around to bother you... you just do what you do. I'd love to have that kind of autonomy." There were times when the world was the last thing he wanted to see.

"It's... really all I know. I... started out doing ice-carvings, but the artwork never lasted." He had a quirk of a smile on his face when he stepped up to Gil with the hot, but not too-hot cup of coffee.

"I know what you mean." The art of a crime-scene faded fast, didn't it?"Thank you."

"Have a seat." The chair squeaked when Millander sat down roughly across from him. "How can I help you?"

Follow the evidence. The Gospel according to Gil Grissom -- he knew what Nick and Warrick said in the break room about his insistence on making that such an all consuming priority, but there was no other way that worked as well with least damaging consequences. Logic told him, he had to find where the model hands had gone so he could find a commonality between them and his own presence providing that fingerprint and from there to a person. Following the evidence -- an incontrovertible chain of progression. So why did he feel uneasy?

"Do you remember the uh, rubber hand mould you made from your own hand?" Gil asked intently, his mind now focused on the man and his response.

Millander's face was expressive, at ease despite the stopping and starting pace of his speech. All sorts of things drove a person to seeking solitude in their work, from disabilities to speech problems like Millander. It made you a recluse,yes, but not necessarily a murderer.

"Sure. How c-could I... forget it? I'm working on a, a prototype to replace it that doesn't have real prints."

Gil smiled a little. "After your experiences with being pulled in for questioning, I can understand why." He cleared his throat a little. "The last time we talked you told me you had sold several thousand units? I was hoping you could provide me with a list of your distributors."

"Oh." Millander's face fell a little, and he looked sideways for a moment, looking right -- notably not looking left, which meant imagination while the right was memory. "I-I'm just a wholesaler, Mr. Grissom. I... create. I take payment in c-cash, I make enough of a r-receipt that the IRS doesn't haul me in. I-I don't keep track."

Grissom watched him, feeling a twinge of disappointment. "Well that rules out my hope of doing a credit card search. Do you keep any sort of a list?"

He gave a helpless shrug. "I... I don't remember. I'm sorry, Mr. Grissom. I just... spook the children." The wavering smile was sincere and seemed genuinely sympathetic. Then he started to shift out of his chair. "H-hold on a minute, and I'll ch-check?"

Spook the children. Something clenched inside his gut at the words. His long buried intuitive instincts tried to get his attention even as his rational mind analyzed the data and found it innocuous and in character. No red flags, everything explicable and coherent and his mind was saying one thing and his intuition something else.

Rationality won out as it generally did. "Thank you, I appreciate it."

He looked at the sketches again as he fiddled with the sunglasses he had taken off and had yet to put in his pocket or on the table. Distorted looking women that was in spare line and all the more disturbing for the fact there was nothing overtly grotesque just surreally deformed. Not like the Good versus Evil model Millander had been working on when he came in, which looked like it had been modeled on Millander's own head. Although when he had walked in, the head had appeared totally normal and innocuous until Millander had showed him the other side he had been working on...

The hairs prickled on the back of his neck, with the wave of cool adrenalin fear that rippled through him. He'd felt this once before, in a life he'd tried to leave behind. He'd been here once before...

Hidden evil? It could've just been paranoia, and he knew that that had reared its head at him before in false circumstances. Millander's feet had re-treated while Gil had gazed over the sketches, and now they were coming back. "I h-have a short list, Mr. Grissom. M-maybe that will help you."

Okay, he could take the list and get the hell out of there. Just this once. Make an excuse, thank the man for his time, and try not to stink of fear that he could feel rolling off of him in palpable waves. There was courage and there was stupidity, and he aspired not to be a stupid man.

"At this point in time, Mr. Millander, anything should help," Gil commented, off the cuff as he turned around.

He almost missed the gun trained on him because Millander was smiling at him with a pure and almost startling degree of happiness in his expression. "Please, call me Paul."

His stutter had vanished along with any sense of normality in the situation. The gun was unwavering and pointed directly at his heart even as Millander's blue eyes captured his own gaze.

It was hard to keep his eyes from travelling to the gun, and then back to Paul's face, and then back to the gun. No sudden moves, and while he had his hands at his sides, he couldn't reach for his own gun. "All right, Paul. Why don't you put that down?"

"You know, I actually saw the moment when you became sure?" Paul said conversationally. "You fought it, but you still knew. You stiffened as if a mental bomb had exploded in your head. Please put your jacket on the chair, and ensure your phone is in the pocket." He jerked a gesture with the gun, taking the safety off with deliberate poise.

And there had been that moment, Gil couldn't deny it -- not to himself, even though he could open his mouth, form words to the contrary. He didn't, because any denial could bring about violence. He stood still for a moment, and then started to shrug out of his blue jacket while deliberately putting a planted thumb print over the inside of his sunglasses as he put them on the table. He'd always liked that jacket, and his phone was already in the pocket and maybe someone might notice the print and work it out. It took just one motion to drape his chair on the chair's back. "I wasn't sure."

"Oh, I know," Paul said still smiling. "You wanted to be wrong. You are a rare breed. Rarely wrong, but delighted to be proved wrong. I've had great hopes for you. You haven't let me down, Gil. You don't mind if I call you Gil, do you?"

It obviously wasn't going to stop Millander from doing whatever he was planning. Gil shrugged just a little. It didn't matter what he called him.

"There were two possible outcomes from our meeting today. I've known that a long time," Millander said watching him closely. "Only two. It's funny how things come down to opposites and polarity isn't it? How polar opposites can at the same time be very similar. I've lived that a long time and so have you Gil. Different ways but... yes..."

He looked satisfied

Satisfied, and Gil didn't know what to do with that as he stood by the chair, wondering why he'd been told to drape his coat there. The wondering didn't last long -- it was all about the semblance of normalcy. Whatever scene was being staged, it needed to start with things seeming very normal. His analytical mind put together a horde of facts and allowed him to shoot out random on-target guesses. "You're skipping ahead a year."

"Well, we have to make exceptions for special circumstances. Up the stairs, Gil." He gestured with the gun again, staying a reasonable distance away. Too far to jump and live at least, Grissom could see that. "Now."

Up the stairs. Up the stairs and towards the bathtub. Gil guessed that the other resolution to the visit was that he walked away -- since the man seemed so set on discussing extremes, two sides of an issue. Life and death. That was certainly one way to simplify the way that any moment in time could turn. Gil inclined his head a little, and trying to breathe normally, turned towards the slightly open side door that he could only guess let into a stairwell.

He kept waiting for Millander to make a mistake as the shocks of adrenalin kept pounding through his bloodstream trying to get him ready for the slightest flaw, the minutest mistake and he would be there...

Millander didn't make any mistakes. Here was a man who had undoubtedly seen how people had been caught; a man who had meticulously manipulated the scenes of his crimes not just to conceal, but to make a poetry of evidence. He just didn't make the mistakes he was hoping to see and use.

Gil could hope that he would, but as he pulled open the door and stepped into a tiny hallway that aborted directly into stairs, he knew he wouldn't have that chance. The environment was too small, too controlled for him to pull something on Millander.

By the time he reached the upstairs, his neck was crawling. That Millander would fire if he had to was not in doubt. Was this how he had controlled his other victims? A strange pang hit him at the thought of his team finding him a bloated corpse in a bath tub and his last words recorded to echo in a mockery of all he believed about life.

"Stand there." Paul was watching him from a safe distance. "Near the bed. Remove your pants."

Remove his... Gil walked towards the bed, and started to take his pants off -- but slowly. Painstakingly. He unbuckled his belt, and started to wind it around his knuckles once he'd unthreaded it, careful and precise with the motion. "You don't have to do this, Paul. If you turn yourself in, if you cooperate..."

"Then perhaps I would see myself in my own courtroom," Paul smiled again. "Opposites and identities, Gil, layers and layers. Meet the second real me -- Judge Mason. I'm not interested in making deals. There is a difference between a compulsion and a mission."

The second real me. Gil looked at Paul, took in the faint shift in his facial expression. Hiding in plain sight, to be a judge-come-killer, and what did Millander have to lose by telling Gil who he was? Nothing, nothing, because dead men could only speak in evidence, and all the evidence that Millander would be leaving would be a faked suicide.

He wasn't going to think on the layers and layers, opposites and identities. Wasn't, didn't want to. "They'll give you the death penalty when they catch you," Gil noted while he set the belt down on the bed, and then unbuttoned the top button. Maybe he could let his eyes drift a bit, take the place in. Maybe there was an opportunity waiting.

"Of course," Millander replied unconcerned. "If they do. Of everyone, you've come closest. And the shirt when you're done strip teasing, Gil." His attention never wavered even as Gil's eyes wandered.

It seemed like an ordinary room only... things tugged at his attention. Piles of books he half recognized. A bottle of wine on the side chilling in ice. An incongruous picture that nearly made his heart stop in shock. The Wounded Man, half furled. What...

Gil's fingers faltered and he forgot to slow down and make time for himself for a moment, stepping out of his pants and leaving his boxers on before his fingers started to fumble with his shirt buttons. "You have... interesting tastes."

"Well done, Gil. Even now observing. Not exactly a homage but..." Paul shrugged circling slightly. "The word will suffice."

Perhaps he could lunge at him as they moved to the bathroom

As it was, Gil was resisting the urge to turn when Paul moved behind him, resisted the urge to track him with eyes and motion. "A homage," Gil repeated, shrugging his shirt off before he realized that he'd missed the bottom button.

"It'll come back to you soon," Paul promised. He was behind him now maybe a couple of meters away, still and silent.

It had already come back to him, but... But. But it was stupid to try to hide in plain sight. Gil preferred it, preferred just to exist and be and live, and he hadn't had any problems for fifteen years. Fifteen years of peace and freedom from it, more quiet than most men knew what to do with. "It's..." Gil haphazardly folded his shirt, but didn't quite turn around yet. He could imagine that the gun was still aimed chest level, probably parallel to his spine. "It's come back to me."

"The past has a way of tormenting the present." That was said in a whisper into his left ear and he hadn't even heard the man move. He was just there.

"Time for a rest, Gil. Don't worry it'll soon be over. But I'm sure not as soon as you would like."

He jerked then. He had to, because the immediacy of it was always what spurred him into action. He'd never been good at preplanning violence for violence -- he never would have made a good politician, because if a country had wanted to invade his country, he wouldn't have been able to raise the army until it was crossing the line. It had been carefully ingrained in Gil, by himself, by his mother, by everyone he knew. Everything was all right until someone's hand hit his face. Simple as that.

Gil twisted, trying to duck at the same time, and he wouldn't have been surprised by the feeling of a gun coming down across his head like a cudgel if he'd had the coherency to think, when everything sharply turned red and then black in a shower of painsparks.

There was someone stroking over the old scar on his stomach. Soft touches from long fingers slithering from one type of tissue to another with a sense of fascination in every movement.

"I see you're awake, Gil."

His opened his eyes for a moment, and then let them slide closed. They felt heavy, and he wanted to lift a hand to rub at them, but the motion aborted itself. There was tightness around his wrists, no more than an inch or two of leeway -- nowhere near enough to rub at his eyes before he opened them fully.

Paul was naked, sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers petting feather-soft over the looping fish-hook of white skin that marred a natural tan. "Does it matter?"

"Not particularly. I suppose I could do what I have to do with you unresponsive, but I'm self-indulgent enough to want more than a corpse," Paul replied still trailing his hand over his abdomen and then up to brush at an exposed nipple. "Hmm. Under other circumstances..." The other man shook his head with regret. "But we have to make sacrifices."

The implication was already clear, but Gil kept his eyes on Paul's face. "No. You don't have to make sacrifices or do this. Please don't." It wasn't begging, but a polite request.

"You're beautiful," Paul murmured looking at him. "In opposite lives, Gil, perhaps that coffee would have been as innocent as it seemed. Perhaps it would have led to more. I would have liked that. Perhaps and maybe are powerful things." He leaned down and kissed at Grissom's chest softly. "Perhaps in that other life, you trusted me enough to ask me to do this. Wanted it..."

"I don't play the 'what if' game," Gil murmured, mumbled, because he could hardly enunciate the words above Paul's own calm whisper. His head was starting to remind him with a throbbing ache how he'd been subdued in the first place, and there was a serial killer kissing up his chest. "You should have guessed that. You've... done enough research."

"A point to the CSI tied to the bed of a serial killer," Paul replied in a murmur. He moved lower, tasting all the time with his lips and tongue. "You could just... enjoy this. I'm almost certain I will. Only almost because I have a cherished ideal in my mind of what could have been. But then, they say all artists are romantics at heart."

And apparently all serial killers liked to think of themselves as artists. It was sad, but Gil suddenly yearned for Millander to have been... a lucky, slavering madman. Something, anyone, other than a man who'd researched Gil's dirty little secrets out of the wastebasket of history.

The feeling of a tongue tracing over his stomach muscles, over the padding he'd gained from too much takeout, made Gil want to shiver. It had been a very long time, but... But. "You already have your control. What does it matter if I enjoy it or not?"

"Because when you enjoy it, you think it was something you consented to, don't you, Gil?" Millander was between his legs then, finding spots on the inside of his thigh and pressing in with fingers and then with lips, so close his fine hair was tickling over Grissom's cock.

Gil leaned his head back into the pillow, and closed his eyes tightly. It was impossible to fight an erection, and his mind was already spinning with thoughts, clouding any effort to calmly think of things that would kill it. There were little pieces of Hannibal in the room, enough to conjure up old thoughts, unresolved chunks of existence. It wasn't a situation that Gil could deal with.

There was no way to deal with it, but there was. There was, because he couldn't just stop. "Does this look like consent to you?"

"No. But that's only because I've gone to the trouble of making the control obvious," Millander said with a faint smile. "I never said what I was doing was right. I never pretended that. I'll even admit to some selfish enjoyment in what I'm going to do. But there's no reason there can't be a purpose, too. You never realized, did you? That he forced you as surely as I will."

That wasn't in any records, was it? No, it wasn't. The dance was, the mental tango that had left him unresponsive after everything had fallen apart, but not... Even the scars, the physical injuries. But not that. Not that. There were no records of dinners and operas and symphonies, no record of working through drinks turning to more, turning to something that he was sure he'd hidden from Molly.

Unless Molly had been there, too, in her own way, and could he blame her? They hadn't ever spoken of it, and that had been the first open, unspoken secret between them. "What're you talking about?

"You. Him. It's obvious, Gil. It's the connection that tethers the two of you together," Paul replied blowing a warm breath over his growing erection. "You're his territory, haven't you realized that? Didn't you notice the pattern? That when you were with someone, he re-emerged? Don't you think that was a little more than coincidence?"

"I'd be thinking very highly of myself if I thought that." Gil's voice quaked, and his dick twitched between his legs. He shouldn't have been so comfortable like that, but he'd played games like that, submission because it had turned his lover on. Face down in the sheets, crying, struggling, mewling sex when it was all he could do to breathe, breathe from one moment to the next, feeling it, dick or fingers or fist, until release was wet and slow and he was eased back into himself. But that had been a long time ago, before the nightmares and before the nights of no release ever, no sleep, no rest. No feeling it or anything because feeling could be a raw wound, pressing fingers into a bloody scrape.

"You should think highly of yourself," Paul chided gently. For a moment, it was hard to remember that he was in fact a serial killer. "You are... exceedingly attractive. Which admittedly makes the fact I'm going to rape you shortly a whole lot easier to bear."

He leaned in and tongued at Gil's cock teasingly for a long moment before engulfing it in his mouth.

From one end of the comfort spectrum to another in seconds, and Gil didn't have time to react to that last sentence before there was a tongue on his dick, and then he was being deep throated. He wasn't supposed to move, he was supposed to fight it. His ankles were tied, he was spread-eagled, but he could jerk and twist and try with his little leeway to get free.

He tugged with his wrists, and then laid his hands down, balled into fists. He wasn't going to get to live the fantasy where he managed to heroically break a rope and beat off his captor one handed. He'd rip his wrists raw first, and possibly lose the chance for a more opportunistic moment.

It didn't seem to deter Millander in what he was doing. He carried on regardless. No quips or leers, just a rather bizarrely wistful attentive stimulus. He didn't surface until Gil's body had responded.

"There now," he murmured. "I guess you know what's coming next don't you, Gil? I suppose you ought to be able to tell yourself that it was definitely rape. So... I should oblige."

"Whatever... reason you have for doing this, you don't have to," Gil tried to reiterated. But he was the one lying spread-eagled, tied to the man's bed, and he was the one with an erection jutting up, hard and eager while the rest of him wasn't there with it. He'd been so close to coming that it wasn't funny, none of it was funny.

"There are no other paths open to me. This is the final choice," Paul replied cryptically. He knelt up, exposing for the first time some bandages around his own stomach and left leg. "I'm going to fuck you before we move on to more... traditional things, and maybe you'll even enjoy it. Who knows. I know I will."

Gil closed his eyes, and gave a slow, purposeful pull at the ropes that had been carefully tied around his wrists. It wasn't shoddy work -- two, three loops, sturdy and meant to do less damage to him than one loop might have. "Should I be happy for you?"

"What you feel is your business. Think, feel, live,die. It's all up to you, Gil."

He nudged against Grissom's entrance. "This will undoubtedly hurt. Without lubrication. Unless I'm really wrong about you, I don't expect you to be happy about that."

He didn't wait for a reply but just pushed in, hard and fast. There wasn't time to think about it, wasn't time to struggle harder or panic. Paul was kneeling between his stretched out legs, and lifting his hips, and leaning into him to use his body weight to force his way in. And he got in, dick right up Gil's ass, making him choke and bite through the inside of his bottom lip. There was blood and a faint distraction of pain to carry him through it, the words that Paul had said sticking in his mind like a rock. It's all up to you.

All up to him. Was there a way to get out of there alive? Was it cooperation or resistance? And did that even matter when breathing was stifled in a choked gasp Because Paul was pulling back out of him.

"Shh... Shh, Gil... it's going to be all right, it'll be over soon," Millander said even as he snapped his hips back in again and settled into a grueling rhythm.

There was nothing he could do about it. Tied too tightly, the trace of blood in his mouth the pain there and the humiliation of needing to come growing with each movement.

It could have been worse. There could have been more of a parody of intimacy, for all that Millander said he was going to and wanted to enjoy it, it could have been worse, paradoxically, and he'd think about that. Later, when he wasn't burning from the inside out.

What wasn't normal was the apparent stamina. What wasn't normal was the way he pushed and pushed and then jerked him off to the same movement but there was no spill of warmth inside of him, only the blood that made it rape. Inescapably and painfully rape. He could see that read out to an autopsy recorder along with the marks of ropes.

Al would have a field day with it, and ponder about condoms and what caused it, and run kits and tests on him until they ran out of ways to collect the evidence. He could imagine Nicky picking rope fibers out of his wrists, Because he was trying to fight it, trying to get it to stop, even though part of him knew it would stop when he came.

A perverse part of him wanted to hold out and deny him that but that was easier said than done. It was a myth that a man could not be raped if he came. Hit the right spot, pump hard enough and... He could feel it there.

"Let go, Gil... you know you will. Do you deny yourself... for... a larger payoff? How... flattering."

Millander finally sounded like he was straining, breathing hard even though his cadence of movement didn't change. Maybe he did find it flattering, but he managed to rub his hand the right way, twist skin over swollen muscle and blood vessels and nerves just the right way, and the smack smack smack of skin against his balls was still sounding when he spilled all over his own stomach and Paul's hand.

"There now..." Millander slowed with a rather peculiar whole body shudder. "Mmm. Yes. Very nice."

He pulled out abruptly, wiping himself clean of blood. "Not so bad. Well, not compared to being fucked by your own gun. A lot of things are bearable in comparison."

Gil sucked in a few shaky breaths, straining to open his eyes, watching Paul. His eyes were damp, and there was a good chance that his nose was running or going to start running. "Metaphorical gun, or... ?" Even metaphorical gun was something he'd seen in his days. He'd seen it in cases.

"Oh, no. Your own actual gun," Paul said leaning back lazily and picking the weapon up from the side and lying the cold metal on his stomach. "Can you imagine it? Wondering if I might just... slip and pull the trigger with it in your ass? I'm sure you have cop friends who might play gay Russian roulette with you, Gil, if you wanted it... hmm?"

He wasn't supposed to start to shake. He was supposed to stay calm, detached, but supposed to was intangible, an assumption. What a gunshot wound to find him with. What a wound tract to have his co-workers tracing. "N-no..."

The barrel of the gun slid through the slick semen on his stomach and then Millander trailed it down to push just at little at his abused entrance. "Are you sure, Gil? Really? Would you bargain for it?"

Gil was shaking, and closed his eyes tightly at the feeling "I..." Would he? Could he even remember what the damn question was with the feeling of the cold, sharp-edged gun pressing into him? "P... please. I don't..."

Millander leaned forwards. "Kiss me on the necklike you mean it. Like I know you did for him." The metal nudged against him again pushing deeper until he actually acquiesced and kissed and suck harder with the rather disturbing sensation of the safety being cocked back even as Millander pushed at him.

By the end of it, he was shaking and he couldn't stop. "Please.don't."

"Well it would disrupt what I have planned and... It is hard to play gay ass roulette with a pistol not a revolver..." Millander removed the metal barrel and lifted it, turned, showing the rapid discoloration of a 'love-bite' on his neck which seemed to amuse him. "Hmm, do you think anyone is going to come for you, Gil Grissom? Do you think they've even noticed you've gone? Is there someone out there who will spark with outrage at what I've done and what I'm going to do to you before the night is over?"

Probably not. He was one of them, sure, but he'd become just another case. They might reminisce when they cleaned out his office, but meeting his mother would be strange and odd for them when they didn't know, and she'd probably bury him back home.

Disjointed, stupid thoughts, but it was the best Gil could manage while he sucked in a few shaky breaths. Everything was starting to hurt, even with the endorphins. "Supposed to... show up for shift tonight." But he'd come to see Millander after work. His SUV was parked outside.

"Mm. I know." Millander sat up suddenly, tilting his head a little. "Well, well, a little earlier than expected but still..."

There was the sound of a car or truck turning on the gravel area outside.

"You really do have some naturally curious friends."

He sucked in a shaky breath, surprised by that. Who could it be? Someone else trying or thinking of talking to Millander. Gil pulled at his wrists, head turning to look towards the door on the other end of the room that opened into the stairs that opened into the... So close. "Surprised?"

"Not unexpected but I suppose it is convenient enough. I believe I can convince them to leave. And if not, I'll just kill them." It was the matter of fact tone in his voice that was the most chilling, and the fact he was naked except for the gun he was holding.

One more shaky breath, and Gil fixed his eyes on Paul. "Don't..." Shoot them, because he could imagine Nick laying there dead at the doorstep, maybe dragged in and positioned among the horror props downstairs.

Paul smiled, leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. "We'll see," he murmured as if he was promising some sort of treat.

With deliberate concentration, Paul pistol-whipped him across the face with a precise skill.

His head had already been throbbing, aching, and that sharp blow was enough to send Gil out of it. It was almost a blessing.

He didn't want to be awake if Millander shot one of his people.

Something was definitely up.

Gil had left the office without saying where he'd been going, but she knew he'd had a hunch. Gil with a hunch was like a dog with a bone -- neither were likely to let it go until they'd cracked right through it. Catherine just hoped that Gil didn't end up with a mouthful of splinters like he usually seemed to get.

So she'd followed her own hunch, and now the world was starting to assume twilight zone like proportions. Gil's Tahoe was parked in front of the warehouse, while she'd just assumed he'd gone home before putting in a full second shift. He'd looked tired, and if Gil actually took a breather once in a while... God. She wasn't going to stop him that was for sure.

So Gil was here. Correction, Gil's vehicle was here. She could practically hear his voice in his head giving her some lecturing words on assumptions and proof.

"Shut up, Gil..." she muttered to herself as she entered the warehouse door. "Mr. Millander? Mr. Millander! Criminalistics..."

"Coming!" The sound was from behind a door, and she could hear shoes coming down steps, a fast succession of clomps like the guy was tripping down the steps. It put her on edge, because she'd never met the guy -- he could be built like a line-backer, or look like Vincent Price. At least that would've fit the decorations.

There was a set of paint on a table and a half-finished head on a pottery wheel. Pretty grotesque stuff, a normal face and then this charred dripping face.

As long as that wasn't a self portrait, she could cope. "Take your time," she called back. It gave her chance to look around, whether for signs of Gil or on this case, she wasn't sure. Something was prickling at her about this place. It seemed so sterile and controlled for the artistic process. When Lindsay painted, it got everywhere no matter how tidy she tried to be. There were spots in the living room that would never recover.

Particularly that spot on the carpet where Lindsey had decided that cutting it out with scissors would be the best way to hide the paint spill from mommy.

"I-I just..." He was standing behind the door that was in some kind of workshop space, and that actually looked more like it had fallen prey to the artistic process. She barely had time to wander up towards the open doorway when he stepped out of the doorway and closed it behind him.

Paul Millander was, to put it briefly, a mess. His shirt was mis-buttoned, and he was in the process of closing his belt as he walked towards her. "H-how can I, I help you?"

"CSI Catherine Willows. I believe you might have spoken to Mr. Grissom recently?" Catherine looked him over. "About your connection with the suicide-murder case we've been investigating?"

He was a shade taller than Gil was, but weedy; his hair was a little long, messy, and it just got worse when he ran a hand back through it in some attempt to straighten it. "Uh, uh, y-yes, h-he did. So, what c-can I do for you Mrs. W-willows?" He moved closer, and it was comfortably obvious that he was unarmed. Unless Catherine wanted to classify his face as some level of weaponry.

"Well I was wondering..." She half drawled the statement as she passed around. "If he had gotten around to asking you for bills of sale?"

"Uh... He did, b-but he ha... didn't, uh..." Paul cleared his throat, turning to keep facing Catherine. "He, uh... Wo-would you l-like to take t-them back to your office?"

Paul definitely had company; Catherine could smell it, sweat and sex, when she walked past him, and she could see it on the side of his neck, a suck mark on his neck. There were two coffee cups on a table, a pair of sunglasses, and a jacket over the back of one of the rickety looking chairs.

"That would be very useful, Mr. Millander," Catherine replied. She could rib Grissom about that later. "I'm sorry, have I interrupted you?"

Hickey on the side of the neck. Someone gave that to him. Convivial looking coffee situation.

Real cozy. Really fucking creepy, but. Millander gave a somewhat sheepish smile. "Y-yes, but, uh... n-nothing I can't go back to wh-when you're done. I, I'll go get them." He gestured out of the area and back out into the warehouse.

"I'll just wait here, shall I?" There was the possibility it wasn't Gil's jacket, and it wasn't his sunglasses. She wasn't sure where she should be appalled or applaud at the thought of him getting laid. Especially to Millander. Totally unprofessional, but the guy gave her the creeps and she had vast experience of creeps.

"Sure." He gave her an easy smile, and walked back into his warehouse, with no qualms about leaving her alone. It wasn't like there was anything for him to fear from her, was there? She wasn't going to mug him for art supplies or run off with one of those freaky hands.

So, that gave her time to check the place out a little.

The moment he was out of the room she approached the chair and tweaked at the material. There was his ID...

"Gil, you old dog..." Her eyes were wide. She was seriously going to have a talk with him about being able to spot a creep. Millander had a weird vibe. She was used to men looking her over even if they were gay, and he hadn't done that at all. Coffee on the table, hardly touched, and... the acid test as she hastily sent Grissom a text and the jacket pocket trilled an alert.

Assumption proved. And that made her feel vaguely uncomfortable.

She was really going to have a talk with Gil. Sure, he'd struck out with Jackie in a horrifically bad way because she'd gone on and on about the lameness.

And... thinking about it, Gil had pretty bad luck and he'd had it as long as she'd been in the lab. Sure, he went both ways. She'd tripped over that fact when she'd stopped by his apartment and had found a copy of QVegas under a piece of newspaper. If the best Gil could do by going both ways was someone like Paul Millander... Yeah. She needed to talk to him about it. But apparently not just then.

There were some things that she didn't need to see and a potentially naked Gil Grissom was one of them.

And he was seriously going to have to clean his sunglasses. That was a good sized thumb print in the middle and that would be a pain in the ass to get off. Who the hell picked up their glasses by the lens? She looked over to the door walking closer out devilry. She always did have a tendency to push things.

Worst case, she could blame curiosity or boredom. Lie on the fly. The door opened easily under her hand on the doorknob. There wasn't even a creak to warn Paul that she'd opened it. A staircase, with another door up top. If she went up those stairs, and opened that door, she was probably going to find a naked, possibly sleeping Gil. It was almost five, after all.

Hell, she was going to go home once she was done there and catch a few z's before she had to go back in at ten.

"M-mrs. Willows?"

She turned with a bright smile. "Ah you found the documents? Great."

"Y-y-yes." He offered them to her, posture casual, and it was like he finally realized she was there at all. Paul glanced her over, just briefly, and asked, "Is, is there anything I c-can do to help?"

She took the box and smiled back. "Just say hi to Grissom for me," she said as she lifted it up. "We'll contact you if we need any more information."

Grissom? Definite screwed up taste in men. The guy had that look that would have had her calling for interference back in her good old bad old days. But so far there was no law against having sex with a creep, otherwise Lindsay would never have been born.
But Eddie wouldn't have had the humility to flush a little red the way Paul did. He gave a bobbing nod, and moved to sort of politely escort her off the premises. "I, uh... I'll make sure h-he doesn't mu-miss his shift. C... C-could you, uh... k-keep this, uh... discreet? Gil, uh... l-likes his pr-privacy."

Catherine smirked a little. "Sure. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Millander... I appreciate it."

"Y-you're welcome." He smiled again, and hovered back a little while he took her back towards the doors. Millander had to know that he smelled like sex, and that was a pretty good reason to hang back.

She turned and walked out to her car. She'd take this back into the office and maybe just lance through a few things. Maybe this would be the break they needed.

If they could just pin down the guy who was doing the killings, they could all take a little breather. Spend some time with Lindsey, maybe catch up on her reading.

The box could be a start.

The right side of his face was at once numb and aching. He wasn't sure how that worked exactly but it felt stiff and his right eye was refusing to want to open.

There was silence in the small bedroom and he was still here.

He was still there, still alive. Breathing, even if his eye wouldn't open, even if his jaw ached badly Breathing was good, because as long as someone was breathing, as long as Gil was breathing, he'd be all right. He could still escape somehow, and that was the first thing Gil did, pulling at the ropes binding his ankles.

Still tight. A slightly delirious part of him had to appreciate how thorough Millander was and...

God, what had happened? Who had come and did they just leave or did Millander...

He pulled harder, feeling a surge of fear and adrenalin induced strength.

If Millander had killed any of them, he, he was going to put a stop to Millander, he'd have to. He'd have to because he'd been so fucking stupid as to walk into a trap when he knew, when his instinct had told him that yes, Paul Millander had taken the opportunity to lift his thumbprint. He'd been stupid enough to get himself into that position, and that was fine.

Gil could handle that, but not the thought that he'd gotten one of his team into that trouble.

There was a faint sound of movement and he turned towards it as Millander entered the room. "Sleeping beauty awakes," he said. "You've overslept. We'll have to be swift with our time. But that's fine... everything is in place." He lifted a linoleum knife that had replaced the gun. "I'll have long enough."

It took a minute for Gil's conscious self to jump to the suggestion that his subconscious self had. "No..." No, because he couldn't run, couldn't struggle, and it was a lie when he was told that it wouldn't hurt, it would just feel like going to sleep. He pulled tight at the ties, starting to twist despite that it rubbed his skin raw, despite that it already hurt. "I, I... don't want to die."

"No. I don't suppose you do. But if it were you or one of your friends what would you choose?" Paul asked as he came closer. Behind him there was a small table set up, the wine part poured, a salad on a plate and something that looked like a molded chocolate desert on a dish beside it. The knife edge gleamed. "I have to time this right..."

He glanced at his watch.

And Gil watched the gesture, watched Paul glance at his watch, before he crushed his own eyes closed. Eye. The right one wasn't opening, and he hoped it was because of the swelling. Hoped that he'd get the chance to see if it was swelling or not. "Wh... why?"

"Because it's what I have to do. And I'm a sentimentalist." Paul approached him. "For the gift I hope to make of all this. I promise you, Gil, it will be worth it."

"What are you..." Gil had to try to look again, had to try to muster up the strength to keep talking. "Are you going to gain to... by mimicking him? I al, already have the scar..."

"His mark, his territory. A touch of trespass. Maybe you'll live to figure it out..." Millander climbed onto the bed with him. "Things can be improved upon."

He had to think. Had to think, Because Millander was playing far ahead of him, and Paul knew what his goal was where Gil didn't, hadn't had time to start to look at the evidence and pull at it. "You're going to... improve on what he tried to do?"

Millander just smiled and lifted the blade shaking his head. "You should listen to your instincts more often. Seconds it took you to put it together that it was me and you fought it. That is... a peculiar genius you have and yet you deny it. You should've realized he did this to you because you were too good at what you did." He glanced at his watch again. "Ah... and if I'm right about her, she should be realizing any moment now. Ten minutes of pain, Gil. Be brave."

Be brave. Cautionary suggestions and goading, from a man who'd, who'd already...

There was a whirl of thoughts in the back of his head, and it was already starting to shape into something vague, faint, but it was peering up at Paul while he knelt on the edge of the mattress that finally made Gil's mind click.

"You don't have an adam's apple."

"Congratulations," Millander paused. "A piece of the puzzle but... I'm sorry, Gil, but I really should get on with it." He pressed the knife to skin and seemed to contemplate a moment.

The knife was pressing just on the edge of his collarbone, tipping a little, rocking like it was a teeter-totter. Skin was thinner there, and the pressure of knife threatening to cut made Gil clench his jaw. Be brave. He could be 'brave', because he had to make it make sense, had to work out why a man who was a judge, who wasn't a man, who wasn't a, no, who was a serial killer, would be kneeling there, doing that to him.

Pretending to be Hannibal.

The knife bit in slicing through skin, biting deep as Millander wielded it as if he was carving a sculpture. Graceful lines of agony swooped over his chest, flaring in broad stylistic lines as Millander held him still with his legs and murmured encouraging words in response to the noises of pain he couldn't help but make.

Couldn't help it, choking and strangling noises as he fought against Millander as best as he could, trying to jerk his legs until a knee pressed hard against his crotch, grinding down hard against his dick. Tears stung in his eyes, and Gil's muscles went tight, but he didn't jerk around as long as that knee stayed there. Couldn't, couldn't hardly think, because Millander was going to flay him alive.

"Shh... shush... It's looking just... fine, Gil. Just fine..." Millander said in an even tone as the knife moved with artistic precision and the reek of blood was overwhelming. "Be still. Still or I will take one of your balls and make you eat it."

And while he wanted to believe that it was just an idle threat, Gil couldn't. If he'd had a revolver, there was a chance that Millander would have tried it, pulled the trigger after putting one bullet in the chamber, just to see what happened. He couldn't trust anything; only that maybe obedience would get him through it. Gil bit his bottom lip again, struggling not to make more noise. Fighting not to look at the bowed head while Millander bent over his cutting.

There was a lot of blood and he didn't take it as a good sign when things started to become detached and almost numb. He was losing too much blood and Millander was still cutting. Some intricate design, shading done in fine delicate slices, broad strong lines in deeper cuts. And then a deep gouging and Millander held up a piece of flesh and examined it thoughtfully. "Big enough, I believe."

Gil was going to throw up. Everything was starting to spin, swirl, cut apart and slide off to the sides, and he felt as if he were somehow sinking back from the cold, breathing fast and shallow despite the thick blood-iron smell that stuck in his nose. "Hnn..."

Rather strange it was only then that Millander put on the gloves waiting at the side, wiping off the knife with them, and smoothing away the blood for a moment before nodding, satisfied. "That's enough."

He leaned over and kissed Gil again. "Surprise me. Try and survive this, Gil. I didn't really want to hurt you. I respect you too much for that."

With that he got up, placed the lump of flesh artistically on the waiting plate, took off the gloves and did one last look around. He picked up a cell phone from the side and looked at it. "Three missed calls. I should think they'll be here soon."

Gil could barely keep his left eye open to take that in, the motions. He was... setting Lecter up for the crime, to the untrained eye, but it wasn't his style. It only seemed like that, and it wasn't Millander's style. The picture painted... Gil couldn't look to see what had been carved onto his chest. He laid his head back, and concentrated on breathing. "'s good. 'll catch you."

"They won't." Millander said. "If you survive, maybe you will. Goodbye, Gil. Breathe sparingly and hope your friends remain curious. It will be that which saves you." And with that he headed towards the window rather than the door, and rather startlingly exited through it, looking back over his shoulder once.

And then he was gone.

Gil sagged against the mattress. Almost there. He had to keep thinking that they were almost there. He had to, to think and regroup and even though he was graying out, Gil managed one desperate, probably useless, cry for help.

It was all too easy to get dragged back into what was going on at the office, to leaf through the box and somehow not go home. Catherine found herself sitting at Grissom's desk fighting a growing sense of unease. It wasn't like him. Gil didn't do that, not in the middle of the case. Hell, if you listened to Nicky or Warrick, he never did it.

It made her jumpy as if she was missing something and she was frowning as she stepped into the break room for a coffee.

If she felt like she was missing something, she probably was. So she tried to avoid talking with the swing shifters who were getting coffee just then, and started to replay through her head what had happened. Gil had definitely been there, and Millander had smelled like sex. That... wasn't much evidence, but she'd drawn a pretty simple conclusion from it. After all, the pock-faced man had had a hicky on the side of his neck.

She sipped the coffee. Coffee, with none of it drunk on the table. Sunglasses on the table. But Gil wouldn't have worn the sunglasses in the warehouse, the light was dim. He would have put them in his jacket pocket, he always did. So why were they on the table? With a thumbprint in the lens. People didn't pick up sunglasses with their thumb over the lense. Someone would have to plant a thumbprint like that deliberately...

....a planted thumbprint.

She jolted up so rapidly she split some of the coffee on her sleeve but ignored it.

"Shit!" She was out of the room half running to her car, and dialing Brass even as she moved with speed. She didn't even stop to think of evidence, and Brass she knew would take a risk based on less. "Pick up, Brass... come on..."

One ring, two rings. He was probably asleep, but he was a cop and he could move fast. If she said Gil was in trouble, he'd be there in a second. He'd probably get there before she could.

~Brass. This'd better be good.~ He sounded groggy.

"Jim, it's Catherine..." She barged past one of the early shift techs. "I think... I think the suicide-murder killer is Millander and I think he's got Gil." No point beating around the bush. "I'm on my way... I'm a damn idiot. I was there and it was a set up I'm sure..."

She could hear him getting up, and a muffled hiss when he hit something. ~Son of a bitch. That warehouse, right? I'll head out there. Hang up on me and call 911. Let's just hope we won't need a coroner.~

"Watch yourself if you get there first..." Catherine said fumbling with her keys and practically hurling herself into her car as she hung up. She knew she'd never forgive herself if they did need a coroner. Dammit, how long had it been?

She dialed 911, neglecting the fact that she had no real evidence for any of this, but the instinct strong enough that she was willing to risk it being a hoax. Fortunately when she identified herself as a CSI, the operator didn't argue and dispatched the units she requested.

"Dammit, Gil... if you've managed to get killed..."

If he was dead in a bath tub, she'd never be able to yell at him for being so stupid as to go talk to a suspect without an officer present. God. He had to be all right. He just... had to be all right. Held hostage, maybe, but not actually hurt.

Gil just wasn't supposed to end up like Holly.

He knew better. Sometimes she thought Gil knew better than God and then he'd pull something as idiotic as this.

And maybe he'd been upstairs hoping she'd been smart enough, clever enough to realize and help him and she'd just walked away planning off-color jokes to tease him with at the start of shift.

Or he'd been up there, already dead.

The speed limits lay shattered behind her as she gunned the acceleration.

Thinking like that, the evidence she'd been given seemed... sick. That hickey had gotten there somehow. Maybe it had started consensually and turned into a trap. She hadn't seen Gil's gun; he wouldn't take off his jacket and his phone and his glasses, without taking that off, too.

God, she just wasn't going to be able to get there soon enough. Maybe she was hours too late. Maybe Millander had taken so long to come downstairs because he'd changed out of bloody clothes.

She shivered. Grissom never had his phone out of reach. They joked he took it to bed with him.

Some joke. And it was always muted or silent. It didn't play twee little ringtones and sounds when they phoned or connected.

Would Brass get there first?

So the phone and the planted thumbprint, clean and easy to spot, had been cries for help, as best as Grissom could manage them. Maybe Millander had gotten his gun off of him and escorted him up those steps.

It still didn't explain the smell of semen.

Maybe Millander jacked off on him or... something. She would shoot and she would kill if she had to. She almost wanted to...

Her phone started ringing and she snatched it up, managing not to drive off the road. "Catherine Willows?"

~I t-think Gil's going to need a ride to work tonight.~ Paul Millander's voice slid into her ear. ~You should come and g-get him.~

"You son of a bitch! What have you done to him?" Catherine's temper exploded immediately. So much for playing it cool.

God. She was going to lose her temper while on the phone with a serial killer. She couldn't hear a ware-house style echo to his voice, so either the room he was in was contained, or he wasn't there at all anymore.

~I didn't do anything. I brought some friends over. People who wanted to... meet him.~

"Oh yeah? Who?" She challenged, running a light in her hurry.

~You'll figure it out. We had fun. But Gil's a, a mess right now. He just, just wouldn't stop bleeding, so we left him his gun.~

"You... you fucking bastard!" Catherine snapped back immediately. "We'll get you for this, Millander, and you better hope that it's someone else apart from us who gets to you first, because I swear... I swear I'd sit at your meeting with a lethal injection with a smile on my face!"

~I can't be held responsible for a suicide.~ And then he hung up.

Oh, god. Oh, god.

No dammit, no. She was not going to find Gil in a bathtub with a tape of his voice reading a script of his last words.

She covered the last of the distance to the warehouse in record time. No sign of paramedics, no sign of back up. Like that was going to stop her. She was out, gun in hand and running towards the building before anything like common sense had time to kick in.

There was Gil's Tahoe, parked where she'd left it, but no sign of Millander's vehicle. In fact, she hadn't ever seen one. Maybe he'd been working with someone the whole time.

She heard Brass drive up just when she opened the warehouse door with her knee -- it wasn't even closed, let alone locked. Jim flashed his lights and left them running while he squealed to a stop. "Catherine!"

She had her gun out and peering into the space. She wasn't going to slow down but natural process slowed her enough for Brass to catch up as she crept forward.

"Son-of-bitch phoned me. Two minutes ago tops..."

His own gun was out by the time he reached her, and he moved to slip past her. "Jesus. Stay behind me, we'll move fast. Just direct me where to go."

"Work room off to the side, door and stairs leading upstairs," she hissed. "He... he said he couldnt be blamed for a suicide..."

She hated the fact that her voice nearly cracked on that, even as she moved behind him.

Jim was quiet and tense as he stayed ahead of her. He'd been a good supervisor for all of them, but he made a better cop. There was something about the way he moved, flashlight crossed over his gun, sweeping the room with both at the same time while he stepped firmly forwards. Maybe it just came from having done it for so long. "Workroom clear..."

"There," Catherine gestured to the door. "Dammit, I was going to look up the stairs and..."

The thought that Millander could have easily have overpowered her as well hadn't even crossed her mind.

"And then I'd be looking for you, too?" Jim reached for the doorknob with a handkerchief, and pulled it open quickly. A quick shine of the light proved that it was clear, so he started up the stairs in a run to the next door.

Catherine could hear sirens, and apparently so could Jim. "Go meet them. Show your badge, get them moving."

"I'll come running if you start shooting," Catherine agreed a little reluctantly as she paused and jogged back to the front door, to hurry them in, regardless of what Brass would find.

She could hear him kicking down the door at the top of the steps before she left the building, flashing her badge at the paramedics.

A youngish man, blond and tall, started to walk towards her as he got out of the back. "We've got a member of the PD down in there?"

"CSI." Catherine said. "Captain Brass is locating him. We had a tip off." The fact that she'd called for them before she'd had the tip off was a detail she wasn't going to talk about. "I'll take you through... Brass will give us an all clear." She hoped.

"I'll get a stretcher." He jerked his head to the driver, and turned away to get what they'd need. At least, unless Gil was a corpse.

"Willows! We need to get him to a hospital FAST!" Jim was leaning out of an opened window that was up near the roof of the warehouse. "It's clear!" And then he was gone back to the inside.

Catherine was left to shout instructions before she ran ahead of the paramedic team, running up the stairs and opening the door to a scene just a touch shy of her worst imaginings. The room reeked of blood, the bright and dark of a bleed out in progress immediately catching her eye.

"Jesus... Jim?" Her eyes were wide as she looked from the blood clothed body on the bed. "Griss...."

Jim had a pocket knife out, and was cutting ropes that seemed to be holding Gil's ankles. There weren't ropes around his wrists, but they were bloody. In the bouncing light of Jim's flashlight tucked under his armpit, she could more blood.

"He's out cold, but he still has a pulse..."

Catherine moved in closer, mesmerized. "We need to stop him bleeding," she said in a voice that seemed distant. "I... he needs blood. That's too much blood, Jim. Where are the paramedics?"

"Coming up!" That was the blond paramedic. He struck Catherine as being take-charge, and that was good. They needed someone to take charge, needed someone to get Gil oxygen, because every breath he took was shallow and it made Catherine ache.

Someone was going to have to process him. The room smelled like blood and sex, and in the bouncing flashlight, she could only see so much. There was a table set, like it was waiting for someone, but she couldn't yet guess who. Didn't know where to start, because the room was small with all three of them there just then, Jim leaning over the ropes, hacking at them with his pocket knife. "Jesus fucking... Catherine, get pictures of these, you've got to -- he'd want to see what the knots looked like."

Grissom would never forgive her if she failed at her job. Their job, when it was so important to catch him. The man hadn't stuttered like Millander. Hadn't sounded that much like him. Perhaps... Perhaps he wasn't, she didn't know but she was reaching for her camera and snapping pictures on autopilot before the paramedics got there and Jim had finished cutting and...

Was then horrified that she was doing that when Gil was bleeding to death in front of her. His torso was a mass of blood and cut swollen tissue. The bedclothes around him were saturated with dark thick crimson and there was very little that could turn her stomach but there was something about the impact to emotions that make her swallow back bile.

She wouldn't have seen it without the lightning bright illuminations of the flashbulb. Her camera slipped a little in her hands, while Jim checked Gil's pulse again, and she'd barely wrapped her fingers around it again before the paramedics stomped into the room. Jim had somehow moved again, and he reached out to pull her back.

"Catherine. We'll wait outside. We... can't work this case."

"Someone has to," Catherine replied still staring almost blindly. "We can't... we can't let Dayshift have this. We can't. Not Ecklie."

The mask was going on, and an IV of some description. Fluids. Pressure bandages being put on hastily. Flickers of red and white.

They worked fast, right on the crime scene. And while she usually would have felt a twinge at lost evidence, contamination... Gil needed to live. Victims needed to live, and there was so much more to every case than just the evidence. "Nicky. Warrick. Sidle." The hand on her arm shifted, slid over her shoulders. "We'll go with the paramedics. Or you can. Whatever. C'mon."

It was logical. They needed to get outside before the paramedics crew, needed time to make sure that they didn't ruin any evidence by accident. Jim's voice was thick with something, too-calm.

"I can't let Sara in here." Catherine realized she had spoken aloud when Jim looked at her. The panic and worry was a knot inside of her, twisting tighter. "Nicky and Warrick. I need to... be there. Gil needs someone there. I left him alone, Jim. I left him here. I should've known. I should have... I..."

She had been downstairs and this had been happening. She wasn't sure she could forgive herself. She'd been thinking about Gil's bad taste in men and she'd been thinking that she needed to talk to him about it, and she'd left him. Blood and semen were hallmarks of rape and violence. That was what she'd left Gil to, and even after everything he'd kept a tight lip about with Eddie, it... Nothing was worth that. No silence was worth that happening to someone, someone who was a friend.

"It's okay." Jim was pulling her forwards, and the paramedics were moving Gil onto the stretcher. They needed to get out of the way, downstairs and forwards. "Go on with them to the hospital, Catherine. I'll stay here and call everyone in."

She nodded. She had to go. Emergency contact, honorary next of kin Grissom said when she had forced him to fill in one of those interminable forms.

"Thanks, Jim. If we can get them in, then it's our case. I can't bear... not Conrad looking at this," she exhaled, moving to follow them. "I'll call, okay? As soon as I know anything. Tell them that." She took as much comfort from patting the homicide detective as she gave and turned to leave.

He had to make it. Otherwise she would never forgive him. And never forgive herself.

How, how stupid could he be to go after a suspect like that? And how stupid was she not to understand the pieces?

There weren't words for it, but Catherine walked down the stairs despite it, walked down the stairs because she could hear the paramedics shadowing her, could hear them working a gurney down the narrow stairs a little slower than she was walking.

She just wanted them to hurry and not to let Gil's life bleed away. Gil had been family, friend and more than all of that to her. And when he needed her, she'd failed to be good enough.

Right now she just wanted him to survive so he could shout at her. She'd welcome that rather than the silence of the alternative.

The smell of Grissom's blood in the room lingered long after Catherine and the paramedics had left with Gil. Brass stood a moment in the room just trying to fight down the rage. He had a mask and a temper and right now the mask was slipping.

This was Gil. This had happened to Gil and he wondered if it would've made a difference if he hadn't been moved to Homicide. If he had still been the boss and hadn't screwed up.

Now he could say in his head he wouldn't have let Gil go off alone. He wouldn't have walked away. Somehow he would have known.

The image of Gil there, his closest friend, wouldn't go away. It lingered just as the smell of blood did, brighter and more vivid when he closed his eyes.

There wasn't anything for him to do but wait there, or wait outside for the CSIs. He wasn't sure if it was the smell of the faint hints of what had happened, but he felt sick, unsettled. Gil could've been in the bathtub of the place, shot, in a sleeping bag for less muss and fuss, a window open so the stench alerted the neighbors. He could've been the textbook neat suicide that was really a homicide, just another body on the table in the morgue. Cut open, Y-stitched closed again, ready for a grave.

Jim had to admit to himself that Gil could still end up that way. His pulse had been unsteady, weak, and he just hadn't said as much to Catherine.

She'd never take it. And he could hope a little longer and make sure this was done right. He needed his team, Gil's team, in here. There were too many strange elements, ritualistic subtleties and the best person to interpret it was the one headed for the ER. Gil could never see it, but Jim'd watched it from the outside for too many years. Watched Gil enter a scene and seem just to see or know what happened even as he was meticulously chasing down evidence.

Now they had to do it without him and he didn't want that to be the case. The thought of Gil not being there...

Where the hell were they?

Probably god-damned lost. Stupid worthless piece of shit GPS computers didn't even work half the time, never mind giving them right directions. Jim moved out of the room, walking with the guidance of his flashlight, heading to start down the stairs. Maybe he needed to get outside again.

He walked away, stopping a moment. He wanted to be there with Gil.

"You better damn well make it, Gil," he muttered under his breath. "Fuck."

He had a bad feeling about this. Catherine hadn't been sure it was Millander so maybe they shouldn't assume it.

Gil would tell him never to assume anything, even when he was technically his boss. He liked that. He liked the fact Gil knew enough to do what was right.

He liked that Gil never seemed to be much bothered by his boss. They got along well, and Gil had been there, been the field officer there in the lab, when Jim had arrived. The previous shift supervisor had offed himself, jumped off of a hotel roof.

Gil had still managed to find a little black humor in it, and hey. Getting the job in Vegas had gotten Jim away from Jersey. Having a competent right hand man already in place was pretty comfortable.

Discovering over time that he was a good friend as well had been a bonus that had made things more than just bearable. It had allowed him to make Vegas a home rather than an exile. Both of them too into their jobs, both of them good at what they did. The lab had steadily climbed in reputation and success rates since the pair of them were there.

They'd had close calls, bad cases, living with the sort of intense awareness of life and death that made connections between people that couldn't be denied and sometimes that resulted in arguments and sometimes in nights where they could make each other laugh and then... nights that were drunken attempts to blot out thought leading to something else entirely.

Not one of their finest moments. Something he felt obscurely guilty about because he never knew exactly what Gil had thought, and it hit him that he might never know. He might be standing on his friend's murder scene.

And that would be that. He'd never know and he'd never talk to Gil again, probably.

It was enough to make a guy want to take up smoking again. Jim stepped out into the cold air of a settling night, and didn't have much more time to ruminate, because he could hear cars driving up. The cavalry had arrived.

The mask was there, in place. Habit of over a decade came to his rescue even though that rage inside burned at him. It had only been two months, and though he was making his mark in Homicide and this wasn't technically a homicide as yet, there would be only one case in Vegas tonight.

Nick and Warrick were the first to park up and get out of the truck. Then Sara. Catherine was right, there was no way Sara should process the upper room. He wasn't sure how Nick and Warrick would handle it either, but as he spent a great deal of time ribbing Gil over Sara...

Had spent.

He didn't need to waffle between past and present tense, but if Gil survived, he'd never joke him about suspicious connections to hot female CSIs ever again. As long as Gil was alive it didn't matter. Wasn't like he had a claim on the guy, and hey. Sidle was hot.

Sidle was heading towards him.

"Hey, Brass. What's, uh..." He'd been vague when he'd called them in. Wanted to only have to explain it once, with all three of them there to hear it. Nicky looked nervous, though.

"Sounded urgent," Warrick said studying him.

Brass knew they'd find no answers here.

Sara put her kit down. "A DB?" she asked assuming as such from his presence. It was a logical assumption and one he hoped was very wrong.

"No. I said I'd call you in. It's..." He thought he'd known how to put it, but seeing them all there looking at him expectantly threw him. "It's Grissom. Grissom was attacked. We assume that he came here to follow a lead about Millander and he was attacked. The perp called Catherine not long ago and she called me. We were first on scene. She's with him at the hospital."

"Oh, shit..." Warrick, frowning tightly, looking up at the large door behind Jim. Yeah, 'oh shit' summed it up.

"Grissom," Sara repeated, looking vague and just a little sick. And he hadn't even walked them inside to the scene. "This... this was the suicide-killer, wasn't it? It was the guy whose fingerprints were on the fake hand?"

Nicky looked like he had body punched him, momentarily speechless.

Jim nodded slowly. "We're not sure if it was him. Catherine said the voice didn't sound the same, no stutter." Best not to give them time to think. "Look, I'll have to back out soon, but this is not something for day shift. We get the jump on this, we get to keep it. Sara, I want you to process downstairs and Gil's Denali. Warrick, Nick do the stairs and bedroom. Do not miss anything."

"We won't," Nick said, clearing his voice.

"I mean it, Nick. This is no ordinary crime scene, and not just because it's Gil."

Warrick quirked an eyebrow at him, but they'd figure that out once they went upstairs and looked at the scene. Warrick would find it, even if it was just a god-damned toenail that was the give away, fucked up gambling problem or not. There was a reason why Grissom liked the guy as a CSI so much. "So, it's cleared? We just go on up?"

"I cleared it," Jim replied seeing the hint of rebellion in Sara's face. She was sharp and took offence at being put in the minors.

"They might need help in the rooms. I can..."

"I said downstairs for a reason, Sidle," he said sharply. It was strange that they just obeyed him. "There's evidence there was time spent down there. He might have been meticulous upstairs but maybe he missed something there, okay?" He softened the call. "Look, get in there, get started before the detectives get here. Catherine is going to let us know how Gil's doing at the hospital. I'll be making statements, but this is your only case tonight. He wasn't that far ahead of us. We could get him."

They needed to get him. If just because he was escalating, shifting from straight murder to torture and... rape or whatever the hell he'd done. Jim had smelled sweat and semen, and that implied something pretty obvious. Either the freak didn't change his bed, or he'd tried to do more than just exterior damage to Gil. It wasn't just because it was one of their own.

Even if, Jim had to admit to himself, it really was.

"Okay." Nick set his jaw forwards a little, and looked at the other CSI that he usually competed against. "C'mon, man. Let's start with the stairs."

Jim watched them go inside and exhaled into the cool of the night. He'd give them ten or fifteen minutes to get settled in and then call Atwater. The Sheriff was getting comfortable with the fact that sidelining him after Holly had been a good move as Brass knew he had already made his mark on homicide even in those two short months. Done right, he would be able to give night shift the case, blurring the black and white into grey. Besides, he had a suspicion, a niggling suspicion this was going to go higher.

Anyway, it wasn't like the dayshift wasn't at home sleeping. Swing shift was thin and pretty fucking unremarkable, so Atwater would probably prefer night shift on it. As long as Catherine didn't start out working the case... Jim could probably pawn the case off to Vega if he had to. There were good detectives he could trust to work with night shift if Atwater brought up any problems with him working it.

And he'd take leave if Gil was going to make it. Be there. Why the hell not? He couldn't remember the last leave he had taken. He had an in-tray full of memos from personnel to that effect. If... when he took the time, he seriously wondered if some of the secretaries would retire from the pool going about when he would take vacation time. Otherwise he would be aimless and directionless and distracted and he could do that just as easily and with more purpose by Gil's bedside if they saved him than he could anywhere else.
He wanted to show Gil he was wrong when he thought he didn't matter to people for more than what he could do. For his skills. That he was important to them because he was him. At least that was what he had thought for years with nothing but a drunken night and mild embarrassment to show for it.

The window was open upstairs and he could hear the choked sound of Warrick exclaiming,"Jesus!" even out here.

Considering how much they had seen, what they had processed, it told him he was right to be shaken.

Blood and there'd been something on Gil's chest. The guy'd hacked him up, and if Gil survived, he'd have some serious scarring. If he lived. If. Maybe he could do research for Grissom, about stuff that reduced scars and shit, because if he lived...

Well, there wasn't much for Jim to do except keep thinking 'if' because there was a lot less for him to think about doing if Gil died. Someone was going to have to call... shit, email? Gil's mother. Something. He'd work it out with Catherine. Maybe after he gave his statement, he could go to the hospital and see how things were for himself.

And here finally were the other detectives. Finally. Statement first, then the Sheriff and hospital. He had direction. He could do this.

Even though he could still smell the metallic tinge of blood in the air.

It was worse upstairs, but that was someone else's duty now. Not his. He'd been first on the scene and while that was normal for a homicide guy, he was first on scene for a friend. Probably wouldn't be allowed to work it.

Vega smiled at him, and Jim returned the gesture tightly. As long as he was a man with a plan, he'd be okay.

And if that plan led to Gil surviving and him being able to tear Millander or whoever had done this to him limb from limb, he would count himself a very happy man

There was usually only that much blood at a murder scene. The human body only had eight pints, and Nick guessed that he was seeing at least four of them soaking the bed. From each post of the bed, there was a rope, aborted, and frayed, cut pieces of the rope. Whoever had cut Grissom loose hadn't been too careful, but Nick couldn't fault it.

The victim always came before the crime scene.

"Jesus!" Warrick said coming in behind him walking carefully. He had obviously had the same thought. "That's a lot of blood, Nick."

He didn't need to be told that and he glanced around as he saw Warrick carefully settle his kit box. Belatedly he realized that he was senior and he should make the call on who was doing what. It was hard to stop speculation running riot in his head.

"Yeah, uh..." Nick cleared his throat. "You want to start on the photographs? I'm going to print the light switch and then bring up the lights."

Warrick glanced at him and nodded. "Sure. Brass was right. Sara would flip."

Nick wasn't sure how close he was to flipping himself, but he went on autopilot to get the brush and dust even as nothing came up. Then he turned on the light and the full macabre horror of the scene was illuminated.

The place was tidy and well organized, clean except for the blood-soaked sheets and mattress. But there was a table set, ready for a meal, and Nick started to gravitate towards it even as he tried to take in the rest of the place. Some kind of demon painting on the wall, a half-rolled up picture...

"Damn, this guy was nuts... Get pictures of everything?"

"Every single inch man," Nick replied even as he closed in and took in the details. He let his eyes slide over the table looking for any hint of extraneous trace before he focused on the food. When he did, he nearly recoiled. The plate was arranged as if it were noveau cuisine and there was a circular blob of raw flesh that had pooled blood like a red wine sauce over the stark white of the plate. "'Rick? Take a look. Here first so I can process."

And so he could have time not to think, not to imagine that being cut out and... He swallowed convulsively.

Because that was skin. There was fucking hair growing out of that skin. Maybe chest hair, maybe... well, lower hair. Nick couldn't guess, but the set-up was weird. Plated flesh. Half a glass of wine, and some kind of dessert? Except when he leaned in towards it, there was a definitely smell.

"Shit."

"What?" Warrick joined him and winced. "Damn."

Nick could see the emotions working over his face and he was in no doubt he looked similar.

"No, it's really shit. This dessert, it smells like shit," he said trying to maintain calm. They could do this. "Take pictures and I'll get a sample for trace."

Warrick leaned closer and then nodded. "Gotcha. You reckon it was Millander?"

"I'd bet money that the whole thing is him. This is... one more staged scene, right? Griss said everything had a message, so all of this was done on purpose. It's here for a reason." And everything that had been done to Griss had a reason, but Nick didn't exactly want to think about that. Someone was going to have to process their boss's body.

There was the flash flash flash of repeated photos and Warrick covered all angles of the table and nodded to him that he was clear. He turned and took pictures of the contents of the room before heading to the bed. "Window was open when we came in. There's a bloodied knife here. Looks like the type you use to cut linoleum," Warrick said. "I don't think we're going to find a print in this whole damn place, not unless he left it here."

Nick knelt to get his kit, pulling specimen jars out of it to start getting samples of the food on the table. "Right. We'll still print everything, but... We've got human flesh on a plate, and shit molded like pudding."

"If there's a message here, I'm not seeing it," Warrick admitted. The flash on the camera made there own imitation of a storm in the room. The bed, the floor, the table. Every item methodically recorded. Every section of the room mapped without any corners cut.

"I'll look in the bathroom," Warrick murmured after a long intense silence. "Check it out, then come back and process."

"Right. Might be something in there," Nick murmured, carefully using a hemostat to get the edge of that chunk of flesh so he could pick it up and drop it into the specimen jar. He wasn't going to be sick. Wasn't going to be sick, wasn't going to think that there was a corresponding hole in Grissom that matched that chunk of flesh.

He could hear the click of the camera behind him, Warrick having found something noteworthy to photograph in there at least even as he meticulously took samples of everything there.

"You might want to try dusting in there at some point," Warrick said. "It's set up as if Millander had planned another suicide murder. Tape recorder, sleeping bag, gun. Not Grissom's gun though. Bath is empty, though, and clean."

"Wonder what brought about the change of M.O? I mean... Huge difference between that and cutting a guy up to put him on a plate." Nick shuffled the 'dessert' into a separate specimen jar, and marked them both.

"Maybe it wasn't him," Warrick replied thoughtfully. "Maybe he was here and then someone else. Or it could be a weird form of escalation, though usually death is the escalation."

Unless it wasn't. Death was probably merciful compared to what had gone on, and Nick leaned in to check the place out for a moment before he walked back to take more samples, of the food this time. "Death takes less time than what he did to Grissom."

"Yeah." Warrick moved over towards the bed. "I'll bag the knife and gloves and take a look at the bed. You think Sara's okay downstairs? And ... you think Catherine will process at the hospital?"

"I hope she does." She'd have to, right? Kit in her ca-- no, or maybe not. No kit, since she'd gone in the ambulance and her SUV was still parked outside. So maybe one of them would end up doing it. "If she doesn't, I'll... do it." Warrick wouldn't want to. Warrick didn't like to process the living.

"You sure?" Warrick sounded concerned and just a little relieved. "No arterial spray, but a lot of blood here. We'll have to take these in... practically the entire bed. Tough looking rope. I'll check for trace in the knots. You think Grissom realized who it was and came here?"

"His car's parked outside -- probably." Nick poured the wine carefully into a trace container, and screwed a lid on. "I don't know why -- I mean, it's... it's stupid to come out to confront a suspect by yourself.

"Maybe he wasn't a suspect until he got here," Warrick said. "Maybe he just thought he was putting in overtime to get some more answers."

It was possible. Nick saw him bend close. "Think I've got semen here. The perp's maybe?"

Nick frowned a little, and looked sideways over at Warrick before he nodded. "Yeah, probably. We'll run it to be sure. Codis first." They'd have to get a DNA sample from Grissom to test it against, but that could be done with a swab at the hospital, easy, tidy. They'd need it to double-check that blob of flesh that had been sliced out of who the hell knew where.

He carefully put the other foods into trace containers, and then stepped back a little. "You want to call it?"

"Hm. Looks like the clothes on the floor look neat so Grissom was brought up here either willingly or conscious and walking. He undressed, possibly at gunpoint, though I guess we can't rule out him doing it willingly," Warrick said, his expression making it obvious he was not happy with that. "There some physical traces on the gun, so I think he was hit with that at some point. He was tied to the bed for some time and... there was some sort of sexual act, and then the physical attack. Somewhere, Millander or whoever had time to set up the table. He can't have done the knife attack too long before Catherine and Jim got here."

"Or else he'd've bled out," Nick agreed quietly. "So... he was here for hours, maybe? I mean, taking into account that he probably showed up when the rest of us went home at the end of shift..."

"Hours. Maybe unconscious? Could have been drugged or sedated maybe, or from a sharp impact. There's a trace of blood near the clothes on the floor. And Millander must have had time to do all this. It's possible he saw everything but was unable to move," Warrick agreed. He leaned over to look at the carpet a little closer. "I'll get a close up on this. If Grissom was facing the way of his clothes then he was struck from behind. Look... the spatter direction."

"Get shots of that," Nick agreed, looking at the glass for a moment before he bagged it. Could be DNA on it. Anything at that point could help, anything. "We'll need to get the mattress back to the lab, sweep it for trace, but we need just samples of anything on it for the moment..."

"It's going to be a long night. We need to get some of this back to Greg for testing. You want me to head back with some or..." Warrick trailed off even as he placed a marker and snapped another picture.

There was no teasing, ribbing him about his new promotion over this one. This time it was almost as if Warrick was glad he hadn't made CSI three and didn't envy him being lead on this at all.

"Yeah," Nick finally sighed. "Yeah. Then come back. I might be done by then, and you can take it all back. Then I'll swing by Desert Palms..." See how Grissom was doing, and maybe someone would call to tell him before hand. "See how Sara's doing downstairs, all right?"

"Got it," Warrick replied collecting the evidence bags. "You reckon Brass has let everyone know?"

"Probably. Think he might still be around, or?" Nick shifted away from the table, making note of everything before he passed it back to Warrick to take to the lab.

"I don't know. He's probably right; they might have problems with him working it if it isn't a homicide. And you know, on that basis, I hope he isn't working it." Warrick replied. "They might still be doing statements."

"Maybe. Good luck, man, and I'll see you when you get back?" Nick had an idea of where to start. He'd start to print, dusting bathrooms, surfaces. Sara loved to dust bathrooms, but Sara didn't need to be up there just then. It was pretty obvious that she had a thing for Gris, maybe a requited thing. Who knew? Nick wasn't going to ask questions as long as there wasn't any funny favoritism going on.

"See you then," And Warrick left leaving him alone with the crime scene and his thoughts.

It was harder just to deal on his own. It was harder not to imagine what might have happened, what might have been said or done. There were doubles and triples in the offing, he knew that and welcomed it, knowing he wouldn't sleep. Not knowing it was Grissom.

Not knowing that there was a madman out there who'd managed to outsmart Grissom, and that while they couldn't do anything directly for Griss, they could bring the guy to justice.

That was all they could ever really do for the victims, and it didn't feel like enough for Nick just then.

She'd listened numbly as they told her the extent of the injuries and how close he'd come to dying. She supposed she should be grateful for the fact that if she hadn't started moving before she had proof, and that she and Brass hadn't been on the way there before Millander or whoever called, Grissom would have bled to death.

Some faint comfort, but she was exhausted from waiting. Hoping, praying to the fickle ears of fate for Grissom to survive. And now... it seemed barring infection, he would. He was stable, and she had been allowed in to sit with him.

Stable didn't mean conscious, so it was a silent room that she shared with him, the faint beep of a heart monitor with accompanying line on the screen plucking up and down, up and down, at regular, steady intervals. The blood transfusion he'd had had seemed to help, but he was a man made of tubes for the moment. Oxygen going to his nose so he'd have the right mix, saline going into his blood, a tap for painkillers put into his other hand. His chest was a swath of bandages, and they were already starting to soak up seepage from what Catherine could see. She knew he had a catheter and a temporary colostomy. Or something like that, to bypass damaged tissue. She'd phased out a little when they'd explained that, how it was a necessity due to prior intestinal damage and the whole system being not quite perfect to begin with.

She'd never known that. She thought Gil was careful with what he ate, choosing the healthy option because he was that bit older. She had managed to get them to bag his effects with the minimum of contamination and then she stopped being the CSI and become the friend who held his hand and tried to stop tears from spilling over when she looked at him.

It was her fault. Catherine had been there when he'd been upstairs, when he'd been tied down, and Millander or whoever it was had already raped him, and she'd thought that he'd been up there having a great time. A consensual time, albeit in bad taste. And there was no way to make up for her mistake, for missing the clues that Gil had left or tried to leave for her.

Too little too late and it was one thing if she paid the price and quite another if he did. She'd always wished that maybe whatever it was there was between them had become something else, but that had been before she knew that Gil's preferences were... eclectic. What they had was complex, deeper than any one thing. She felt privileged that he allowed her that close. She had only seen him like that with one other person: Brass.

She could see the start of it with others. Like he was allowing himself to be friends. She just hadn't given him a choice. She'd practically forced her way into his life and now, for once, she had held back and it had been exactly the wrong thing to do.

She stroked his hand softly, murmuring,"Sorry, Gil," for about the thousandth time.

It wouldn't fix anything, but there was a prevailing theory that the ill could hear people despite being asleep. Maybe he'd hear her through the drugs and anesthesia from the surgery. Maybe it didn't matter, because she was going to keep saying sorry even if he'd had his eardrums punctured. She'd find a way to make it right again. As long as Gil was alive, she'd do whatever she could to help him even if it was just sitting there, watching him and making sure he was all right. Safe, because that madman was still out there.

She wiped at her eyes momentarily and briefly smoothed his stray graying hair. It hadn't sounded anything like Millander. She'd spoken to him, but he had been carrying the smell of sex so it had to be unless that had been consensual and then something else had happened. It was a thought she toyed with and there was a part of her that wanted to seize on that as a possibility if only because it would ease her conscience. Millander wasn't the killer, and he and Gil had been socializing when the real killer tracked them down.

But her gut didn't feel that. Her gut felt it was her fault and would not be moved. So neither would she, not until Gil was safe.

Safe, out of the window of time when stable could slip back to critical with ease, until he didn't have all of his bodily functions attached to bags and tubes, until he could get up and tell them what had happened himself. And if he never got up, then she'd...

Catherine didn't know what she'd do.

She didn't have time to contemplate that horrible possibility, that what had happened could leave Gil permanently disabled, that they didn't know what had been done, not exactly, because there was a knock on the door before a nurse opened it and leaned in. "Ms. Willows?"

"Yes?" She'd had to leave a couple of time while they put in various feeds and tubes. "You want me to leave a moment?"

"No." She stepped in, and closed the door behind her. "There's a man out there who says that he's Mr. Grissom's partner. A Mr. Brass. I wondered if you wanted to add him to the approved visitors list, or whether you wanted me to turn him away."

She could feel herself raising her eyebrows at the word partner, but nodded. "Jim, yes... put him on, please. I wasn't sure when he'd be able to get here. He was the first person I called."

Not a word of a lie any of it. Perhaps if he were here, she could let a few other people know who needed to know.

Go out, make calls, and get her head together a little more. She needed a cup of coffee if she was going to stay there much longer, and she was going to need to make a statement at some point about her earlier visit there. The nurse smiled at her, and backtracked, heading out of the door again, so that Catherine was left there with Gil and her thoughts.

Gil hadn't even twitched at the conversation, short as it'd been. She could probably blast rock music and he'd keep sleeping.

He always managed to ignore Greg's music, up to a point at least. The lab was going to be devastated and her thoughts were going random with upset and anxiety. She could hear footsteps coming down the corridor and looked up through the glass windows to see Brass talking to the nurse as he approached.

If anyone would lie to try to get in to see Gil, it was Jim. He'd never been afraid to pull strings if he had to get something done, never afraid to flash his badge around. While it pissed her off some days the way that cops did that, some days... some days it was really handy. They were part of the department, and one of the city's own, and because of that, she knew the kind of attention Gil's case was going to be getting, both from the police and the media.

She hoped Nick, Sara and Warrick had things under control because when it went public the shit was going to hit the fan. She had to admit, Jim looked the part of a frantically worried partner trying to keep it together.

"Jim..." she said as they stepped in the door and then found herself unable to continue.

"If you need anything," the nurse told them both, standing and holding the door open for a moment more,"just hit the call button there to the side."

And Jim had barely had time to step inside before she closed the door, leaving them there in an awkward silence. Jim was looking at the bed, looking at Gil the way that Catherine knew she'd looked at him when she'd come in. Shock and sick-feeling, trying to crush it down, trying to keep herself in one piece.

"Jim, why don't you... sit down."

"Hey, Cath..." Jim stepped forward. "How... How is he? And how're you doing?" She noticed his eyes kept being drawn back to Grissom's face.

There wasn't any point in saying how she was doing. He was only asking out of politeness, and Catherine couldn't help following Jim's gaze. Gil looked so much older when he wasn't animated, when he wasn't smiling and grinning and making bad, horrible jokes and chasing after a new case like a kid in a toy store. "He's... stable. If he doesn't come down with an infection, they... they think he'll pull through."

She watched some of the tension drain out of the other man as he nodded. "That's good right? All he needs is a fighting chance. He's too damn stubborn to give up on us."

Brass moved over towards the bed and pulled up a chair on the opposite side of Grissom, so he could look at him and at her at the same time without being too rude. He had no self-consciousness in taking his other hand almost possessively and Catherine started to wonder how exactly she could have missed what she was seeing right now.

Maybe he'd meant it when he'd said he was Gil's partner. Maybe he hadn't been lying at all, but she would've liked to have been in on the knowledge and...

And she'd jumped to enough conclusions for one day that she wasn't going to say it. She leaned back in her chair, watching him watch Gil. "Did you know he's had intestinal damage before? I didn't. The doctors said it could pose a problem."

"I knew he had scars..." Jim looked at her. "But not why. He's never said much about before Vegas. How much of a problem?"

He sounded worried, if a person knew enough about him to notice. It was more support to her theory. How else would he know about scars?

Catherine shrugged, trying to remember what the doctor had said. "He was more prone to infections and tissue problems, so they've..." Colostomy, but she didn't want to say it. "Put a bag on him. They're going to do a skin graft for part of his chest, to fill in a hole..."

Jim nodded. "It's... is it a reversible one?" he asked looking at her hopefully.

She managed a nod. "Just temporary, until he's had some time to heal. The damage was... bad, but not so bad that if he hadn't had whatever happened previously he wouldn't have needed it. So..." So, there was hope that he'd be all right. Nothing permanent, just physical scars. As if scars were just nothing.

Jim nodded, making it obvious that scars were neither here nor there for him. "I've told the sheriff. He wasn't happy but night shift has the case. He'll need you there," he said glancing at her a moment catching her eye. "Can you do that, Cath?"

It should have been an easy question.

Yes or no, as simple as that. Except it was Grissom, who'd found out all of the dirty parts of her past and didn't care, didn't lord them over her like Eddie did when he wanted to piss her off and push her buttons. When Gil wanted to push Catherine's buttons, he flirted a little. And it worked, every time, because hey, if Eddie was going to suggest she had an affair with Gil, she might as well have. "I..." She owed him as much for her mistake, too. Catherine couldn't turn back the wheels of time and take back what she'd missed happening.

But she could find the man who'd done it, and with Gil out of commission, she was next in seniority. "I can do that."

Brass nodded. "He's not happy with me on the case... officially, unless..."

He didn't have to say"Unless it becomes a homicide." She could hear the unspoken words clearly.

"So, I thought I could take some vacation time and be here." He looked at Grissom again and she had to admit, there didn't seem any way she was going to move him. Jim always came across as reassuringly real and solid, but that solidity could make him as unmoving as a brick wall.

If the rest of them were working the case, it wasn't as if they'd have much time to stop by and see how Gil was doing. It... made sense, even if it worried at Catherine a little. That maybe there'd been something going on that she never knew. Not that it mattered, but... "Jim? You're a good man."

He smiled a little. "You're only saying that because you've never processed my house as a crime scene." He looked back at Grissom. "Take a break, Cath. You need to, and you need to do the statement. This case is going to start stinking all the way up the chain. If you ask me, we'll be lucky if the Feds don't decide this is a career case and move in. Gotta be tight on it."

Grissom wasn't supposed to be anyone's career case. Catherine nodded, and then looked at Jim's fingers clutching onto Gil's hand. Gil didn't even twitch in his sleep, a deep thick slumber that was probably already keeping nightmares at bay. "Call me if anything, and I mean anything, changes. I need to... add the others to the approved visitor list."

"You do that, Cath. I ain't going anywhere," he replied. "Gil isn't going to wake up alone."

And it probably wasn't going to be her there. "Good. I... I'm going to call Nick, and have him come by to... document what happened." She would've done it herself if she'd had her kit, but she didn't. She wanted to do it herself, but once she got back to the scene via taxi, it'd be just in time to start presiding over the strings of the case.

Besides, she had the photos she'd taken at the scene when it had just happened.

"Nicky's a good CSI," Jim agreed as if she had been consulting him. "He'll do it right. If he wakes, I'll tell him you were here and got called away, okay?"

"Please. And then call me." Catherine only stood up reluctantly, eyeing them both. She still had her camera, case and all, and she held tight to it. "Don't forget to rest, Jim."

"Me?" He looked up at her guilessly and she just knew for all the innocence in his tone the odds of him resting until Gil woke up were remote. "Promise I will."

"Sure." She managed to scoff that, even as she turned towards the door. Gil would probably still be asleep whenever she managed to get back; she hoped he'd be because the pain... Some things were just easier to sleep through.

~~~~~

If merely willing someone to wake up or live worked, Jim was confident that Gil would've been bouncing off the ceilings, and as hopped up as if he had swallowed down the lab's supply of coffee raw. But he was still laying there and even when he talked, there was no change in the traces on the monitors, no indication in anything that Gil was in there and listening. But his hands were warm. That was a good thing, when the hands were warm. Meant blood was visiting where it should and there was enough of it.

He knew he was talking randomly but Gil was used to that. He did it all the time. He was pretty sure that the important thing was to talk.

Jim had never really had to do a bedside vigil before. He'd almost missed Ellie's birth, but he'd made it in time. Just barely, just soon enough to catch the start of it, to see her enter the world. Other than that, hospitals were good for getting an update on a victim's condition, waiting for that comatose attack victim to turn into a case ready for homicide, looking for a stupid perp who thought that they never checked hospitals for certain kinds of injuries. Drive-bys and hit and runs and break-ins all had injuries.

He'd never appreciated how time could warp and twist while you sat there. Every moment feeling like forever, and then turning around and finding fifteen minutes had passed in the blink of an eye.

"You don't want Cath getting too comfortable in your seat. Gil. I mean, she might show you up. At least on the paper work. We need you around because those piles are legendary. We say that in homicide, you know? I maybe behind but I'm not CSI. Not that I wanted to leave but..."

He'd had no choice.

"I did it to myself. It's like herding cats, isn't it? I have to admit my style is more suited to the street. You were right about that. Slipped back into it like a pair of old gloves."

He had no idea why he was saying this. Gil wouldn't remember.

It didn't matter, though. There was something to fill the silence, the faint noise of the heart monitor. Jim hadn't expected that to be there in the room -- after all, it wasn't like Gil had a heart attack. He'd just had a... everything else attack. An everything else attack that compounded some previous injury that Gil had suffered.

Jim could just hope that it hadn't been like this one. Not that he talked about his past often, either.

Somehow they'd both avoided that. It came as a shock to realize that he hadn't told him about Ellie. About how he'd come to be in Vegas. Maybe that was why they had gotten on so well. After all, he hadn't asked what he had been doing before Vegas. He only knew a very little gleaned from snippets and more about his early childhood than his intervening years.

So, one of those intervening years had done some damage to his insides, but it didn't seem as formative as Gil's earlier years, his riding around the beach on a bike looking for road-kill to pick apart. And he'd been a coroner at some point, and he'd been to schools all over the place. Gil had gone ice-fishing once, up north, and they could at least share knowledge of cold and snow and hard winters that most of Vegas wouldn't understand.

But other than that, what did he know about Gil?

Not enough. Just as he'd always been afraid that Gil would look at him and realize he was someone different. A guy couldn't be a cop that blew the whistle without feeling an obscure sense of shame. It was strange but there it was. Truth was, he'd never opened up himself so why would Gil? He knew there were scars on Gil's stomach. He'd assumed car accident and moved on. That was the sensible assumption, right?

Right. And maybe that was all it was. Car accident. Gil had a predilection towards big vehicles, tanks that were street-legal. When he'd first come to Vegas, Gil had had a big Dodge truck, a 1989 Ram that he drove until it ended up totaled when some drunk drove through a red light in '96. But there was no question that the vehicle, slightly overkill for one guy, had saved his life. He'd limped around the lab for a week or two, but hey. No long-term problems and he'd immediately gotten another big vehicle.

Car accident seemed so logical.

But Jim had a hunch, and he didn't know what to do with it.

He was starting to wonder what it was about that blood soaked scene that niggled at his mind. How the cuts in Gil's skin were smooth and curved and... similar to a line he had traced when they were both worse for drink. A line he had crossed and never been entirely sure if Gil had agreed to it or not.

Gil had been drunk out of his mind, and Jim had been... somewhat more sober. He'd driven, drunk, from the bar, and he'd parked his car on his front lawn. There was still a rut that he never filled in, and the grass had grown back. And they'd somehow made it to bed, and...

And. And, they hadn't really talked about it. That morning his head had been killing him, and Gil had already been dressed and drinking water and taking Tylenol when Jim had pulled himself out of the thick of things. It was like nothing had ever happened.

A momentary aberration in their friendship, best swept under the carpet. Only when the headache had gone, he remembered it had been good. In some ways, he wished it hadn't been so he could just completely forget but the memory stayed there, locked away and protected even as they both moved on, never acting on it, just moving on and staying friends.

They'd been friends before, so... So it wasn't even moving on. It was just being, because whatever relationship they had, boss and his field officer, was more important than anything that was still pretty racy and unsocially acceptable at the time. Eight or nine years made a hell of a lot of difference in public perception.

Now there wasn't even the work problem to deal with. Not since his screw up with Holly. He hadn't fought any of it because it was his responsibility. His team's safety always had been. They'd had some close calls but never a death.

How could he be sitting here thinking about this when Gil was so hurt?

"When you get better, Gil, we'll go to that weird restaurant you like and I'll even spring for the lobster we couldn't afford last time. I'll be broke but hey, that's not going to stop us, is it? Knowing you, you'd go and watch it being done. I'd invite the others, but I'd have to mortgage the house again or something."

And he kinda liked the place. It was small and kind of junky, but Gil lived in a small and kind of junky apartment, so it wasn't like Gil'd joke him for liking the dump.

There was a knock on the door, and then it started to crack open. It made Jim's head jerk, but it was just Nick leaning in. "Hey. I thought I heard talking..."

Jim sat back a little, not letting go of Gil's hand. "Yeah, well it's the only time I'll get a word in edgeways. Come on in. If you manage to wake him up, I'll take that as a good thing."

"I'm here to, uh." Nick managed a tight look that should've been a smile but ended up a frown. He liked Nick. There was something open and honest about him. The kid followed hunches, and one day he'd probably pass all of them in success. And he'd deserve it. "You know. How is he?"

"He's stable. So they tell me. Cath was here for best part of the shift, I sent her back." He looked at Nick and then back at Grissom. "She said she would ask you to come process. I think if she'd had her kit she would have done it herself. Mind if I stay?"

"Nah." Never mind that Nick probably did mind. He didn't say as much, but doing things like that to a living person was easier, less embarrassing when no one was watching. When it wasn't a friend that they were doing it to. "You might have to move for the photos. You want to pull the sheets down and I'll get the camera out?"

"Sure." It was the last thing he wanted to do but it needed to be done. He shifted forward and pulled the sheets. It shouldn't look so grim with it stitched but it almost looked worse. He knew there was a shape in the injuries. "He's hanging in there Nick. He'd expect us ... you to do this."

"Yeah." Yeah, but Nick still fidgeted with his lenscap and closed his eyes for a moment. He was stalling, gathering himself together before he started to take pictures, flash on, illuminating the crests and falls of puckered stitching, the knotted off black threads that followed most of the deep lines on Gil's chest. There were bandages here and there over the deeper ones, but Jim understood the theory to leaving the rest in the open, to leaving Gil in a put-on-backwards hospital gown. Airing out the lighter wounds, ease of access.

Nick moved to the side to take a quick snapshot of the damage done beside Gil's right eye, the swollen, ripped skin surrounded by bruising.

He blinked every time the flash went off. "There a shape to it," he murmured as Nick took pictures. "This was a deliberate pattern of cuts." He remembered his days with CSI even if he had been more management than on the ground.

"It'd be better if it wasn't a pattern," Nick murmured, taking another picture of the damage to Gil's face before he stepped back, setting the camera back into his kit. Jim didn't have to watch him to recognize the sound of a man putting on latex gloves. "I'll blow it up when I get to the lab, follow the lines, see what it might be." Swollen and stitched as it was just then, it was hard to tell right away, but when it healed, if Gil healed...

He'd be stuck with whatever the fuck it was carved on his chest, right down to his hips, right down to the faint white scar he already had.

"Catherine had his clothes bagged up already. Not sure if they've gone back to the lab already or not." He hadn't bothered to ask. He watched Nick for a moment, trying to get a feel for how he was doing.

"I took them back when she came on scene. Then I came over here." Pretty straight forwards retelling, while Nick took too long looking for the swabs. "Doesn't look like there's going to be much evidence on him. They must've cleaned him up before they fixed him up." He was bandaged wrist and ankle, and Jim could tell Nick was distracted. He'd forgotten to remove the bandages and photograph them, but he seemed to realize it at the same time. Put the swabs down, picked up his camera again. They'd need to see what the friction damage looked like to match it to the type of rope on scene. To see if he'd been restrained in different ways, different positions.

Some days, Jim wished he hadn't picked up so damn much from the CSIs.

"I uh... I cut the ropes Nicky, at the scene," he said even as he watched Nick take the picture. "It was expertly done. Even I could tell that."

Like he was a dumb cop who didn't understand what they were doing. A habit he used over and over that amused and irritated the hell out of Grissom.

He just wanted him to wake up

"Yeah. Looks like he used a few loops." Harder to get out of. Nick photographed each one, and then pulled up the sheet at the end of the bed to photograph the marks around Gil's ankles, before hastily trying to bandage him back up. The medical tape was still sticky, so it worked, and Jim would make sure that he mentioned it to a nurse if anyone came in to change dressings.

"You okay, Nick?" he asked after a momentary pause. He was used being reliable Brass, the one who held together while everyone else fell apart. He could do that for a bit longer.

"Yeah." Nick swallowed, and didn't look like he believed his own words. "Yeah. I just... Didn't see any trace in the wounds. Is all." He was picking up the swabs again. Two of them, so mouth and... Oh.

"I'll uh... just step over here, unless you need some help?" Jim offered. Taking swabs of the more personal areas of the body was hard enough without being watched. Unless Nick wanted help. "I've done a few swabs in my time."

A statement that seemed really wrong in light of his past with Gil, but Nick didn't know.

"No, that's okay. I've got it under control." Nick leaned in to swab Gil's mouth first, using one gloved hand to open his mouth.

"I keep expecting him to wake up and critique how you're doing that," Jim said. As long as he didn't wake and critique the other sampling process. That might be a little much.

"Yeah. I kind of keep hoping this is some over-extended test of our evidence collection," Nick murmured, closing the Mouth swab. He closed Gil's mouth, and there was enough muscle tension to keep it mostly closed.

That had to be a good sign. If there was muscle tension, that meant he wasn't completely unresponsive. Jim stepped forwards towards Gil's head and said. "They did a temporary colostomy on him. There was internal damage Nick. Just thought you should know."

Before he tried to swab inside to something that just wasn't there at the moment.

Nick held that swab for a moment, and then glanced over at Jim. "Oh. Oh, then... never mind. I mean, if they, uh... Clean stuff up to operate on it." That meant an end to evidence, but it also meant that Nick's gesture of pulling the sheets back up was tinged with more than a little relief. It was bad enough to see his boss's privates, but to be moving them and swabbing around them was a different level of embarrassment.

"Yeah. They do don't they?" Jim replied as if the thought hadn't occurred to him. "So you guys all pulling doubles?"

"Yeah. Greg's even pulling one. He has stuff to process, but needs this as an exemplar." The mouth swab that Nick held up, before he tossed the un-used one back to the kit, and started to write on the box for the mouth swab. "Anything else I should know? I... It was hard to guess what his injuries would be from the scene."

"There a hit to the back of the head, to his face there. Rope injuries to wrist and ankles, internal damaged that resulted in the temporary colostomy. He had stomach problems from before, and then the knife wounds to his chest and stomach. That about covers it." Jim couldn't stop a grimace at that repetition of facts.

"Right. Could you help me turn him onto his side, or turn his head and hold it? I need to get a shot of that hit to the back of his head," Nick decided, reaching for his camera again.

"Sure thing, Nick," Jim said and very gently turned Gil's head, taking care not to detach any of the tubes. His skin was warm against his fingers, and he stopped himself from stroking gently by force of will. "That good enough?"

"Yeah." The room fell quiet, except for the click click of Nick's camera, getting a shot of the still slightly bloody knot at the back of Gil's head. Scalp wounds were messy by nature, and usually seemed worse than they actually were. Except when they were worse than they were. "Thanks. I should probably go..."

"I told Cath I'd call the minute there was any change. I'm not leaving him alone, Nick," he said and then quirked a twist of a smile. "I'm not going to chuck you out either if you wanna stay. I know you've got a lot going on, and I'm pretty much off of it as far as the sheriff is concerned."

'Yeah, well. You understand that none of us want you to be working the case, because then it'd be... a whole different kind of case than it is right now," Nick shrugged, looking at Gil while Jim resettled him lying on his back. "Let us know what happens, all right? I'll... be back later. Greg needs this sample."

Jim nodded. "Keep an eye on Catherine, will you? When you get back. I'll owe you one for that." Least he could do for Grissom was take care of his team while he was lying down on the job.

So to speak. Lying down as the job?

Nick gave another nod, gathering his kit up slowly, standing and sorting it, as if the longer he delayed, it might make Gil magically wake up. It didn't, but Jim couldn't fault the kid for it. He finally locked his kit, and gave Jim one last tight nod before he headed for the door.

He didn't point out that Nick had done a good job -- he knew he had. He knew that the analysis time on this would be nothing short of phenomenal. He had no doubt Sanders would be bouncing around the lab propelled by huge amounts of caffeine processing at rates that defied description. He knew Warrick, Nick, Sara and Catherine would have this sewn up. It said a lot about a person that they could create a team where that assumption could be made. Even if Gil would kick his ass for assuming.

He sat back down after Nick had gone, taking Grissom's hand again and preparing to re-enter the strange zone of hospital time once again. He'd forgotten to ask for them to keep him in the loop. He had no right to ask, but he hoped they would.

Worst case scenario, he could ask. He could ask them, could pry and pull at them when they came in about how the case was going.

And maybe the next time someone dropped by, Gil might even be awake.

Perhaps it was the fact she had been up over twenty-four hours, or maybe Grissom made sure he could have a comfortable couch for those too many triples he pulled, but when Catherine almost literally grabbed hold of Greg, told him to prioritize their samples to the top of the list and page her when the results were through, when she did make it to lying on the couch, it could've been the most comfortable bed in the world.

Seconds later, or so it seemed, she was filled with a need to murder the pager that she had put near her head. No where near enough sleep, but enough to function.

She could function. She had to keep functioning, because someone had to put the pieces together and find a way to catch the people who'd done that to Gil. Even if it meant levering herself out of the most comfortable, soft leather sofa she'd ever stretched out on. There was a slightly suspicious Gil-shaped dent, so she guessed he did use it to maintain that constant presence he had in the lab.

Catherine hit her pager off, and flung herself to her feet and out into the hallway to get to Greg's lab.

She probably looked like hell as she made her way down the corridor. Certainly people seemed to be avoiding her for some reason. "Tell me what you've got, Greg," she demanded. "And make it good."

"Okay. We've got two DNA donors. The hair that came from Grissom's clothes came back female. The epithelials on Grissom's ropes comes back female." He handed her a sheet for each. "With a high androgynous testosterone content in the hair. The semen comes back to one William Graham."

"So we've got a female. And William Graham present on scene. And maybe Millander as well if Graham isn't an alias. It's possible." Catherine studied the sheets for a moment. "Problem is... I've been caught by this sort of evidence once before. What's the deal with the androgynous testosterone?"

"Well, you take it. Well, not me. Women take it," Greg grinned. "To pump themselves up."

"Sure you don't need some, Greggo?" Catherine teased lightly as she pinched at his arm. "So... what? Xena warrior princess? Should we looking for female wrestlers or something?"

"Yeah, or someone from the Russian swim team? But I bet she's with that Graham guy," Greg said with a nod. "Have a party with that, I have more to process, Catherine."

"Good work, Greg. This Mr. Graham and I are going to become very well acquainted as quickly as possible," she said as she turned to leave the lab. "And when I catch up with him, he'll wish he'd never been born." Graham, Millander. Their serial suicide killer -- who knew how many aliases the man had, how many times he was registered with the police. Maybe they'd taken the DNA sample from him under one name, the prints under another.

"I'll wait for Nick to get in with Grissom's exemplar before I process the knife and other trace," Greg added, already turning back to his work area. "In the mean time, Warrick asked me to try and identify some trace. The foods and stuff. Sara's looking at the ropes or something."

"Good. Keep up the good work, Greg. We'll break this case soon." It was a lie. She didn't know one way or the other, but she could hope. She could hope, and she turned away from Greg to head out into the hallway. "If you need me, I'll be in Grissom's office."

She didn't wait for a response and was already mulling through the options as she moved back to the computer there. Still no call from Brass. No news being good news she guessed. So William Graham, most likely another Paul Millander alias, and some unknown female accomplice. Maybe....maybe the female accomplice had lured Grissom up there. She could see him abandoning caution if he thought someone was in danger.

If William Graham was in the system, then there would be information on him so that was the first stop. Find out what he had been tagged for before. Get a picture of things, maybe associates, places he might run.

She sat down at the computer.

If he'd given a DNA sample, then they'd taken it for a reason -- either to exempt himself from a crime or to prove him for it. They didn't take DNA samples from people for the hell of it, or else they'd all have a sample in the system as an exemplar.

But she hadn't even had time to wait for Gil's computer to boot up when she realized something by looking around to his bookshelf. One of the sideways names on the spine of one text was William Graham.

What were the odds of it being the same guy? This William Graham had written one of Grissom's well thumbed reference books. In the Mind of the Murderer -- Case Studies Of Forensic Psychology.

Strange, not what she would call Grissom's preferred reading, though she remembered doing an assignment on that book when she was studying to be a CSI. Graham was a 'Name' in criminalistics. The book was a long time old and still the leading text for profiling.

And if it was that William Graham then it gave a whole new dimension to the case. Couldn't be him, though, even if her eyes did start to wander the bookshelves. Gil loved books, and that reminded her to bring him some so he could read in the hospital when he woke up. When, not if.

Two Graham books were on the shelves, now that she'd noticed. The other was plainly titled Monograph On Dating Time Of Death By Insect Activity, and beside it was one of the books she knew that Gil had written -- Revisions For The Standard Monograph On Dating Time Of Death By Insect Activity.

The computer had booted up by then and she sat down after pulling out the book and putting them on the desk. Okay, now to pull up the hit from Codis.

She typed in the information and then waited and stared. She looked at the book, then back at the screen. And as no one was there she indulged in some private swearing.

"Fuck me. It is the same guy."

No pictures of the man, but the notes that went with the record said it all. He'd been brought in for questioning about some case that the FBI didn't divulge in their file in 1991. In Los Angeles, where he'd been charged and then had charges dropped for assault after he'd spit on an agent. The spit had apparently been used to exonerate him for something. Catherine could only guess, but the man wasn't stable as she started to learn looking over career histories online in odd places. No telling how much of it was reliable, but there were certain facts she knew she could verify with the FBI if she needed to.

But he was the author whose monograph Gil had modified. William Graham was the man who'd caught Hannibal Lecter as a FBI consultant.

Not ever an Agent, and that was key. He was a member of the Bureau, but as a Special Investigator that was given his credentials on a short leash for specific cases. He taught at Quantico between those bursts of activity, which took no small amount of intelligence to do. Gil would give his eye teeth to teach there if he didn't detest the feds the way he did -- and maybe he still would give his eye teeth to teach there after what had just happened to him.

Ah. This was telling. A short stay in an institution as a result of the Lecter case. They all knew about Lecter. The man was notorious. Notorious for what he did, and for getting away.

He was the same age as Millander as well and had the right sort of background to be able to pull off the crimes he had committed. And there weren't that many entomologists working with forensics. Chances were he and Gil were acquainted at the least, which might be why Gil had gone up there unsuspecting.

It was someone he knew, someone he recognized as a colleague and perhaps trusted. She remembered that he'd said he'd asked permission to write the revision, but that had been years ago. Sometimes people changed their mind.

In the context of the case, it was starting to make sense. Graham had dropped off of the face of the earth years ago, almost a couple of decades ago, after he'd dropped out of working for the FBI. For all they knew, there were murder-suicide cases across the country, or other creative crimes that he was linked to.

She glanced at In the Mind of the Murderer, and wondered if his subject matter had finally taken hold of him. She was still at a loss to whom the woman had been on the scene. Maybe there was a woman connected with Graham. There was something there about an FBI agent, female who seemed connect to Lecter. There was no way to get away from the Lecter connection and idly she clicked through as she juggled the pieces in her head, to refresh her memory about him. And then sat bolt upright as the details came flooding back.

Details that she hadn't noticed at the scene -- not really. There had been a table set up for dinner, but Nick had said it was plated human flesh. Gil's skin, plopped right in the middle, blood serving for a sauce. Even if it was just Graham copy-catting the madman he'd helped to capture, it was a disturbing twist to remember, and now she reached for the folder of the over-alls that Warrick had shot and had developed.

"Fava beans. Chianti." She murmured aloud to herself. She'd bet next month's pay that the greens and wine would be identified like that. Had he tried to eat Gil? Damn him.

There was no way the Feds weren't going to get involved in this. Not with Lecter's MO plastered all over the case and an apparent link through Graham. There were probably a hundred and one alerts going off just from her accessing the page. If she called them, maybe she could keep a semblance of control.

Keep the case from being ripped from their hands. The mere fact that Graham had come up as a hit in a crime would get them going, but if she could keep ahead of them, look for possible properties linked to the man...

"Cath? Cath!"

It took her a moment to look up and see Warrick in the door. "You ever surfacing? Greg's running the exemplar and the knife. Nick's been back a while. Should have some more pieces soon."

She sat back, and crossed her legs at the knee again, left over right instead of right over left. "Good. Good. Anything else?"

"Well I brought you a coffee. Nothing from Brass yet," Warrick said putting it down in front of her. "How've you been getting on?"

"I..." She exhaled, and uncrossed her legs, leaning forwards to snag that coffee once she'd put the overall shots back. "I think we're going to have the FBI breathing down our necks if they hear about this case. Did Greg tell you the name of the Codis hit?"

"Yeah. William Graham. Sounds familiar," Warrick said. "Damn, Feds, huh?

"He was an FBI Special investigator. He captured Hannibal Lecter, and..." She gestured to Gil's bookshelf, watching Warrick's face. "Gil wrote a revision of one of his academic texts. Apparently Mr. Graham has a history of dancing the light fantastic with sanity."

"And you're thinking Graham and Millander are one and the same right?" Warrick leaned forward. "Man, I remember Lecter. He gets pulled out for every serial murderer lecture we've ever had."

"Ever," Catherine agreed. "And according to the files I could get to, Graham was wounded pretty badly by Lecter. He tried to gut him, and Graham never went back to the FBI." Sometimes a trauma broke a man, and if he'd already been on the edge, not quite fit to be a full agent...

It wasn't any wonder that he had the kind of identity problems that the MO of his crimes seemed to speak of.

"I can see that." Warrick nodded even as both their pagers went off in unison. "Greg. He must have something."

Something in the trace. Maybe, maybe it would be a case-breaker, except that if they knew who they were looking for, and he was known for being elusive even when he wasn't on the lamb, Catherine didn't know how the PD would find him. She nodded, and stood up, taking her coffee with her. "Great. Thanks for the coffee, Warrick. Looks like we haven't run out of steam just yet."

Warrick nodded and headed off down the corridor, seeing Nick come out ahead of them and Sara from further down in one of the lab work rooms. Looked like he had beeped everyone.

And when they got there, it looked like Greg was exceptionally worried and confused.

"I... am so confused," Greg started, looking at them all, Catherine in particular. "I mean, I know I'm not always let into the loop, but this is some crazy shit you guys are keeping from me."

"What is it, Greg?" Catherine asked. She really didn't have time for one of his presentations. "You paged all of us?"

"Yeah, well, I need to know for sure if Nick didn't do something weird when he took the exemplar swab," Greg shrugged, holding a couple of sheets of paper and looking at them in agitation. "Because I ran it against the other DNA we've had so far? And it's all Graham. It hits in Codis as Graham, but Nick said it was from Grissom -- I mean, the swab, the blood, the semen, it's all Graham all the time. I'm running it again."

"You must have made a mistake, Greg, 'cause that was definitely Grissom's swab I bagged up. I didn't have any other with me to get mixed up with it," Nick said. "You sure with all the stuff you've been putting through you didn't... ?"

"No, I'm dead, dead sure of it. Swab was the last thing I ran, and it's all coming back as William Graham. I have... no idea what's going on," Greg declared, sounding frustrated as he shoved the papers out at Catherine. "I test the blood on Codis; it comes back as William Graham. I test the semen against Codis, it comes back Graham. I test saliva on Codis, it comes back Graham, and all three match."

Which left one inescapable conclusion if they followed the evidence. Catherine looked at the papers and frowned. He was right. No mistake.

"Which means... Grissom is William Graham."

It caved in her theory. She'd just spent... two, three hours, maybe more fantasizing and theorizing how much the victim-perp-evidence triangle worked, how the location might work, and then she found out that the man she'd been painting up as a madman was Grissom.

Oh, god. It was crazy because the only other trace in the room was female and Millander wasn't a female...

She stopped again, trying to hunt down the spark her tired thoughts were chasing. "Greg you said the female hair was high in... endogenous hormones right?"

"Right."

"Millander could be a transsexual. That could be the piece we're missing."

"Graham is... Grissom?" Warrick repeated, looking at her sideways. "And our perp is a transsexual? I... Grissom tangled with Hannibal the Cannibal?"

Nick was frowning at Greg, probably still twisted up over the insult to his swabbing, and then he started,"Prior intestinal issues. Brass told me that Grissom was having complications from that, and there was this scar."

Gutted. Not a car accident, but gutted, and now that all made sense in a way that made Catherine feel dizzy. Maybe they could all just stand there for a few minutes in shock. A little recovery time before they followed up on the Millander angle and the trace.

"It makes some sort of sense," she said slowly even as Greg looked at her with a 'what now?' expression. She realized they must do that to Grissom a lot. They could do the jobs if they were just pointed in the right direction.

"We need to get a warrant to find an exemplar for Millander. Even a parental match would tell us if the XX is him... her..." She cast out in a tone that asked for volunteers.

Sara was still standing there in silence, but she was the first to not. "I'll do it. The police need to be notified that we're looking for him, and I'll start to see if he owned any other properties..."

"I'll, uh, go see what trace has gotten back from the table setting," Nick volunteered. That still left her and Greg and Warrick, but she could put Warrick to use.

"Warrick, I need you to find out all you can about the hire of that building, the car, anything that we picked up that might tie to something else," Catherine said. "Greg, test anything and everything you can. The full works. If there's a single print on anything, I want it found. I'm going to go speak to the FBI and... This guy who used to work with Graham... Grissom. The minute I do that, they'll be down on us like the wrath of god so I want no stone unturned. We can't wait to ask Grissom."

It didn't even occur to her that Grissom would lie if asked.

And he might. He might lie, at least lies of omission. Lying by not saying a thing at all, lying by not answering.

It was coming up on seven a.m., and that meant that the east coast was 10 a.m.. If she called, she could at least get kicked around their phone system for a while. Maybe even find something out, because she wasn't going to give Gil a chance to lie.

"Right, right. I'm on it," Warrick declared. He filed out of the room, and Greg was still staring at her.

"I'll uhm, catch up on backlog."

She nodded and paused a moment. "Good work, Greg," she said and headed off thoughtfully towards Gil's office, completely unaware of how much she had sounded like Grissom throughout the entire discussion. Her thoughts were on looking up the name of that once partner from Lecter files and getting hold of him. That could be the way to bypass the crap in the system. And she was damn sure he knew about altered identities for all that she had never heard of him in Gil's life before.

It was probably just another lie of omission. She wouldn't let a friend of hers drop off of the face of the earth. She'd at least know where they were, even if someone didn't want her in their life any longer.

Catherine settled into Gil's chair, and closed her eyes for a moment before she started to look through the files. It didn't take too long for her to find reference to a man named Jack Crawford, a faint bell twinging in her head.

That was the one, and still with the FBI. She pulled up phone numbers and called, chasing her way around offices in an ever encircling loop. She felt like she needed all her experience in investigation just to get the guy to pick up the damn phone but it was when she spoke the magic words that she had information regarding William Graham suddenly obstacles vanished. She waited impatiently as she was put through for what seemed like the hundredth time.

Finally she reached someone who claimed to be his secretary -- secretary? Gil didn't have a secretary -- and there was a lag before the phone was finally picked up again. ~Crawford.~

"Agent Jack Crawford? This is CSI Catherine Willows of Vegas, I need to talk to you urgently regarding William Graham," Catherine said, sitting back in the chair and hoping the guy was not a complete idiot.

There was a pause that pulled out over the line, and then, ~What's he got himself into this time?~

Catherine inhaled. Yeah, she could see why Gil had been willing to drop contact. "He's in critical condition following an abduction and attack from an apparent serial killer. Imagine my surprise when I run my boss's DNA and the name William Graham comes up. And not only that, but certain features of the crime seem to reflect previous cases he dealt with in his past."

~Are you calling as a friend of his, or a professional colleague, Mrs. Willows? What hospital is he in?~ She could hear the phone being shifted, juggled so he could probably get a pen.

"I'm calling as both. Copy cat or not, this has Lecter all over it and so far nothing to prove he wasn't there." Catherine resisted the urge to sigh. "Forgive me for thinking the FBI might care about a potential lead on the most notorious serial killer they let slip through their fingers. He's in Desert Palms."

~Mm. It isn't that I don't care. It's that I'm not a mind-reader about what serial killer you mean. Will's tangled with enough of them. Gil. Whatever the hell he's calling himself today.~

"Gil Grissom." That was who he was, who he really was, she was sure of that. She sighed a little. "Look, I'm sorry, it's been a long... three shifts, and Gil is a good friend to everyone here. I'm just giving you a heads up because the moment this hits the database, I'm sure it will flag up all sorts of alerts."

~It already has. As head of behavioral sciences, I'm notified when links to open cases are being pulled up by local law enforcement groups.~ Head of... head of behavioral sciences? That was farther than she would've expected him to get, the way she already felt his personality grating on her. ~Do you want to give me a heads up on the other details of the case? Or should I wait until I get there? We suspect Lecter is travelling with a female accomplice...~

"We've got female DNA all over that room, but we were suspecting a transgender serial killer who has been staging bathtub suicides for a while now. He was part of the inquiries, and Gil went over there after shift, I think to ask him to get some receipts together." Sara had found the box of receipts there. "Basically, we think whoever was there subdued Gil, tied him to the bed, assaulted him, and took a linoleum knife to his torso. A piece of flesh was excised and placed meticulously on a plate set with a salad and fava beans, and there was a half glass of Chianti there as well. There was a dessert that seems to be made out of human fecal matter. All DNA at the scene shows up as Gil's or as the unknown female. I have CSIs trying to tie up the Millander angle."

~Is Mr. Millander even still alive? We've been trying to get a hold of Lecter's DNA for years now, a print, anything. He leaves nothing. Go over that scene thoroughly, and I won't call in the Vegas FBI unit just yet. Analyze everything, even the shit.~

"We're on it," Catherine said. "Trust me, everything that can be analyzed. Problem is, Millander was like that as well. Only left what he wanted us to find. You think it could be Lecter?"

~It's possible. He corresponds with Will through the FBI a couple of times a year.~ She heard a sigh on the other end, and some typing sounds.

"Jesus." Catherine inhaled. "What the hell else don't I know? Anything that might help us?"

~Check Graham's house. There might be something in a letter that didn't make sense to us in this new context. I'll be there in Vegas later today. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Willows?~

"I'm sure that we'll talk in person," Catherine said and swallowed hoping she had done the right thing. "Call me at the lab. They'll find me if you need to pass on anything."

She had a key to Gil's house. She could go in there herself, do that.

Spare him any embarrassment, or as much as she could. He corresponded with a serial killer? It didn't sound like Gil, none of it sounded like Gil. Gil liked to race insects, Gil didn't write letters to a killer.

~All right. Thank you, Mrs. Willows.~ And then Jack Crawford hung up.

So much for getting any sleep at all. The best she would be able to manage was to have a coffee so black and strong it would probably be a toxin if run through trace, or test as a hard drug.

If she stopped she would crash, and there was no time for that now. She had until later that day before the Feds got involved. She just hoped that would be long enough

And if she obtained a warrant, it wouldn't quite feel like she was breaking and entering into a friend's home.

~~~~~

His fingers were warm.

Everything else was cold or hot, chilled or burning because... Because he wasn't sure why. He wasn't sure why everything was one extreme or another, why it felt like there was a knife going through his skull before he even started to crack an eye open. It told him something bad had happened, but the memories were thick and hazy, slipping away for the moment like whatever he'd been dreaming.

He thought he had been dreaming the voice but it was still there, still talking in a low familiar tone as warm and comforting as the warmth in his fingers.

"... then you said, I wasn't complaining there was a cockroach in my soup, I was hoping you could get me a jar to take it home in. I've never seen one do the backstroke. You remember that, Gil? I nearly choked on the pasta laughing so hard. I tell you what, we could skip the lobster place and go there when you get better, right? I mean, I can afford it, and it's more my sort of style. Sanders would call it grunge. Me? It's the sort of hard-boiled place a detective like me hangs out. Just... wake up soon will ya? I just..." The voice fell silent a moment.

He twitched his fingers, stretching them a little and testing his range of movement carefully. He could move, and it surprised him a little. He shouldn't have been surprised to move. Everyone moved, all of the time, except there was a phantom pain, a gritty ache in his wrist when he moved the other hand a little at the elbow. No ropes.

No ropes. He wasn't there anymore, he was somewhere safe. Jim was somewhere safe, instead of there with him.

"Hey....hey, Gil? You with me here?" Jim sounded close. "Can you hear me? Or was that just a random twitch? Come on, I'm doing a bedside vigil here; least you could do is come around dramatically. I've watched daytime TV, I know how it should go."

His right eye still hurt to open, and Gil could feel it watering when he finally managed to open it, his left eye sympathetically rebelling along with it. The light in the room was too bright, even with the blinds closed, and that made the wincing worse. Jim was close, but his eyes didn't focus just yet. His throat was dry, too, but he swallowed and managed to open his mouth a little. "Hey."

"Hey." Jim's voice was soft and gentle in contrast to the teasing tone he had been using. "Glad to see you could join me, Gil. You with me, Grissom? You want me to get the doctors?"

He sounded a little awestruck, and Gil didn't know why. He swallowed again, his dry mouth sore, and a moment of fuzzy exploring found stitches. Inside, why would they be inside except-- oh, the biting. The biting. Gil remembered that now, and closed his eyes again, tightly. "Wa'er?"

"Sure, Gil. I'll ask the nurse, okay? Just hold on." The warmth at his hand and fingers went away briefly as did the sense of someone being close. "They'll be coming in in a little. They said you can sip some. I've got a straw. Just don't move, okay, Gil? Here, the straw is here..."

The loss of Jim in the room, the sound of his voice the clearest sense Gil could manage, left him adrift, groggy and dazed until Jim's voice came back. It was enough to get him to try to open his eyes again, enough to catch sight of the straw. Moving his hands ached, but he managed to bring the one that Jim had been warming up to grip loosely over the glass, over top of Jim's hand. "Hurts t' move."

"I bet it does," Jim replied in that soft voice as if he was worried if he spoke to loudly Gil might break. "It's okay. I can get the straw where it needs to be. Here... that's it." Jim was determined to make it easy.

And he did. Gil could suck down a few mouthfuls of water before his mouth started to ache from the cold, and he lowered his head a fraction, letting go of the straw. Jim hardly backed up at all, probably ready to offer him the straw again. Gil's fingers clung loosely over Jim's wristwatch, and maybe that was what kept it there. He remembered that watch, the time Jim had gotten it stolen on a scene by a klepto; it was an old, worn watch, but now it was a point of pride that he keep it. There was a story to it, and that was all either of them had. Stories, memories, and Gil didn't want to reach back very far with his mind.

He needed a springboard in his mind to get past the last few hours? Days, maybe. Days. "How 'ng... 've I been here?"

"About a day and a half," Jim said softly. "We got you out of there as quick as we could." His fingers never left his own. "More water or enough?"

As quick as they could. As soon as they'd worked it out, and that made Gil close his eyes again. It wasn't their fault he'd walked into a trap. It wasn't their fault that he hadn't trusted his instinct. "More?"

"Sure, Gil," Jim replied and moved the straw to his lips again and then spoke as Gil took another sip. "I sent Catherine back. Well, it would have been home, but it was back to the lab. She was keeping this spot warm for a while. Nick's been in. The others are probably going to be turning up sometime whenever they come up for air. Everyone is really worried about you."

Gil lowered his head again, peering back at Jim. The idea that everyone was worried about him probably wasn't as far of a stretch of reality as Gil first wanted to guess it was. He could remember blood, so much damn blood, and that had been him looking at himself, not an observer with clear eyes looking at the same scene from a better situation.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Jim agreed bringing the glass down and absently stroking his hand. "Me on the other hand, not worried at all. Because you owe me twenty bucks and there's no way in hell I'm letting you die without getting that back." The attempt at a light tone was ruined by the fact that Brass had to clear his throat before and after saying it.

"n't happen," Gil managed to tell him, swallowing again. The water felt good, cold, and his throat a little less dry. It hadn't helped de-cloud his head, but he could string words together, little by little. "'u slept?"

"Once. About a year ago... no, maybe two," Jim answered putting on a thoughtful expression. "I was doing my sleeping vicariously."

Gil wanted to laugh, and he made a noise that might've been a chuckle. He wasn't sure. "Should rest. 'll rest, too."

"Okay, now I'm worried. I think I should call a doctor. Did you just say you would rest?" Jim asked with the sort of expression he usually reserved for really odd revelations.

"Yeah." Gil blinked slowly, and even nodded a little. His right eye still hurt, still barely opened, but it was something. "Don't... have to think when 're a... sleep."

"I know, Gil, but you won't be alone," Jim promised. "Unless you want to be."

He twitched his fingers again, clutching tightly. Gil probably could have explained that he hated waking up in a hospital room alone -- when everything hurt and the drugs were just there, hovering at the edge of his mind and distorting the line between memory and thought and reality -- but he didn't have to. "No."

'No' would suffice.

"Okay then. So I'll be around and then the guys are pretty much lining up to be with you," Jim said. "So you don't have to worry about someone not being here. They might toss us out on occasion, but we'll be around."

"Good." He managed another squeeze, and shifted in the bed, grimacing. Everything hurt, but hopefully it meant it was still there. Attached was better than phantom pain. "Kinda shape 'm I?"

He knew Jim would give him a straight answer.

"Well, you're alive. Apparently you lost a lot of blood and that was the highest risk for a while. You're gonna have scars on your chest, although the doctors say they'll do what they can to minimize it," Jim looked at him. "You had internal injuries, Gil. They messed up your gut that was already messed up or something. They've given you a temporary colostomy. Turns out they can do that now and there shouldn't be a problem putting it all right, but they had to extract it or something."

"Wasn't sure I was going to live. At all." There was something hazy, at the edge of his mind, but the repetitive motion of shifting his fingers didn't ease it, didn't bring it closer into focus or push it further away. "Millander"

That Millander was brought in for questioning back for the hand thing. Before he was booted as boss.

"It was him then? Catherine had a call. Didn't sound like him," Jim murmured. "I don't want you pushed right now, Gil. You just woke up."

He finally did manage a muzzy laugh and squeezed Jim's hand again, watching his face even as his eyes lost a little focus. He wished he had his glasses. Of all the days to be farsighted... "I have? Keep thinking 'll wake up at home."

"You'll be here a whilte before that, Gil," Jim answered, his grip back firm and gentle. "Gonna take a while to recover. And you're not doing that on your own."

"No?" It took him a minute to process that Jim meant not alone, not that he wouldn't be doing it at all.

"Well, I've got vacation time stacked up. I max out on overtime. No big deal." Jim sat back. "I can hang with you until you throw me out. Hospitals throw you out too quick."

"Then you end up back there." Jim looked comfortable, a little sleepy, and it made Gil shift a little, taking a slow breath. "Good... not to be there."

"Yeah. You need something, Gil? Probably some drugs or something?" Jim still hadn't let his hand go. "I can get someone? You should probably get the official run down or some rest or something."

"Just want to sleep." He turned his head a little, but couldn't manage to focus. "'s a call button?"

"Aside from me? Yeah." Jim reached for it to put it within easy access. "There we go. You sleep some more, Gil, and I'll tell Catherine you've decided to live. You're not going to make me a liar, are you?"

"Nah." He tried to give a smile, and closed his eyes again. That felt better. The water had helped, and he was safe. It was all right to wake up again if the urge hit his subconscious self. "Owe me roach soup, anyway."

Jim smiled, his familiar broad open smile. "You heard that? Hope you missed the promise about the lobster dinner."

"You promised lobster?" Gil managed that blearily, just when he heard the door creak open. "Huh. 'n I thought... I owed you money."

"Yeah, and I owe you dinner, so..." Jim looked up to see who was coming in. "We'll call it even, yeah?"

"Mr. Brass? Did you press the call button?"

Gil managed to raise the hand that Jim wasn't holding onto. "I d'd. Hurts."

"Gil's decided to take matters into his own hands," Jim replied sounding oddly proud and relieved of the fact. "Look, Gil, I'll go let Catherine know what's going on, okay? You do... medical stuff. I'll be back."

"Sure." He wasn't sure he'd still be awake, but he managed to open his eyes before Jim had finished the act of getting to his feet and letting go of his hand. "See you 'round?"

"Next time you wake up, I'll be here, Gil," Jim reminded him patiently. "If you're awake enough, we can try a crossword or something."

Grissom knew, even if the thoughts were vague, that Brass hardly ever bothered with things like crosswords. He was the one who liked the puzzles and that was a nice thought to be fading into sleep with.

He could close his eyes and ignore the tugging of bandages as the nurse started to tend to him. He was safe and in good hands, and Jim would be back.

It was a start.

The relief at Grissom waking up, recognizing him, even responding to some of his feeble attempts at levity, had been enough to unknot the huge ball of tension that had been twisting up his insides. With that came the exhaustion, but he had been a cop too long not to be able to push back tiredness and hold it at arm's length. He'd stay until one of the others could be here. They could work it out. There was no one waiting for him at home, but if he wanted to spend the vacation time with Gil once he was released, he would have to figure out how to work now.

But he had to tell Catherine, Nick and everyone that Gil was actually awake and sounding okay. For all they knew he could be getting worse. People died in hospitals. Holly had died after the surgery that was meant to save her life and...

Jim swallowed and headed up the corridor to find somewhere he could use a phone. He hadn't lost Gil. He may have lost Holly, but not Gil. so all he had to do was keep him.

It wasn't that hard. One guy, one man, one life, and it wasn't like Gil was going to up and sneak off on him. He'd smiled and everything, almost laughed, said some pretty coherent things. That had to count for something. Had to be a little like survival for Gil to put up all of that effort in the face of what had happened.

In the face of some bastard raping him so badly that he needed surgery and a bag. That wasn't going to be easy to handle, and Jim didn't know where he'd start. Just that he'd be there, trying to start. As long as Gil survived, as long as they released him from the hospital.

There was a pay phone right by the nurse's station, and a man in a crisp navy blue suit was standing at the desk in a way that made Jim want to double-take, because he wasn't' a local cop that he recognized.

"Yeah, I need to get in to see Mr, uh, Grissom. I'm an old friend of his."

He didn't look like an old friend that Jim knew. And Jim knew old friends going back over a decade. Hell, he was the old friend. Which meant either this guy was trying something on or he was from before that time.

"I'm sorry sir, you're not on the approved visitors list. Mrs. Willows was very adamant about that."

Jim tried not to smirk. Adamant was a good word for Catherine.

"Mrs. Willows called me to tell me to come here." He had an accent a lot like Jim's -- maybe New York instead of New Jersey, but not Nevada, not California, not Wisconsin or Michigan -- and an edge to his tones. Then he reached into his jacket, and pulled out a badge. "I'm Special Agent Crawford, and this is an FBI matter."

Oh joy, the FBI. Not that he was going to take the guy's word for it because anyone could fake up a badge and who the hell was Agent Crawford to be turning up at Gil's bedside when he was barely conscious. Things could wait. He could see the nurse wavering a bit and stepped forward. "Friend of Gil's huh?" he said. "Let's have a little chat, shall we?"

The man turned, giving Jim a bland look. "And you are?"

Instantly Jim decided he didn't like this guy. He was like that and sometimes he was wrong but right now he was tired and this FBI guy had a tone that rankled. "Captain Jim Brass. Gil's... partner." He belatedly remembered how he had gotten himself on the visitors in ICU list. "And I have to say, Gil's never mentioned you."

"He wouldn't," Crawford admitted. The tone of Jack's voice seemed to shift a little at the mention of the word 'partner', but it wasn't a shocked kind of voice shift. "I'm his partner from his Quantico days. Mrs. Willows called me from the CSI lab about this case. Why don't we go sit somewhere and talk?"

"That sounds like a good idea. I have to phone Catherine anyway." And he would be checking on the other man's story. "Could do with a coffee. Want to head down and get some?"

"I could go for a coffee -- I'm on east coast time." The implication that he'd flown all the way out there was somewhat unsettling if his story checked out. Most FBI people couldn't drop everything they were doing to show up someplace because an old partner -- either someone he'd had worked with or a 'partner' partner -- was hurt.

Wait. Quantico? Gil hated the FBI.

"Quantico huh? Some time back, yeah?" Jim led him downstairs towards the canteen.

"Back before he changed his name and ran away to Vegas, yeah." That was almost a laugh, and the man casually put his hands into his pockets while they walked. He was taller than Jim, and lean like one of those evil dogs he couldn't remember the name of.

"Changed his name?" Jim stared a moment. This had not been part of his imaginings. Fuck. "Witness protection?" If it was, he didn't think much of their protection.

"No -- Will never thought too much of that shit. Court processed, take an ad out in the paper, and change your name protection. For all the good it did him, huh?" There was that rough, half-sad laugh, a little bitter as he stepped ahead of Jim and opened the door that led from the stairwell out into the hallway.

Jim was momentarily tempted to push him down the stairs, but the moment passed. He prided himself on his connection with his petty self and was perfectly comfortable with it. But the agent guy was saved by the sheer fact he didn't have the energy.

"It was a Vegas serial killer. Could have happened to any of them."

"Doubt it." He stopped, just out of the stairwell -- it was a damn shame Jim hadn't had the energy, either, because that twisted last flight of stairs down to the lobby would've been hell on the guy's neck -- and into the safe hallway. The second floor had the gift shops, canteen, everything anyone with a loved-one sick or dying could need to distract themselves. "You're not a Vegas native, are you? What was your name again? I'm Jack Crawford, by the way -- head of the Bureau's Behavioral Sciences Division."

"Jim Brass. Once New Jersey PD." He deliberately didn't say it was good to meet him. It wasn't. There he was turning up making dry almost blaming comments about Gil and... he needed to find out what the deal was from Catherine before he said too much or hit the guy.

"Why don't you go on and get us some coffees?" he suggested. "I'll phone Willows." And she better have an answer or this guy would be flying out of the hospital all the way back to the Bureau without the aid of a plane.

"She'll explain all of this to you." That was said almost dismissively, and then Jack wandered over to the line for the coffee place. Great, good. He could pull out his cell phone and call her. And figure out what the hell was going on.

He walked until he was out of the zone where cells were forbidden and called, looking impatiently after the other man. Catherine had a lot of explaining to do. And so did Gil, but he was used to him being complicated.

Will. Jack had called Gil Will. Maybe he'd been Will Grissom. Or Will something or other before, and it seemed weird, but so did the way that Gil plopped down in Vegas out of the clear blue, got the job, and just fit. He fit, and there was no background story, no fuckups from another office to weigh him down.

One ring, two rings, and Catherine answered with a sleepy-sounding, "Willows."

"Cath, it's Jim." He probably sounded about the same and had to stifle a sympathetic yawn. "Thought you'd like to know Gil came around not long ago."

"He did? Oh, god. God, that's good to hear. How is he?"

"Hazy, but you know. Being Gil. Aware enough to pick me up on a few things. He's resting again nowm but... there's a guy here, Cath, from the FBI. Says he talked to you. Called Gil 'Will', and let's just say I might be tired but I think I'm missing something."

"Yeah. Jim... I was going to call you, but I'd guessed you'd have your cell phone off. Greg tested the... semen from the scene through Codis, and it came back as Will Graham. I couldn't find any pictures of Graham, so I started to look at the angle that maybe he'd been Millander's accomplice, and then when Greg ran the exemplar and the blood, it... It's Gil, Jim. We're tracking down another lead, but there's female DNA all over the place, and there was human tissue in the... feces on the scene. We haven't identified it yet, but it looked like it was cooked, so who knows if we can get anything out of it. We're... Greg is in the office taking a nap. He doesn't want to go home and the dayshift guy is squeamish."

"If anyone can pull DNA out of that, it'll be Sanders," Jim said even as he tried to get his head around why Gil had changed his name. Someone else might have felt betrayed or shocked and resentful but it never occured to him. It was just another fact. Part of the missing story to him, that gap in Gil's life that they hadn't talked about. That didn't make him someone else. "So what's the deal with Graham and this guy Crawford?"

"You... recognize the name 'Will Graham', don't you?" She asked, and it honestly wasn't a rhetorical question. Catherine was waiting, probably guessing how to explain what she knew

"It's familiar, I'm just trying to place it," Jim replied trying to stir his mind to consciousness from too little sleep. "The only Graham I know is the text book guy who...." He trailed off as all the pieces slotted into place. "Right. I get it."

"Who took down Hannibal Lecter," Catherine finished for him. "What wasn't well publicized out of law enforcement circles was that Lecter tried to gut Graham, and it ended like a bad Mexican standoff. Both of them really tried to kill each other. I..." Catherine sucked in a shaky breath. "I'm having trouble reconciling that to our Grissom. But, I looked through the files, and started to call to see who might help. All of the evidence is pointing to... at least a Lecter copycat. Agent Crawford is one of the bureau chiefs, head of behavioral sciences. He knew Gil when he... before. The Lecter case is his domain anyway."

Jim exhaled. He'd been really hoping it wasn't. "Gil said it was Millander. He definitely said that so... copy cat, I think. Or something."

"I still needed to call, Jim. Just... handle him how you want to handle him? And get some sleep, for god sakes."

"Yeah. I will... when there's someone else here. He doesn't want to be alone," Jim replied. "You should first, Cath, you need to be sharp if the Feds are moving in." Especially if they tried to play her like they were him. Catherine had as much of a temper as he did and when it came to Gil, she could be very defensive. If she's been there listening to how he was saying things, Jack Crawford might well have a broken nose by now.

"Thanks. I will. Call me if anything changes? I'm going to try to get there when I can." And he could understand that. She'd have to take a break, she'd have to see Lindsey, all sorts of things.

"Sure. I will, Cath." He hung up and looked at Jack Crawford. The agent didn't get points for his illustruous career, not from him. As far as Jim was concerned he didn't have the right to come around making cracks about Gil when he was at death's door. Maybe this side of death's door but too damn close nonetheless. And if he was worried about him, where had he been in the past when Gil had a few close shaves?

At least he'd paid for the coffees.

It was something, but it didn't count for much. He'd even staked out a small corner table, and Jim wasn't sure if it was luck or the man's personality that had made it so that there wasn't anyone else around that table.

He sat down heavily. "Thanks. So you're here because of the copy cat, yeah?" He didn't have time to mess around, let alone energy.

"I'm here because Will's hurt. Personal and professional reasons." He took a sip of the coffee, and cut in,"And, I know what you're thinking. But I don't keep tabs on Will. No one tells me what he's up to. I hear it from his ex-wife three months after the fact. I hear it from our mutual friends in academia. I want to see how he's doing."

"Well it's a helluva time to catch up," Jim said bluntly. "He's only just come around once and he'll be out again now." Ex-wife?! Jesus. Okay he was surprised by that. "So why haven't you kept up with him?"

He shrugged his shoulders loosely. "He likes the delusion that no one knows who he is. It's kind of a funny secret in the academic fields that he's... I mean, he just picked up where he left off. We don't talk about it, and he can pretend no one remembers who he is."

Come to think of it, Gil was surprised that there were people who cared, who worried about him. The difference being that in Vegas, no one would let him get away with thinking that for long. He didn't think he could ever be the type of friend who would let someone like Gil walk out of his life. Never.

"Because of what happened. The attack."

"No. No, after Lecter..." Jack cleared his throat, and then took another sip of coffee. "He moved out to California with Molly and Kevin. He fell apart, couldn't... He needed help and he got it. Worked odd jobs until he pull himself together, and worked for the coroner's office out in LA county. But we had a case come up, the uh. Geeze, Tooth Fairy killer might ring a bell to you. He struck in Atlanta and Birmingham on a -- it's a long story, but after Lecter told the killer where his family was, and there was this big standoff... He fell apart again. Molly left him. Or Molly left him and he fell apart again -- the order doesn't really matter."

Jim really wished he was more awake to appreciate all this. He knew he'd remember it but right now he was finding it hard. Gil had a son. A son he could never see, and again it was an assumption but one he felt confident in because he knew Gil. Working around death every day had a way of making you get to know the people around you really closely. Names were window dressing. "Right. Is it possible that it could be something to do with Lecter?"

He remembered that. The killer fucked with people's heads so effectively sometimes they nearly murdered themselves. Ripped off their own faces. What if Millander had been Millander, but a primed tool of Lecter? If there was still some sort of revenge thing there with the serial killer, then it was possible. He did remember the Tooth Fairy case. It had been big around the time he was starting to clean house at Jersey.

But it wasn't his case, and then it had come to a fatal end for the suspect, so no big follow up court trial. "This case? Mrs. Willows sent me what evidence she could, and I'm certainly suspicious of what's going on. If it's not a copy-cat, then... it's going to get him out of the woodwork, you know? So if it wasn't him before it's going to be him now. He and Will... hell, I'll go as far as to say before we caught him, he was damn charming. He helped us break a few other cases and Will was real close to him."

"Millander was like that," Jim commented absently. He'd have to speak to Grissom about that. He could read between the very clear lines he was drawing out. He rubbed absently at the bridge of his nose. "If you're here to help Grissom, you won't have a problem, but I'm telling you. Talk like you did earlier in front of his team and you'll be taking a one way trip to the body farm."

"How was that, again?" And maybe he wasn't sure and maybe he was.

Brass just looked at him and shook his head. "Fine. Play it that way." He'd see if he could restrain himself from hitting the guy. It would be like an endurance test. "If Lecter comes after him, I want to know what to look out for." He'd be getting those text books out again, that was for sure.

"Look, don't get extra defensive just because you're sleeping with him. I know you have to be stressed out right now, and this is a lot to take in," Jack offered solicitously, taking another sip of his coffee. "Will and I go way back, but not that way. The problem with Lecter is that we don't know what he looks like anymore. He has red eyes, but there are contact lenses nowadays, and we don't know what kind of plastic surgery he's had. He doesn't leave fingerprints anywhere -- leaves gloves."

Jim had a brief flash back to gloves soaked in blood. "We had gloves," he admitted. Red eyes, huh? He looked at eyes a lot because that was where he got some of the strongest indications of lies but... "Why now? After all this time?"

"Who knows? It could've been that his name came up in a newspaper that he read somewhere; it could be that he said something that struck Lecter a certain way. Could've been the day of the month and the position of the moon. He could be bored with the last agent of mine he waltzed off with." And now there was a flash of deeper sadness, bitterness in Jack's eyes.

Ah. Now Jim got it. He knew he looked like the sort of cop who thought with his muscles (though they could use some work after all those years in CSI) and he capitalized on that but he could see the connections. Crawford was bitter and defensive because he thought Gil should have been there to stop that happening. "He took an agent of yours?" He had the temptation to needle him a little but managed to behave. Just.

"He briefly breezed through America last year, long enough to kidnap an agent he dealt with just before he made his escape in 1990." Gil had been with Vegas CSI for five years by then, and Jim had still been in Jersey. Court, probably, because for a while there it had seemed like if he wasn't there for a case testifying, he was there for the god-damned divorce.

"They dead or alive?" Jim said bluntly. There was no other way to ask the question.

"If she's alive, she probably wishes she were dead," he countered, voice flat-edged. "Or she can't think for herself at all anymore. He really... gets to people. Gets in their heads and fucks them up so badly that it's a wonder any of the survivors can string two words together. Will's strong. He'll hang in there whether it was Lecter or not."

That was something they could agree on, but that didn't mean he was going to force him to do it alone. This time he had friends who would go out on a limb for him, willingly.

"You reckon you can catch him?"

He cocked an eyebrow at Jim. "Yeah. I'm also the god-damned Easter bunny. The fuzzy tail sticking out of my ass is hell to hide in a suit."

"I didn't like to say anything, but yeah." Jim gave a smirk of amusement. "Personally I just thought you'd crapped in your pants."

Jack just smirked, and didn't bother to try to strike back. At least he could take as well as he gave. "Look, the only person who ever got into his head won't. Lecter is ten steps ahead of us at all times. He's so insane that he's sane, if you catch my drift. Will could at least bring us up to one step or right on top of him, but Will... It's not good for him."

"Damn right it's not. If you think you're going to ask him to try that now..." Jim replied. "He'll have enough to deal with. But he's got a team he's proud of. That has to count for something. And they're good. I used to head them up."

That finally gained him an eyebrow twitch, and a curious edge to Jack's expression, but he didn't ask whatever he was thinking. "I'm not going to ask him. I'm going to keep the field office out of this, call in a couple of people from my division if the evidence looks like it warrants it. One wrong step, and if it is him, we'll have a bloodbath on our hands."

"And if it's not?" Jim asked already wondering if it might come to that. If it was going that way he would have to nail Grissom to the floor to get him to stay. He could see what the deal was with his ex-wife and son. God, it explained a lot about Grissom's lack of relationships.

"If it's not, then we have a copy-cat on our hands and the FBI will extend an offer of resources to you -- use of manpower, lab, whatever the city needs." Jack swallowed a mouthful of coffee, and sighed. "Jesus, I need to talk to the sheriff. I hate courting sheriffs."

"Atwater is courtable. Mindful of the public spin and the opportunity, like all sheriffs, but willing to cut a little slack for the right result." Jim advised. "He's had to put up with Gil and me for a decade or so, so he's used to a lack of diplomacy."

"Great." Jack's mouth tugged into a smile. "So, do you mind if I duck into the room to see him for a few minutes? I just... want to see how he is."

"He'll be asleep," Jim warned, though considering that might be the best time for Crawford to make his visit. "But yeah, okay."

"Okay. It's funny how things change, you know. Hey, does Will still smoke? He's probably jonesing for one now."

"Wasn't smoking when I came to Vegas," Jim replied knocking back the last of his coffee. "Never has here."

In fact, on the whole, Grissom went for the healthy option in all things.

That was funny to think of -- what had apparently flipped the switch in Gil's head?"Never? Huh." Jack sat back a little, swirling the sediment at the bottom of his cup. "Huh. Part of his new scientific approach to things, right? No interference on crime-scenes I bet. He completely rejected his other skills last I knew, so it wouldn't surprise me."

"No interference. Following the evidence," Jim confirmed. Had there been another way?"Why, did he used to?"

"Will's an editeker. It's... complicated to explain." And it meant that Jack either didn't want to explain or couldn't work out how to explain it to Jim, because he just shrugged. "But he used to get into the perp's head to find out who or where the guy was going. He was something else when he worked a scene."

"He still is," Jim replied truthfully. "But in a different way, I guess."

Not that different though. He looked at the evidence and from that managed to almost see what had happened in a way that he knew a lot of CSI's could not do. And that led him to test for different things, look in the right places. If someone got away with it it was because the evidence wasn't there not because it had been missed.

Gil didn't miss a damn thing, unless it had to do with people. And even then he caught things that Catherine missed, subtle things. "Yeah, well. Will was one of our best, but not agent material. Probably better for him -- he never liked to shoot."

Brass didn't exactly like to shoot but it was something he was comfortable with. Trigger happy was a lesson well learned back in New Jersey. And this whole deal struck him as off. Brilliant but not agent material? So they had some sort of set up where Gil got his brains sucked dry without any of the benefits and security. He probably even realized what they were doing to him. "No. But if the job is going right in CSI that situation doesn't come up that often."

He just wished Gil had pulled a gun on Millander.

Because walking Gil through that, through I.A, poking around and asking questions, and seeing shadows of guilt and self recrimination, sure. He could handle that so much better than he could handle what he was facing just then. It was so much easier, so much simpler if the matter was dead in a literal way.

"Yeah. He used to carry all the time, you know? Two and three of them, because he always dropped one or something. It was kind of funny... Well, not really, but we had to find it funny that he shot Lecter with the one he kept at his ankle. That spare we always teased him about."

"He doesn't anymore," Jim said wondering if it would have made a difference. Probably not. "Any way, let's get back there. You're probably wanting to see him, then see Catherine or something."

"Sheriff first, but yeah." Jack stood up, eyeing Jim before he started to head back down the hall. "You mind if I ask you a question?"

"Ask away," Jim replied. He scratched at his cheek and felt the rasp of stubble. He hadn't realized he'd been here that long. But he was coming up on the twenty-four hour mark, and the nurses were probably trying to think of a way to get his handcuffs off of his belt so they could tie him up somewhere just so they wouldn't have to see him.

"You said you were his partner to get in to see him, right? Because you don't really seem like his type."

Visualization was a powerful thing, as was the nice solid punch he was currently visualizing. "Yeah. I did."

Very neatly every shred of possible hope that something good might come out of this shriveled up and died. He could have lied but there really wasn't any point. "He never got around to adding me to the emergency contact list because until recently I was automatically contacted as his boss."

After all, why bother lying if Gil wasn't coherent enough to be in on the joke. Hell, maybe Jack was trying to fuck with his head. Jim didn't know, and he got a little ahead of Jack on the stairwell. He tripped because he was tired or something, he was damn well going to take that bastard with him right to Broken Neck land.

"Yeah, you mentioned that. He's been doing all right here in Vegas? No problems?"

"He's the best," Jim said without hesitation. "Always has been. We rank high and it's mainly due to him."

That was the pure truth. Gil trained the best as well, and more rarely made them find their own strengths to work as a team. He'd spent a lot of time keeping the bad parts of the job away from Gil so he could do what he did best.

And now that Holly was dead, he was back in Homicide, and Gil had to deal with the bad parts as well as the good. He still wasn't sure of that -- sure Gil could lead them, but he hated the political shit. He was a good field officer -- that didn't mean someone made a good supervisor. Didn't mean that Jim had been a good supervisor, either, because he'd had a CSI die on his watch.

It wasn't the best time to start beating to death that old horse in his head, but no time was.

"Yeah. We used to call him the King Cobra. You want him under your porch picking off predators instead of under someone else's."

"King Cobra huh? I'll remember that." Gil wasn't as dangerous as that made him sound. They were close to the room. He waved at the nurse on duty. "Okay to go in?"

"Yes, Mr. Brass. Is he with you?" Just double-checking. It was tempting to say no and leave him in his dust, but. But, he had a feeling that antagonizing the guy at the start wouldn't do him much good.

"Yeah, he's just making a short visit," Brass said. "Catching up with how things are."

"All right. If you need anything..." Like a security guard she seemed to be implying, but let them waltz right past her. Jim really hoped that Gil was still asleep. Who needed to put up with that kind of shit, right?

"What room is it?" jack asked.

"Just along here," Jim guided him in, entering quietly looking automatically at Gil. The shock of seeing him so hurt hit him again. He suspected it would carry on doing that because he couldn't imagine getting comfortable with the idea of him being hurt. "Don't wake him," he murmured.

Behind him when they stepped into the room, Jack sucked in a slow breath. "Jesus. What happened to his chest?" Newly changed dressings, while Jim had ducked out for that really not fucking restful coffee break, were already starting to seep through with blood here and there. Or drainage. Jim was just glad that Gil was mostly covered with the sheets.

"Millander took a lino knife to him," Jim replied secretly glad to see that assurance the other man had shaken a little. Perhaps now he would understand why his tone had been so damn offensive.

"A linoleum knife?" Jack sighed, hovering near the chair. But he didn't sit down, just stared at Gil's face. "Either that's a coincidence or he did a hell of a lot of research. Or..."

"If Gil said it was Millander, it was Millander. Unless Millander is Lecter," Jim said moving over and sitting down next to Gil again. It was a now familiar spot. "Which is something you might be able to help with."

"Might be able to. We'll see." Jack reached a hand out, petting Gil's hair for a second, stroking it back from the sticky edge of medical tape that was holding gauze down over that scrape beside his eye. "I owe it to him to figure that much out."

"I wouldn't have figured you for the owing type," Jim said bluntly. He wasn't particularly interested in making friends. If the guy could help then that was good. If he couldn't then it didn't matter and besides, after not contacting Gil for over a decade owing him things seemed a bit rich.

"I pulled him out of early retirement after Lecter." Jack stepped back a little, a slight motion, still looking at Gil. "I thought he'd be all right. I mean, who's really burnt out at that young? Just one last case, and I promised him I'd keep the guy away from him. He'd just be looking at the scenes and the evidence, and then he went to see Lecter in jail to get the feel of it again, and everything went to hell for Will again. Did what I could to help him pick up the pieces after Molly left, but..." He gave a shrug. "It never felt like enough. I crashed his little sea-side paradise."

That was a lot of making up to do. Holding the responsibility for screwing up someone's life was a tough thing. He had Ellie, he'd not just screwed but been responsible for Holly's death. Yeah he knew what that felt like.

Part of Jim sympathized and the other part wanted to put Jack in Gil's place and consider he deserved it.

"Right." He looked at the other man not saying anything else but knowing that his feelings would come across loud and clear. At least it would if he had earned his job title.

There was something in Jack's eyes, a dark edge, and then it slipped away like a shadow while he nodded. "Right. I can't do much for him here. I'll see you around, Captain Brass."

"Sure thing," Brass waved diffidently. "I'll tell Gil you came down, Agent Crawford." In among the long discussion they were going to have about the gap in Gil's life.

Really long discussion. Jesus, he didn't even know where to start, but Crawford was nodding at him and heading for the door. "Thanks."

No sniping last words. He just left, like he knew he wasn't going to be able to draw any blood there with Brass.

Even though she had a warrant, Catherine felt oddly like she was breaking into Grissom's place. It seemed eerie and silent even though she had a key and had on occasion fed Grissom's bugs while he had been at conferences. She reminded herself to do that before she left.

The warrant was general and gave her a lot of leeway in searching for information that might pertain to Lecter or Millander and she was careful as she moved around. It was amazing how fast they moved when Lecter's name came up. She could understand why. There hadn't been a force yet that he hadn't humiliated, devastated and left in ruins behind him. Just as no one wanted him there, everyone wanted to be the ones to bag him.

Their best shot at that lay somewhere in the mysteries of Gil's past. Catherine wasn't entirely sure how she felt about all these revelations. A little hurt maybe that he hadn't shared. She thought they had something different. Honesty between them that rarely existed between a man and a woman and she felt a little disappointed that she hadn't been trusted enough to know. But in the same breath she could understand why. From things that Jack Crawford had said she realized he was protecting people and had spent all this time not going any further than a few dates protecting them all.

It seemed pretty petty to get upset about not knowing when that was what was at stake. She looked around. She knew most of Grissom's lay out. His study area, his relaxation area. If he was going to have secrets he would store them somewhere more private. His bedroom most likely.

He occasionally allowed people into his house, but Catherine could guess it had been a while since someone had been into his bedroom, and in times of dry spells... Catherine had let coffee cups and magazines build up in a way that wasn't exactly alluring since she and Eddie had started divorce proceedings.

Hell, Gil even kept the door closed when the house was locked down. Bingo, and it opened under her careful, latex gloved hand.

His bedroom didn't look too far off from what she'd been expecting. Door at the end of the tiny hall on the second floor of his townhouse-thing, that spilled out into a bedroom that looked like it hadn't been used recently. The bed wasn't made, but the sheets still smelled like some unscented detergent -- that crisp hard to place clean smell that she associated with Gil. The nightstand had three journals stacked on top of it, and an empty water glass.

So, no obvious places, but then she didn't see Gil hiding things away so secretly that it was paranoid. Somewhere discrete but accessible. She started checking through the drawers, looking for hints and information. To start with she found a lot of other scribblings. Ideas Grissom obviously had late at night. Diagrams, scribbled workings out in timelines. Sketched pictures of bugs that were actually rather beautiful in their own way. She hadn't known he had any of his mother's artistic talent. Maybe it was just that he didn't use it.

Maybe he didn't have an urge to or just didn't want to. He was a good writer, and cases kept him busy, so maybe that was where his energy was channeled. Maybe he didn't have what Gil had told her his mother had once called 'the soul of an artist'.

The first little incongruity that struck her was that there was a cookbook in the drawer of the nightstand, wedged in there at the bottom of the top drawer. Gil cooked, when time permitted, and she'd eaten at his apartment a few times or after rough cases.

She flicked through the pages looking for anything that was out of the ordinary. She wasn't even sure what she was looking for exactly but then they had been trained to look for the unexpected. That was something Grissom had taught them. Not to be blinkered by expectation. She recognized some of the recipes.

Some of them were things Gil had made, but not most of them. Most of them had notations beside them, measurements marked out, and as she peered at Gil's scrawls, she could make out organs listed, with question marks. 'Subjects missing', with a list of parts beneath it, scrawled in the margins.

That was odd. Had this been a research book as well? She decided to take it with her just in case and dug a little deeper into the drawer. There was a box file of sorts underneath the debris which she homed in on. That was more like it.

Closed, but sliding the lid off revealed a jumble of papers to her. Most of them were folded over twice or three times, and some of them were sealed in plastic bags that reminded her of evidence bags. She could take them off scene and investigate the box there, or start to sort through them there in his house and work out where to go with them from there.

The office was filled with people coming in asking her things and she decided she would rather have some peace and quiet to start with. Admittedly she would need some of the resources back at the lab for detailed work but she could get a feel for the material. Very carefully she opened the first bag that was there, lifting out the contents. Photos and letter by the looks of it. She glanced over one to scan it for pertinent information.

It didn't... seem very pertinent to the case, not at first glance. There were photographs settled into the bottom edge, and a couple of letters laid out flat within it, and a small jumble of unevenly clipped newspaper articles. It was easy to spread them out carefully on the circular throw rug, and harder not to be a little disturbed by the contents. They were all pictures of people that Catherine couldn't for the life of her place. Maybe the letter would clear it up.

"Dear Will,

It's been a while since I've heard from you, and the news about what's going on in Baltimore made me think of you. Promise me you'll keep being careful -- Adam and I are. Kevin's in England right now, attending a conference. He mentioned to me that he read a paper written by Gil Grissom a few weeks ago, and he said it got him thinking about you. I didn't say anything, just that you're still doing all right. I hope I wasn't lying. Write back to me, Will. I found a few of the old negatives that I took with me and had them developed so you could have copies of the photos. I think you shot that roll. Adam is going through the attic, and if he finds any more, we'll send you copies.

Love, Molly. "

Whoever Kevin was, he was better at putting two and two together than she had been. Molly, Kevin, Adam -- she had no idea who they were. 'Molly' seemed to have a history with Gil and the pictures were... family pictures. Typical family pictures like the ones she had of her Lindsay and Eddie.

Old relationship maybe? And what had happened in Baltimore. There were too many damn gaps for her to fill. The boy... the boy looked a little like Grissom. She was sure of it.

Gil had a son?

Who didn't know him, or hadn't known him in a long time. Maybe he'd known Will Graham but not Gil Grissom, which was just the most fucked up thing. Catherine couldn't ever abandon Lindsey, but there was the suggestion there that maybe Gil had to do that for his son. And there were the photographs, a skinny, pretty blond woman with wild hair holding a toddler at her hip, and a man standing beside her, graying at the temples. There were other pictures, men standing together, someone sitting on the roof of an old El Camino, a crooked shot of a dog, people posing. Friends, proof of a vivid social life that Catherine couldn't imagine Gil having. Most everyone was drinking, and they looked happy.

No pictures of Gil, though. Or Will.

But then if he had been the one taking the pictures that would make sense. The styles of dress dated it back some. Definitely before Vegas. These were treasured and secret though. She had the blindingly clear thought of Gil sitting here alone and just leafing through each one, remembering, wanting and then packing it all away and burying it at the bottom of the box file.

No wonder he was good with Lindsay when they had come in contact. She should have realized that there was experience there. Maybe she had and assumed it was some relationship gone past, or a family member. She just wished he'd trusted her enough to talk about it.

She moved on to more letters, looking for evidence to support her theories and any mention of Lecter.

There wasn't any, though. Letters from Molly were circumspect, full of well wishes and suggestions for him to stay safe and healthy, asking how he was doing, if he was happy. It seemed strange, like she was still fond of him, but. But. No hint of what Gil wrote back to her, but the new clippings started to make sense. The older ones were about a high school baseball team that had a Kevin Lindman, and then clippings of high school honor rolls, a college graduation announcement, a smaller interview with 'local forensic anthropologist'. That was Kevin. Maybe Kevin was the son, and not Adam.

Adam was maybe, a new partner? A husband even. Which would make him Adam Lindman and easier to track. And she should definitely be able to track a forensic anthropologist. Maybe Terri would actually know him? It wasn't as if the field was over populated, much like Grissom and his forensic entomology.

God. Watching a life from afar. No wonder Gil never let his feelings slip. He had too much practice at tying them up and putting them away. All very interesting but not exactly the remit of her warrant unless there was a connection there with Lecter or Millander. She dug deeper, going back to old letters and scanning them.

Still nothing, as long as they were from Molly. But there was a ziplock bag full of folded letters that she hadn't touched yet, and the paper looked like it was of varying ages. She started to put away the remnants of the life Gil was watching from afar, and then moved on to the first, most new-looking letter. There was a seal on the backside, pressed with what could have been a fingerprint, and the way it had been opened, Gil had been careful to preserve the seal.

Catherine opened it careful to preserve evidence as well and her expression shifted as she read him.

Will,

It's been some time and I find my thoughts have mellowed. There is something about the life I lead now that wipes away pettiness. It is a place that I am suited to and perhaps that has smoothed out some of my paltry desires. I do miss you though, Will, when I remember when we talked. As satisfying as sex with any I have tried, each moment a crystal memory of contentment in finding another mind so attuned with my own.

Perhaps then I should not have felt as betrayed as I did when I saw that revelation dawn. Because when all is said and done, is it not ourselves who are the worst traitors?

The simple pleasures and contentment are key -- birdsong at dawn, dusk smoothing out shadows, and the gleam of moonlight on blood...

A memory we both share, Will. From a different part of our relationship long past. I hope the new you is tolerating the crudeness around you and should you ever tire of your latest mask, I will happily remind you of whom you are.
Hannibal"

It wasn't what Catherine had expected to read. The letter was fairly recent-looking, the paper hardly aged at all, and... and it was Hannibal Lecter. Gil had a collection of letters from a serial killer, the contents of which... well, that one had read like a love letter. Or something. When we talked, and satisfying sex, and shared memories, masks and an offer to remind Gil of who he was. Will. Remind Will, because to Lecter, Gil would be the mask.

There were a lot of reevaluations going on in her head. A lot of questions that needed answering but it proved a solid connection. It was what they would need to officially call in the Feds. Grissom once had a relationship with the most renowned serial killer. Had possibly slept with him. Hell, more than maybe.

She had to admit that would put her off of relationships for life. There was the proverbial sleeping with the enemy, and then there was... really sleeping with the enemy, the man he was supposed to catch. Getting that close to somehow who later proved not to be what they were supposed to be... It was worse than Eddie. But it didn't explain about his son or Molly or anything there.

Maybe reading more letters would start to fill in the pieces, more of the missives from a serial killer on the run.

The next was older and involved a picture. A dark sketched depiction of a man clearly Gil, if a younger version, naked and with half of his abdomen cut open.

The words with it were hardly comforting.

"This is how I remember you but that was meant to be private. You and me. That reporter besmirched that. I hope you appreciated how I wielded my tool to right the balance on that score.

You were trying to use me, Will. I am a sword of Damocles. Yet you keep grasping the blade that cuts you back. Debt and pain for each use. A marriage and family for freedom. Freedom is a sacred right and you always stopped short of bringing the full weight of Justice to bear. Would you do that now, Will? Knowing what I did? Not just to you but to your family. Would you finally aim the gun at my heart, or cut yourself with the double edge sword again?
Hannibal"

Tool. He'd had a tool, and he'd used it to do... something to a reporter, and something to Will's family. The pieces were vague and she didn't have the context. It was like trying to put a story to a movie that didn't have a soundtrack, no voices, just themes. Catherine could guess that maybe Gil had done neither. Will had done neither, because he was Gil now and seemed whole and safe in Vegas, and Lecter was still a fugitive.

It was starting to make Catherine's head hurt.

But in terms of precedent, there it was. If all the evidence turned up that Millander was there it could be that he or she was a tool as much as the one mentioned in this letter.

She wished she could see the replies. She wanted to know what Gil thought. How he responded to all this. In a bizarre way it reminded her of Eddie. Just when it was really over and he was away, he'd do something. Tug on her life in a good or bad way. Suddenly be right there and absorb her thoughts and feelings and again she'd be sworn off men for some time and...

How many years had this been going on?

The most recent letter was marked June 2000, which was... just a few months earlier. Not long ago, and the oldest one took digging to get to. She checked the date before reading it, but there was no seal on it and the paper was plain, lined. January 1979.

A couple of decade's correspondence with a serial killer. Catherine grimaced and rubbed at her temples. She had the worst headache in the world from all of this and too little sleep. She could understand why he had given up contact with his family if Lecter was attached to him like some parasite and had endangered the people he loved.

"Dammit, Gil, why didn't you say anything?" she murmured under her breath.

Probably so he didn't lose them, too. If she thought about it, what did Gil have? Them and his mother, but he didn't talk about her too often. Probably because she knew him as Will and it would have just been messy crossover if he was juggling things like that. She didn't even read that first letter, but wavered over what she'd have to take to the lab with her.

The Lecter letters. The rest... the rest didn't actually come in within the remit of her warrant or the purpose of the search. That was private and she felt a little guilty for having read it. The Lecter letters established all the connection she needed and were damaging enough in their own way. When Gil was better, they would have a long talk. But for now, she would check there were no more bits of evidence of this kind and take it back. For one thing, Gil had a fairly recent exemplar of one of Lecter's finger prints. That was worth something. Perhaps there were other clues in there that he could see. Perhaps if he faced the crime scene there would be more there.

It was strange, though, because the almost psychic uncanny accuracy of William Graham when it came to serial killers was not something she associated with Gil. Maybe that was the point. But if he'd had it once, it wasn't going away. Block it off, but it couldn't be destroyed. She didn't want to make Gil face that, but it might mean saving him. And she never wanted to lose him -- they'd come too close this time for her not to be sensitive about it.

What she was doing wasn't about prying. It was about trying to make sure that Gil didn't die on them if there was some grander scheme going on.

Catherine protected her friends.

In movies, the world always ended with a dramatic swell of music. There was a thunderclap of a drum and the strains of a violin sliding into the listener's ears to tell them that danger was imminent that it was time to tell loved ones that you loved them before it all went wrong.

Gil never got that kind of opportunity. He hadn't ever gotten it, but it would have been nice to get more than Jim's vague mention while he'd been on the edge of consciousness that Jack had been by. It almost didn't click, except that it did, and he knew who Jack was and if Jim knew who Jack was then Jim knew who Gil was.

Who Will was. He hadn't pried, though, hadn't had time because there was Detective Lockwood and Nicky with a tape recorder and paper.

Brass was out of the room and Nick looked a little uncomfortable to be in the position of asking his boss some very sensitive question so to start with it was Lockwood who set things going after they had done the preliminaries.

"Can you tell us how you came to be at the warehouse where Paul Millander was living and working?" Lockwood asked even as Nick practically had to shake himself to stop staring at Gil.

It was hard to tell how much of that staring was because of how bad Gil knew he had to look, because of what had happened, or because of what he knew that Gil wasn't sure he knew. "His fingerprint was found on a piece of evidence at a crime-scene. We knew that the molded hand was being used to leave the prints, but we didn't know who had laid down the copy or managed to make a copy of my fingerprints. I was... following a hunch when I went there.

"What hunch exactly?" Cyrus asked even as Nick cleared his throat and looked at him. The presence of Grissom's fingerprint had really thrown them all, even if it were something symbolic.

"When I was first at Millander's workshop, with Detective O'Riley, I picked up a rubber hand and set it down. You could, if you were skilled, lift a print from it." Gil reached for the glass of water that was on the swivel table the nurses had brought in while his 'guests' were there, and took a sip. "I remembered that I'd done that, possibly left a print."

Nick nodded. "You could do that yeah." Gil noticed that the other CSI almost leaned forward to pass the glass to him but managed to hang back. He must look worse than he thought.

"What happened when you got there, Gil?" Lockwood said calmly.

"We... talked. I circled around to the issue, and looked around. He offered me a cup of coffee, and I accepted. Then I asked him if he could find any receipts from the wholesalers he sold to. He left..." And came back with a gun, and from there... From there Gil didn't want to think.

"Grissom, I know this is going to be difficult, but we need to know what happened in detail from that point," Nick said earnestly. "We've got a lot of evidence from the crime scene that's placed. We need to know what was placed and what wasn't. What happened then?"

Then. Then, Gil put his glass down because he didn't need anything to fidget with them watching him like a bug under glass. "He had a gun in hand -- he told me to take off my jacket and place it on the back of a chair. I set my sunglasses on the table at his prodding, and was careful to leave prints on them. Then he walked me up the stairs, gun to my back. He had me undress and removed my gun."

"What did you think he was going to do?" Lockwood asked even as Nick made a note. Gil guessed he had explained or confirmed something with that statement.

"At the time, I thought Millander was going to walk me into the bathroom and kill me in the same way as our other 'suicides'. But he... the decorations in the room made me suspicious. He was hinting at... someone else in that room."

"How was he hinting, Gil?" Nick immediately pounced on that. A little too eager. If he were a suspect, Nick would be giving things away.

"He had a perfectly set table setting for one -- there were decorations in the room that hinted at a different person. A copy of Wound Man and cookbooks. He also mentioned that he was a judge." Gil's memory wasn't giving him information in order -- there were bits and pieces because he kept skipping ahead, to the way that Paul, the way that Millander had leaned into him and fucked him hard, had sucked him off, had made him hurt.

"That Millander was a judge or this other person was?" Nick asked leaning forward a little. "What was significant to you about Wound Man and the cook books?"

"That Millander was a judge. He also... didn't have an adam's apple." Gil had gotten to see that fact close up, and he had to close his eyes for a moment. Nick kept leaning in and that was too close, but he couldn't exactly jerk back. The hospital bed was too small to move in without moving right out of it. "The hints seemed to suggest an old case I'd worked."

"When you were known as William Graham," Lockwood tossed that out as a half challenge. "Isn't that right, Gil?"

Gil looked back at Lockwood, and didn't blink. Didn't look at Nick, either, because there was a snerk of a voice in the back of his mind demanding that someone cue up a drum. "Yes."

"The Hannibal Lecter cases," Nick clarified clearing his throat. It was hard to say who was more uncomfortable. "Millander implied that he might be there?"

"Yes. He wasn't, but that was the implication. Millander said he was doing it on purpose." He wasn't sure which was worse -- that topic, or the fact that Nick leaned in further and his knee nudged Gil's catheter bag, and the look on his face when he glanced down and saw it hooked just inside of the bars on that side of the bed.

"Sorry, man," Nick said and sat back.

"How exactly did you get to be on the bed, Gil?" Lockwood continued.

"He circled around me with the gun once I was undressed and hit me with it. When I came to, I was already tied down."

"We need you to tell us what he did, and anything you can remember that he said," Lockwood persisted. "And whether you thought there was a connection with Lecter."

"I've... had a truce with Hannibal. It wasn't him. Millander claimed he was doing it to get his attention. I was... a side movement in something he was planning." Collateral damage, but that was what he'd always been. Everything was collateral damage, it happened because it was convenient to happen to him. His family didn't have to be the third family, he didn't have to be hurt like that by Hannibal, but. But.

But. He didn't want to talk about what Millander had done. He knew, logically, that he had to. It was part of the case. But they knew him. "When I came to, he... talked to me. Tried to convince me that I could have chosen to be there. He tried to calm me down, and then performed oral sex."

Nick was looking at him then, and he could see that particular flex of a jaw muscle the younger man got when he was desperately trying to control emotion. He just wasn't sure which emotion it was. "Did he give reasons why he... assaulted you like that?" Lockwood said calmly. He was good, Gil had to admit that. Most detectives would have been very uncomfortable by that admission.

"He told me it had to be done, and that the fact that he'd... enjoy it was a bonus. He said he wanted to..." Gil had to stretch his memory to grasp it properly, and probably didn't remember it right. "Mark Lecter's territory to draw him out. After that he... went for it."

"Went for it?" Lockwood asked and Nick cleared his throat.

"The medical report showed sexual assault..." he supplied and Lockwood frowned a little at him.

"I have to hear that from Gil, Nick."

Gil didn't particularly want to say it. It was getting harder to keep that distanced tone of voice, not to feel the lack of distance from the event. He still hurt. His wrists, his ankles still hurt. "He..." Fucked? Raped? Performed an act of intercourse? What were they expecting Gil Grissom, the guy who never went on dates, to say? They were both watching him, and it made Gil want to close his eyes and pretend he'd passed out, except neither of them would buy it. No one would buy it and it was childish of him to even entertain it.

"He didn't have to untie me when he fucked me. And he didn't use any lubrication. It went on for... a long time, and he eventually masturbated me to..." Gil waved a hand a little, a vague circle of motion. "When he finished, he assaulted me with the gun a little. Then there was the sound of a car outside. That was when he knocked me out again."

"You were unconscious during the time that CSI Willows was present looking for you?" Lockwood pushed at the topic a little. "You had no opportunity to call for help?"

"None. I think I yelled, but she probably wasn't even out of her car. When I woke up, it was dark outside."

"You were unconscious for a reasonable period of time," Lockwood concluded. "What were your first impressions when you regained consciousness?"

"That I was still breathing. I hoped that he hadn't killed whoever had come to investigate." Gil had to close his eyes for a moment, because it was getting hard to look everywhere but them. "He had a linoleum knife."

"Is that significant?" Lockwood asked. "That particular type of knife?"

He could tell from the look in Nick's eyes, they knew the answer. He'd forgotten how much of taking statements was getting the witness to say what you already knew.

He'd been doing the damn job for too long.

"It was what Lecter used on me when I attempted to capture him." Come up to him, knocked him into a bookcase, twisted his hand until bones had ground, until he had no muscle control of his wrist and had to drop his gun. And then he'd stuck the blade in, twisted it, jerked and ripped a hole in him. It was supposed to have been gentle, but that had been a lie. Even with Hannibal whispering to him, he'd had to fight it.

"Again a connection. Did he say anything else at that point?" Lockwood asked even as Gil felt Nick looking towards his stomach and the scars old and all too new.

Gil had no idea what they looked like. Didn't want to know, because he was probably going to have to live with it. "He heavily suggested that I try to survive it. That was after he spent ten minutes carving... whatever he did into me." Ten minutes of struggle and agony and Millander kneeling on his crotch.

"Did you remain conscious?" Lockwood asked. "Did you hear him say anything else?"

"I remained conscious. He wasn't... saying anything. He was trying to keep me still." There was no way to describe to them the agony he'd been in, the threats that had hardly worked to keep him still. Threatening to cut off a ball and make him eat it had hardly dented the pain, but it had made him bite at his lip again.

"And then he just stopped?" Lockwood made that a direct question. "And didn't finish the job?"

"What do you mean 'finish the job'?" Gil could only assume he meant 'kill him', but clearly he hadn't. He couldn't have been telling them the evidence if they'd killed him.

"Do you believe his intent was to kill you and he failed, or to leave you alive?" Lockwood asked plainly.

"His intent was to leave me alive -- whether I was still alive when I was found was another matter," Gil shrugged, the motion tight. He slid a glace over to Nick, to gauge what he was thinking. Nick had obviously been thinking it had been too close a deal. He could read that all over his face.

"Well that covers the events. It's your show now, Stokes. CSI stuff," Lockwood said gesturing to Nick.

"This isn't really part of the statement as such, Gil, so it's just for your thoughts. You've got more background on this than any of us but if you want to stop just say," Nick said almost apologetically. "Millander's DNA came back XX and high androgenous hormones. We've matched to an exemplar from his family home with his mother. There were a lot of details in there -- the current theory is that Lecter was puppeting Millander. Everything seems to point that way. Agent Crawford seems confident now that's the case."

"Agent Crawford can go fuck himself. And you can tell him that," Gil offered bluntly. He needed to sit up a little more, and pressed his hand against the side rail to get a little leverage. Everything still hurt. "Lecter isn't involved. Yet."

Nick looked uncomfortable. "Griss, the evidence ties the assault to Millander, but it's not his usual MO. There was salad, with fava beans, Chianti and an excised portion of... your flesh in a blood sauce. There was a fake desert baked out of human fecal matter with some human DNA in it. Greg is still trying to pull the information out of that... You think he wants Lecter involved?"

"Yes. He said it would serve the higher cause of justice." Gil shrugged again, and reached for the glass of water. "And I wouldn't call it a sauce. There wasn't any cooking involved. He cut it out of me and dropped it on a plate."

Nick winced at that where he didn't. "So you think he has some sort of plan? Couldn't that be a double bluff? Agent Crawford has been telling us some of what Lecter can do..."

"And I am telling you that it's not Lecter. I'm sure that Jack's told you all more than you ever needed to hear." It was getting hard not to snarl that, and he managed to keep his voice down because he was sipping at water. "Jack's a two-faced bastard."

Jack was probably in the other room, and Nick hadn't ever heard Gil call anyone a bastard.

"Easy, Gil," Nick patted at an unbandaged part of his arm. "Easy. We shouldn't trust him?"

"Trust him if you want. But whatever happens to you is not my fault if you do trust him." He could tell that Jack was already doing it, ingratiating himself into their lives, getting to know them, telling them things. Old war stories -- he was probably headhunting as much as he was trying to work the case.

"We're your team, Grissom. Always will be." The way Nick said it with the sort of sincerity only he could muster was heartening if a little naive. "We're more likely to trust you. Besides..." He smiled slowly. "He insulted Greg. Assumed he was a loser because of his hair."

That got a little laugh out of Gil and he looked down for a moment, mollified. "Jack... is very close to being one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse, Nicky. When he shows up, trouble is usually on his heels." And ruin, but Gil wasn't going to say that. Maybe they didn't know that every time Jack pulled a rabbit out of a hat, Gil lost everything. His footing, his sense of self, his family.

Nick nodded. "Like Lecter. Got it." He glanced at his watch. "Brass said if we pissed you off too much before he got back he'd make sure we all regretted it. If it makes you feel better, he seems to have taken an instant dislike to Agent Crawford."

That was good to hear, too, better than hearing that he'd pissed off Greg. Gil nodded, and sat back a little, abandoning the water glass to the tray for the moment. "Is there anything else I can answer?"

"I think Cath's coming in sometime," Nick replied as he glanced over at Detective Lockwood. "She said to let you know she had some things to talk about, but we're done for now."

"All right. If you need anything clarified, I'll do my best to help." He wanted Millander caught. He wanted that man to go to jail for the murder he'd committed, for the trap he'd set up for Gil. They would catch him and maybe the bait wouldn't be taken. Maybe they could catch him and everything could return to normal for Gil.

Pipe dreams, but he still had them.

"Thanks." Nick stood as did Lockwood. "You want me to bring anything when I come to see you?" he asked as he tucked his notepad and the tape recorder away. As they did so, the door open and Jim poked his head in.

"You guys done?"

"Yeah, we're done."

"No, I think I have all of the distraction I can handle right now. Thanks." He gave a nod to detective Lockwood, and a half-smile to Nick, and tried not to think too hard about what the topic of conversation was going to be with Jim as long as Gil was coherent and awake.

He watched as Nick nodded and clapped Jim on the shoulder as they left the room and his replacement visitor came over and sat down.

"How was it? Do I need to kick their combined ass?"

"No. I'm glad it was Lockwood." He was a good detective, a good cop. No pressing for anything unnecessary, and while he hadn't wanted to say anything that he'd had to say out loud, it was necessary for the statement. He needed to at least vaguely describe what happened. And that wasn't anyone's fault.

He cleared his throat a little. "So..."

"So with any luck you won't have to do that again in a hurry," Brass replied settling down next to him. "I hear the doctors are doing your surgery soon?"

"Later today or tomorrow. Depending on the schedule." They didn't seem to be in a rush to do it, probably because Gil had been sleeping for long stretches of time when the pain killers allowed it. He couldn't remember the last time that a week had flown by like that, when time had last warped so drastically and a few hours felt like minutes.

Jim had at least shaved sometime in the past day or so.

"I'll find out. Might even go to work, then I'll have something interesting to talk about when you come around," Jim replied with a faint smile. "Crawford wants to come in and see you again." Yeah, there was no doubt from the way Jim's voice changed when he said that, that he knew and he wasn't impressed with Jack at all.

They hadn't talked about it much. It seemed that everyone knew and didn't know how to approach him, and that was fine. Gil didn't know how to approach it, either. "Jim... about that. I, uh..."

Jim looked at him a moment and seemed to realize that Gil was trying to apologize or something. "Hey, it doesn't worry me. Unless you expect me to remember to call you Will all the time or something, because I've got a lot of experience with Gil and Grissom. That could be a problem."

"That's... not going to happen. I ran into an old friend a few years ago, and he called me Will. I told him Will was dead. That... stopped that." He liked Alan Bloom, now more than before because he could respect his professional life more than he had as Will. Gil leaned his head back on the pillow, watching Jim. "I never expected anyone to find out."

"Stuff has a way of coming out. I don't think it will really bother anyone. Everyone's pretty in awe, I guess," Brass shrugged with a smile which seemed to indicate he couldn't see why they were, it was just Gil here.

Just Gil. Just Gil, except he was faintly aware of stirrings in the back of his mind, thoughts that he didn't touch clawing out of his subconscious looking for air, space to breath and stretch and move. "They shouldn't be."

After all, William Graham was a legend and a burnout. There was no reason for the legend to overshadow the burnout part of the story, and Gil had worked hard since then to avoid doing that to himself again.

When had Jim moved that close? Had he drifted off, or?

The feeling of a large warm hand taking his hand grounding him got him focused. "Yeah, I said that, but they don't listen to me. In fact, I don't think they ever did, you know that? Amazing." Jim shook his head. "There's things that you don't know about me. About any of us pretty much. I know the guy who I've worked with for ten years." He shrugged again. "Catherine looked a bit shocked, though."

"Catherine's leading the case?" Catherine had been in his house, and that meant that Catherine had wandered in between his butterflies on the walls -- a voice in the back of his mind peered up and whispered about the symbolism of Becoming, and was he already there or had he Become? -- and she'd probably found his secrets, some of them if not all of them.

She probably hadn't pried up the floorboard in his closet. It was a small comfort that he was going to wear as soft and warm as the spot that Jim kept rubbing over the skin between thumb and forefinger.

"Yeah." Jim looked down a moment and then back at him. "So we pretty much know about your family and what happened with Lecter. Most of it anyway. What the FBI knows, at least." It was easy to underestimate Jim. He could just slide something like that into conversation.

That there were things the FBI didn't know. And maybe they had pried up the floorboard. Maybe his sanctuary wasn't so safe, so sacrosanct after all, and maybe he was going to have to guess what they knew. Could he just ask outright, or would it be better to beat around the bush? Gil opened his mouth, but closed it when he saw a familiar face pass by the door. Jack was pacing past.

Jim looked like he had just sucked on a lemon. "You know, that guy makes my knuckles itch," he said conversationally and looking hopeful that he might just keep walking past.

And maybe he would -- except that Gil knew, Will knew, that he wouldn't. "He wants Agent Starling back. That's why he's here. He wants me, Will, to hunt Lecter down for him so he can get his agent back." And Gil shouldn't have known about it, except he had letters and correspondence, and enough passing knowledge of news to know that Lecter had her and that she was still alive.

Gil closed his eyes. "Just... tell him he can come in. So he'll leave."

"You sure?" Jim asked him again still holding on to his hand. "I can tell him where to go if you want."

Jim would tell Jack to go to hell, but Molly had served as that counterpoint for years for Will and it hadn't ever worked. Jack got in, got under Will's skin and he'd do it again. "No, that's... it's better to get it over with." He gave a squeeze of Jim's fingers. Gil hadn't even had time to ask Jim why he was there, why he was warming the chair beside Gil's bed, holding his hand, almost always there whether Gil was awake or asleep.

"Okay then." Jim got up and went over to the door and he could hear him tell Jack something like he might as well come in if he was going to pace around. No false promises of Gil wanting to see him.

There was no doubt it was what Jack had been waiting for -- he was inside the room like a shot even as Jim very deliberately returned to his normal chair and settled down.

"Hi, Will. It's been a long time."

"Not long enough." Jack hadn't aged well, but the last time Gil had seen him had been, what, ten years ago? When Lecter had first escaped, when Will had been visiting his mother and he'd been hauled in for questioning because there was an off chance that he'd seen or aided or abetted the psychopath that they had let loose.

He remembered spitting at Jack.

"And I thought it might be long enough for you to let go of some of this," Jack replied shaking his head sadly. "I just wanted to see how you are recovering. We did used to be partners, Will."

"Yeah, Jack, I remember it well. Did you expect to drop by and reminisce? Hey, remember this case or that case?" He shook his head a little, and frowned at Jack as the other man walked closer to his bed. "I'm recovering."

"I'm here because one of your CSIs called me," Jack replied and Gil recognized his attempted at innocence. "I'm here because they need help."

He could feel that Jim had taken his hand again. Could feel the pressure of thumb wearing at that familiar spot again. "That's fine." He wasn't going to buy it, wasn't going to believe it, but Jack had to know that already. "How's the case going?"

"I have to admit, they've collected a lot of evidence," Jack replied with one of smiles he remembered so well. "Though DNA is dragging their heels. I still think we could get a result quicker if we used the FBI labs..."

"The cooked sample," Jim murmured. "Greg's been working on it."

"We're the second best lab in the country. You couldn't get it done faster without shipping it to the east coast, and we both know it, Jack." Gil shifted, sitting up a little more. Maybe he was hallucinating, but he remembered a similar tableau from years ago, Jack standing off to the side like some all knowing fatherly figure, surveying the damage wrought on Will, a hand holding tight to his that ended up still not being enough to ground him.

"So they tell me." Jack cleared his throat. "We're going to need you on this one. Lecter's involved, that's for sure Will and no one else has ever come close and stayed clear."

"Lecter," Gil stated calmly,"is not involved. No matter how much you wish he was, Jack, he's not involved. Yet."

"What do you mean by that?" Jack came closer to the bed. "The attack had all his signatures all over it. It's not like he hasn't done this sort of thing to you before."

"Once, Jack, because you pushed me into the god-damned case!" Because he'd tried to use Lecter to get the scent and he had the scent now when he didn't need it, didn't want it. "Millander said he was doing it to bait Lecter. This is something going on between them, or... Millander wants something going on between them." His head was starting to hurt and he lifted his free hand to rub at the temple that didn't have stitches running right beside it, covering his eyes for a moment. "I don't know."

"So a serial killer wanting to hook up with another serial killer," Jack said. "That's a recipe for disaster right there. And using you as bait. You absolutely sure about this, Will?"

"There are better times to do this sort of thing, Jack," Jim said with heavy emphasis.

"You told me to come in. I came in. I've only got Will's best interest at heart."

The room was stunned to silence by the audacity of that pronouncement. Or at least, Gil was, and Jim might've been taking his cues to heart. "Jack... You have your best interests at heart. You have the Bureau's best interests at heart. Not Will's. Will's dead and you did a lot of the killing there, so why don't you just... just stop pretending. If I have to, I'll do it, just not now. I can't."

"If Lecter comes back, Will, it won't just be you in danger, you know that. And who knows what this Millander guy has in mind. This is a hell of a mess and we can't afford to wait..."

Jim stood up suddenly. "Agent Crawford, with your head so far up your ass, you might have just missed the line you shouldn't have crossed. I think you should go now."

"We... can't afford to wait?" Gil sat up as much as he could. "Fuck you, Jack. I can't even stand up right now without help. I'm lucky that I'm alive."

"Yeah and I want to keep you that way," Jack said earnestly. "You know it's true, Will, and I..."

Brass had grabbed hold of his arm. "Outside. Now."

"We haven't finished discussing..."

"I think Gil lost interest in what you were discussing about... when you last fucked him over?" Jim suggested pleasantly enough. "Don't make me hit you, Agent Crawford. Think of the paperwork."

"Hey, look, you don't understand the ramifications of this, Captain Brass. Jesus, Will, call off the guard dog."

"He's a friend, not a guard dog. I just gave you my answer, Jack. I need time. Go away -- go do your damn job yourself." Was it so hard to leave him alone? He was still in the fucking hospital, he was still processing his bodily functions through bags and everything still hurt and he still was trying not to think about what had happened. There wasn't enough room in his head for Gil, let alone anyone else.

Brass didn't wait for an answer but very impolitely moved Jack from the room. Gil could see some rather vigorous words being exchanged; Crawford probably doing his 'end of the world is nigh!' speech and Jim from the looks of it rather succinctly telling him to fuck off if his lip reading was up to par. There was a gesturing that firmly put any responsibility for what happened next on them not Jack before the Agent turned and left, radiating anger.

Jim returned with a broad smile. "Woof fucking woof," he said with a smirk.

"Thanks." Gil leaned back, peering at Jim again, watching him move to sit down in the chair again. "That went as well as I could expect. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, you should be. It was only because of you I didn't punch him in the face. I mean, you might disapprove or something," Jim said still smiling. "You need rest, you need not to be thinking about this shit now. That's why we spent all that time training other people to think, y'know?"

"I wish that he wasn't right. This... if it gets Lecter's attention, this is... going to blow up in our faces, potentially." A bomb that Gil hadn't set, but that he was. He was what could blow up, so to speak. If Hannibal arrived, under the radar, and no one but Gil knew, they could pass through the storm unharmed. But with a full CSI investigation and the FBI involved, and Jack there...

"Yeah, I get that," Brass murmured. "So if he does, we'll deal. We know he's dangerous. We know Millander is. We've all had close calls. But if you stick your neck out you make it certain, right? If you're the only guy in the world that can take down Lecter then I'd pretty much want you fit and healthy before I pushed things. You don't send a prizefighter into a championship fight if they've been hospitalized. Simple practical common sense. Unless I'm missing something here."

"The only thing you're missing is that Jack is missing an agent. And he wants her back," Gil murmured. "No common sense needed. When I was in the Bureau, they just... got me up to functioning and that was good enough." And he was functioning, wasn't he? Head mostly clear, but his body a wreck, and that was better than stretching and reaching and trying to get better because he knew they needed him when he couldn't make things go faster. "This is... just physical damage to Jack. He doesn't see why I can't start to work the case now, from the bed."

"Well he's an idiot," Brass said succinctly. "We know you. You're the most committed guy I know. When you're ready to work on it then you will and if you aren't ready then you shouldn't be because it could cause problems with the case. Simple."

Simple, except that it wasn't, and his head was really starting to hurt. "Yeah." He wanted to sleep, to rest and forget that anything had gone wrong, and to forget why he was there. Eventually he'd have to stand up in front of a mirror and see what Millander had done to him, but he was avoiding that for as long as possible. "Jim, do you mind if I ask something?"

"Sure. You can ask me anything," Jim replied easily enough.

"I don't mind that you're here. I... don't like to be alone in hospitals. But I keep wondering... why you're here." There. He hadn't asked anything strange, hadn't asked anything about what they knew or didn't know. This was something simple, something between him and Jim and that never got too complicated.

Jim shrugged and gave a simple if surprising answer. "Because I want to be here." It was an answer that was just like the other man. It could be a very simple phrase or it could be a signpost to something deeper.

That easy. Gil nodded, and scooted down a little in the bed. "Okay. Is there anyone else lurking out in the hall?"

"Nah. You can have a sleep if you want," Jim replied settling back. "Giving statements can be tiring, right?"

"They went easy on me," Gil noted. He pulled at the sheets with his free hand, noting that it didn't bother him that Jim was keeping his right hand hostage. He didn't need it much just then anyway.

"Good. They've got enough to get them started," Jim murmured stroking his hand unself-consciously. "I'll have to go back to work soon, but the guys are coming in to see you. Want to save that time off for when you get home and you really need it."

If he hadn't been so tired, so sharply drained from Jim's visit, it might have startled him more, what Jim was suggesting. "What're you going to do with it?"

"Stay with you. Or you stay with me," Jim shrugged. "It's then you'll need help, right?"

It sounded so obvious when Jim said it.

"Probably." Gil closed his eyes, fingers twitching almost desperately to remind himself that he had the contact of the other man's fingers. Not alone. Not alone, and it was Jim. And when he woke up it was going to be Catherine or Warrick or Sara or Nicky. "Hasn't caught up with me yet."

"It always does. But later, right? Lots of time for that later," Jim murmured to him even as the details of the room became indistinct again.

Jim was right and he could wait a little longer if there was someone there. It was when he was alone that his mind turned in on itself. Maybe if he wasn't alone he wouldn't have to go through the inevitable breakdown. Maybe not.

~~~~~

Catherine knew she looked like hell -- Sara had pointed it out to her, which was galling beyond belief, but she still look good compared to Grissom. The bruising had faded and the swelling had gone down a lot, but he had been in recovery for his reverse colostomy for the best part of a day and no one looked good after an operation.

They were a good way into the case and she found the details running around her head constantly. She was already regretting contacting Crawford, even if it had been necessary. He was trying to poach Sara, he'd managed to offend Greg, and Jim hated him, and had told her about Grissom...

And the headache had taken up permanent residence. No wonder Grissom got migraines. All of those things on the sidelines to balance, and if Jack had been as abrasive ten years ago, it was little wonder that Grissom had tried to assault the man in California, and had ended up with a saliva sample in CODIS.

There was a good chance that with his background, she would have tried to spit on Jack, too, no matter how out of character it was for the Gil they knew.

Gil was propped up in a hospital bed looking desperately groggy and trying to do a crossword puzzle at the same time. It was Warrick's idea to leave him a big book of them, varying levels of hardness.

"Hey, Gil," she smiled as she stepped into the room. "Up to another visitor?"

"Does my visitor know a five letter word for hat?" He sounded groggy, and the pen was a little loose in his fingers, but he seemed lucid.

That was a start. She couldn't exactly talk to him if he was incoherent.

"Fedor?" Catherine suggested as she walked over and bent over to give him a light kiss. "I thought you were just out of recovery?"

"Isn't it fedora?" He blinked his eyes a little, and looked at her with a little curiosity in his eyes. "I am. Didn't want the other painkillers. Hurts, but..." He shrugged. Okay, so Gil was starting to refuse pain medication?

"Fedora's six letters but I think you can use Fedor as well," Catherine said sitting down. "If you're hurting, you need painkillers, Gil. You have just had surgery."

"I'm tired of sleeping." He wrote 'Fedor' down in pen, and frowned at the page for a moment before he laid the pen between the pages and closed the book. "How're you?"

She opened her mouth trying to work out how to answer that. Did Gil need to know about the fact she hadn't been able to sleep properly since it all happened? That she felt driven and constantly at fault? Probably not. "I'm fine. Missing you," she managed.

"You look tired." He had a relatively soft surface behind him to lean against, and seemed comfortable, even if his expression was a little tight. "Killed Jack yet?"

"No. But only because we can't spare a CSI to investigate it," Catherine said with a smile. "He's trying to poach out Sara, would you believe that?"

"Yeah." Gil shifted, turned a little towards her, and it couldn't have been comfortable for him. Or maybe he was still so drugged up that it was. "He does that. He likes a certain personality type."

"Well, looks like I piss him off even more than Brass did. I refused to hand over the evidence I collected at your house, Gil." There. She'd admitted it. One of the things preying on her mind.

"Is my house a crime scene?" It seemed to surprise him, a little.

"No. No, I was given a warrant to search for evidence that might prove a possible connection to Lecter. It was me or the Feds. I... decided to do it personally." She was hoping she didn't have to spell it all out. "I found the letters and pictures."

No reaction, and maybe his lack of a reaction was a reaction. "Ah. It's not as if any of that's a secret to Jack, Catherine. He'll tell you more if you hold still long enough."

"I didn't take your... family pictures and letters. They weren't in the remit of the warrant." She exhaled. "I guess I feel a little weird about having to do that. I wanted to apologize."

"That's all right. I should have... expected it to come out some time." He cleared his throat a little. "So you took just the ones from Hannibal. I, uh..."

She recognized that look. That was the Grissom look of 'oh shit I don't know what to say or do'. It was curiously reassuring.

"I suppose I could tiptoe around the edges, but that's not my way," Catherine said. "So... I guess I was a bit hurt that you never said anything. I mean I understand why you did, I just wished I'd been a good enough friend that we could've shared that."

"The part where I used to have a family? Or about Lecter? Or that I haven't always lived in a 'hermetically sealed condo'..." Gil sighed, and looked down to the book in his lap,"Doing hard crossword puzzles."

"Any of it. I've always liked the fact we could say anything to each other," Catherine replied gently. "I mean it would have been good to have someone to talk to about it sometime right? So, was it just something about me?"

"No. I..." Gil kept looking down, mouth a little open. "No idea where to start. I ran away from my life, Catherine. Well. It ran away from me, and I just couldn't... couldn't handle that. I wanted to start over." And when he finally looked over at her, it was with a firm gaze that unsettled her a little. "You can't start over if you let it follow you. And what was I supposed to say? 'Did you know I burnt out at Quantico when I was twenty five'? Or, if you've read the letters, and I can guess you have, 'I used to sleep with a serial killer'. That's a great conversation topic. Really. How about 'I cheated on my wife'? And 'she cheated on me'? And 'I haven't seen my son since he was nine'?"

Catherine looked at him a moment. "Yeah, that would have worked. That's the point. You've been something different to me. I know we've never gone to a relationship or anything because I think that would have been too ordinary. I guess, I just wanted you to know I could've coped with that. After all, you coped with the ex-stripper with the abusive husband, right? I know it's not as big a deal but... Hell, I don't know what I'm trying to say, Griss. I think I can understand a lot of it and I'm sure as hell not going to judge you for anything. I've got no right to do any of that."

"I, it's not... that I was keeping anything. You were living that life, you were still you, and I... Will's dead. I can't drag that with me all the time. I can't think about it all the time. I can't think when it's all there, Catherine. I can't be that person; I don't have the energy to do that." He rubbed at his face for a moment, trying not to look at her. "Will's dead and I wish everyone would just leave him buried."

"Jesus Gil, I'm sorry," Catherine felt an immediate stab of guilt as she reached for his hand. "I'm so sorry... I really am. I'm sorry because I know this is my fault. What happened to you is my fault..."

"It's not. I went in there, I had a hunch, and then I knew, and tried to... ignore that I knew he was the killer. And he saw that I knew. If I'd run for the door when he left to get the receipts..." Gil let her grasp at his hand, and shrugged a little, a tight gesture that made her hurt. "It's not your fault."

And implicitly, it was his fault, and Catherine didn't know what to think about that.

"It doesn't change the fact I was there and he snowed me... I knew something was wrong, otherwise I wouldn't have followed you there. But he fooled me and I didn't put it together until it was too late," Catherine replied holding him tight. "It wasn't your fault. He had a gun on you. There was nothing you could have done. I could have done something. I should have gone with my feeling and acted then. Hell, Gil, I was planning how to tease you about it!"

The edge of his mouth twitched a little, a faint motion that faded too fast. "He made it seem consenting. I didn't know my love life was so barren that it's up for jokes..." There was another shrug -- by now, Gil was using it like a punctuation mark, something to say with a gesture when the words failed him. His voice was starting to sound shaky. "I thought he was going to kill you. If he hadn't fooled you, he would have."

"I would have shot him," Catherine said with certainty. "Rather than leave you there. I just can't stand the thought of knowing what he did and that I could've stopped it. I could have stopped this pain for you." It was true, that was a fact she couldn't get away from. "I don't expect you to forgive me for that, so I've been trying to... do what has to be done. For you."

"By the time you got there, Catherine... He'd already had most of his fun finished. Wouldn't have made much of a difference."

And that was worse in a way because she needed desperately to have been able change this somehow. She was so damn tired as well that it nearly brought tears to her eyes. "Anything he did to you is a big difference to me," she said fervently. "To all of us."

"I'm... starting to realize that," he said, voice falling quieter. Catherine wanted to kick him if he'd somehow never thought that before. "Have you... worked out what he carved on me? I haven't seen it yet."

"Nicky's piecing it together. It's... we think it's a dragon Gil. We're not sure what that means," Catherine replied, stroking at his hand. How could he not know? Or was it that he hoped they didn't?

Because everyone who'd cared in his life, from what she could see, had turned on him or left. And if a person associated love with that person leaving, then... Why hope for love and worry at all?

"A Dragon... ?" She could see Gil tilt his head a little, looking at some indeterminate point on the sheets near his feet. "In blood. A bloody Dragon. Blood... blood is red." He sucked in a breath, and then started to laugh in a strained sound. "Red Dragon."

"That means something?" Catherine asked, concerned. It obviously did, something from his past so must be something to do with Lecter. "What is it?"

"The Red Dragon... It was the... Jesus, the Dollarhyde case. The Toothfairy case. He had a tattoo of Blake's Red Dragon... And he was Becoming." There was still a strained laugh in his voice, and he leaned back again, closing his eyes. "He did his research. Millander did his damn research."

"Becoming?" Catherine definitely needed that clarified. "What's Becoming?"

"It's a... transformational state some killers go through." Gil shook his head a little, and sighed. "They become something else through their crime. God or the devil or a beautiful woman or wanted and desired. It's..." It didn't quite click for Catherine. She needed to think it over, whereas Gil -- or was it Will? -- understood it implicitly.

"Right. Right. I think I need to think on this. But this was a Dollarhyde thing? This is another link?" Catherine asked looking at him. "Or some sort of way of... uh... transforming you?"

"I don't know." He still hadn't opened his eyes, and Gil shook his head now. "I haven't seen it. It's... I can't be sure unless I'm working the case. And I'm... not. I am the case."

"It's okay. We can work on it. You don't have to do anything. No matter what Crawford says." She meant that. They might get there slower, but they would get there.

Eventually. Maybe. "If Lecter shows up, I'll have to. I, I don't have a choice. He moves too fast, he's too dangerous if Jack... if Jack doesn't go back."

"Trust me, we're trying to get him to go. It's my fault, I shouldn't have contacted him, but I needed information," Catherine grimaced. "I'm sorry, Gil."

"I've been at a truce with him," Gil said, and Catherine couldn't quite grasp that idea. "I leave him alone. If I, if I..."

If I, and Gil's voice seemed to stick like he couldn't complete the thought.

"Shh, shh... Gil, it's okay. It's okay. Look, none of us are going to leave you to face this alone," she said trying to reassure him. "You know we'd do anything for you okay? You do know that right? If not, start learning it."

He squeezed her fingers. "I keep thinking I should leave. But I think Jim might hunt me down to beat sense into me."

She smiled at that. "Yeah he would. He really would. I've never seen him like this." She debated whether to say anything else. Or should she let them find their own way?

After all, she'd already mused on Gil's love life, and look where it had gotten her and him. Sitting there in the hospital, with Gil looking tense and sad and tired and wound up all at once. His free hand was knotting in the sheets, book resting on his lap. "He's worried. He'd do it for you."

"He'd do it for you, you mean," Catherine replied. A nudge wouldn't harm, not in the right direction. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do this to you Gil. I... I guess I'm not thinking straight either."

"It's a lot to digest. I..." He exhaled, and finally peered at her a little. His right eye still seemed swollen, but that could have been the stitches that were right beside it. "I'm scared."

"It would be pretty stupid just to say everything is going to be okay just like that huh?" Catherine said looking right at him, feeling her eyes sting a little at that pronouncement. "All I can say is that I will do anything I can to make sure nothing else happens to you. I can promise you my best Gil. And if anyone wants you, they'll have to go through me and a whole group of people first."

"That's what I'm scared of, Catherine."

"Let us be your friends, Gil, okay? We're not the FBI, we're more like a family," Catherine murmured.

"And they left. He tried to kill them, and they left. And that's..." Gil muffled a yawn that cracked his jaw, un-knotting his hand from the bedding. "What scares me."

"We'll work something out," Catherine murmured. "You need more rest. I love you, you idiot, you know that? Last thing we need is you getting an infection or something."

"Mmm. They want to release me in a couple more days..." Which was a great chance for him to catch an infection all by himself, except Jim was already planning to take what time off of work that he could. They weren't going to leave Gil out on his own after that and they weren't... she wasn't going to give him a chance to cut his ties and run when they weren't looking. She could see the urge in his eyes earlier.

If nothing else, she knew what would happen and she didn't have the heart to bring it up. She might not understand the intricacies of the psychopathic mind, but she knew basic plays, and if Millander or Lecter wanted him back, they would go after the team. It would be better if they were all ready and prepared for that. "Yeah, I know that. And you'll have Jim there. You want him to stay at yours with you? Or you want to go to his? I can get the place ready for you."

"I don't want to go back to my place," Gil murmured. He seemed to be sliding towards sleep, towards rest at last, even if his body was full of tension.

"Jim's then. I'll let him know." She stroked his forehead gently. "Go to sleep, Gil."

"Be careful..." He seemed to calm a little, though, and even as ragged and beaten-up as he looked, a peace seemed to settle over his face. It wasn't immediate, but Gil eventually started to breathe slower, mouth a little lax. The crossword puzzle book was still resting on his lap, and Catherine set it aside. She felt a little better for their discussion but knew her feeling of guilt wasn't just going to vanish because Gil said so. It wouldn't be that easy. Gil had managed decades of penance for taking responsibility for danger to his family so she decided there and then there would have to be something more tangible, more solid to be the act of forgiveness.

They had to stop Millander and Lecter. For Gil's sake, and for the sake of them all.

Catherine just didn't know where to start.

Bandages served the strangest purpose.

They were there to keep infection out, Gil knew, but they served a dual purpose of keeping everything else in. Skin under bandages went soft and white from lack of air, wounds puckered and skin shed. It was all a very scientific process, very predictable. Stitches served the same keep-in keep-out purpose, sealing a hole but keeping whatever was in when it was sealed in and the outside out.

Gil just wondered how much of that was rot, because he was covered in bandages and stitches. They doctors had told him to expect them to start falling out soon, the stitches beside his eye and up over his temple, the stitches on some of his lighter cuts. He'd have to come back in a week to get the stitches for the deeper wounds removed, and.. And he wasn't going to think about the deep, thick chunk of flesh that had been cut out of his chest, where the knife had nicked his ribcage. There had been surgery to seal that, and his doctor had mentioned muscle damage.

His doctor also kept expressing surprise at how well Gil was doing, but that was because the stitches and bandages kept the rot in him, kept it from getting out.

He knew he was falling apart inside, but the wounds were healing so well, and he didn't want to end up like he had last time. Like he had every time. Will had given up, had fallen apart, but Gil... Gil was damn well going to soldier on. He'd ignore that most of the Band-Aids that had been slapped down over his IV holes, over his medication port, itched.

He was going home soon -- back with Jim, who was busy finishing work so he could take vacation time. That meant he had someone else on duty of being his bedside companion. Jim had been true to his word there; there had been very few times in his stay at the hospital where he had been conscious and alone.

It was just a little difficult that the person on this final watch was Sara. She was too curious to let things go, and too blind to emotion to see how raw he was getting inside.

"....and possibly I could become a full agent if I wanted to. Specialize you know? Anyway I don't have to give an answer or anything -- he's been called away for a few days."

And what was he supposed to say to that? Thank god? Was he supposed to think logically and tell her why he thought it was a bad idea, or why half an hour of her happy talk about a new possible future was making him ill?

"Sara..." Gil had a small stack of books and other things that people had brought him while he'd been there. He was still in a hospital gown, but Jim had said he was going to take the house key that Gil had given him and get him clothes, pack up an overnight bag to last a few days. "If this... I wouldn't suggest taking Jack's offer."

She looked at him. "Well, I can understand you having a problem working with the FBI again," she said with a hint of sympathy. "Considering what's happened, but I like the idea of being involved in forensics research. Developing new techniques. I thought you were all for finding new ways around things?"

"Sara, it's Jack Crawford who's recruiting you. He's the head of Behavioral Sciences -- he doesn't deal with forensics. He's looking for someone who's willing to take risks in the field for him and is young enough to survive it." A hint of sympathy didn't matter at all if it wasn't tempered with common sense and she needed to think with her head and not with her heart this time.

"I know he's not the most approachable guy but..." Sara had a faint flush to her cheeks and Gil knew what that meant. Crawford had been wooing her. Dinners, conversations, paying attention and Sara had been lapping it up.

That was partly his fault.

Maybe he should have left her in San Francisco. Maybe he shouldn't have called her in to do the IA on Warrick. Maybe... "No, Sara. Jack can be very... friendly when he wants to be. He likes to hand-pick the agents who work for him. He's had four agents under his wing since he was senior enough to do it -- Andrews was shot by a suspect and died on the scene. Then there was me, Andrew's successor, and my track record wasn't..." Gil exhaled, and shifted to sit up a little more. "Wasn't the best. Cunningham also died in a confrontation with a suspect, and Starling is MIA. Do you see a pattern here, Sara?"

"Yes," Sara admitted. "I know the history of it. It's just that it's an opportunity to get in and skip over years worth of climbing ranks. That's a pretty big offer and it would make a difference. If it weren't Jack I'm sure you would be interested in a practical field level forensics development post."

"But it is Jack, Sara. You shouldn't trust him with your life." Gil looked at her, her eager expression, the tilt of her mouth. "And you just arrived in Vegas a couple of months ago."

"I know. I don't have roots yet," Sara smiled a little. "But I don't want to leave before we crack all this. Then... then we might see." She wanted him to say something. Lure him out with this talk -- Sara wasn't stupid.

Gil just wished he could see where she was trying to go with it. He also wished that he'd argued his way out of a dose of painkillers, but the nurses were getting sly to his arguments. They'd had over a week to hone their skills, and Gil had to admit that they were good at it by then. So it made him muzzy and his mind drifted when he wanted to think sharply instead.

"We'll see. Promise me you'll think about it. I don't want you in that kind of danger."

She smiled at that. "And I don't want you in here either." She looked around as the door opened and Jim came in with a small bag.

"Ready to leave, Gil?" he asked gesturing with the bag. "Got some things to change into."

"Thanks." He was already close to the edge of the bed, with the railing already swung down, but now he could stand up, half-careful not to flash Sara while he got to unsteady feet. Everything hurt more when he was standing, an ache in his guts that seemed to echo up and entangle with the pain of his chest

"Slowly there," Jim almost pushed Sara to one side to come around to steady him and she looked at him with an incredulous expression on his face and then straight at Gil.

Except everything hurt until he managed to get on his feet and standing. "I'm okay. I'm not going to fall over." Jim had his arm up by the shoulder, near the bandages beneath his hospital gown. He turned a little, and belatedly remembered that his gown was open at the back. "They wouldn't let me leave if I were going to do that, would they?"

"And I wouldn't put it past you to pull the wool over their eyes," Jim replied. "Sara, could you pass the bag? I found some loose looking pants and a t-shirt."

There was a pause, and then Gil was half aware that Sara passed Jim the bag before Jim rummaged through it. Gil zoned out a little, missed a few motions but otherwise was still paying attention when Jim pulled a Grateful Dead t-shirt out of the bag.

"You sure you didn't get that mixed up with Greg's locker, Brass?" Sara asked looking at the garment in surprise.

"Definitely his," Jim said with a teasing smirk. "Found it in his drawers, unless you and Greg have some explaining to do."

"It's an old shirt," Gil excused, eyeing it while Jim held it and then eyeing Jim. "Why don't you hand me it and my pants and I'll walk to the bathroom and change there."

"Sure." Jim passed the items over and then said"Just call if you need help, okay?"

Sara was still giving the homicide cop a strange look. And it still didn't make sense to Gil, but he tucked his clothes under his arm, clutched tight to them, and started to make the treacherous three foot journey to the bathroom door.

It was a relief to close the door behind him, even if it left him a little at a loss for what to do next. Presumably changing was part of the deal, but if he sat and did nothing, he could hear Sara and Brass talking.

"That's pretty insensitive thing to do, to make jokes about him being gay after he's been raped," Sara was muttering in a low voice. "For gods' sake, Brass... like his masculinity isn't threatened enough."

"Sara, I hate to break it to you but Gil likes to travel the highways and byways of sexual exploration, you know?" Jim replied in a low voice. "I thought you knew that."

"You telling me Gil is gay?" Sara's voice rose a little.

"More sort of bi, I think. But if you're one of the people who defines being gay as ever having slept with the same sex then yeah. He is."

Huh. Gil shrugged off the hospital gown, and turned his t-shirt around so he could pull it over his head. That was a conversation he'd never planned on having with Sara, but Jim had saved him the trouble of having to ever have it.

After all, it wasn't as if there was much that he drew the line at. Male or female, and Sara should have known that. There was that... tension that had started when he'd taken a half a year sabbatical to teach in California, and had continued when they'd started to meet at conferences.

"How do you know?"

There was a silence where Gil could imagine Jim making his 'Come on, don't be stupid' face and then Sara clearing her throat.

"So that's why he's going back to your place is it?"

Not as far as Gil had known, it wasn't. He was going there because he didn't want to go back to his apartment -- partially because everything was there, all of the artifacts and pieces he didn't want to deal with, even if the Lecter-related things were in the lab in evidence, and partially because he didn't want to be immediately found.

If it came to that. Gil hoped it wouldn't come to that. Even as he quietly struggled to keep his balance while he pulled on boxers and then the loose sweatpants Jim had grabbed. So what if he was leaving a hospital in his pajamas.

"He's coming back to my place because he needs a friend," Jim replied. "Okay? I know Gil, have for years. I..."

"But you didn't know he was William Graham," Sara pointed out triumphantly.

He heard Jim sigh. "That's because he isn't. The sooner all of you let that go the better for him and for you. Gil Grissom is who he is now, okay? What's the big deal about not knowing? None of us know anything about anyone until we meet them."

"But he didn't tell you. He didn't tell any of us!"

"And you didn't tell him about your childhood and none of you know for example that I was drafted. Yeah. We've all got bits of our lives like that, Sara. Stop making it into a bigger deal than it is."

Sara went quiet, and Gil wondered how long he'd been leaning against the bathroom sink with one leg in his pants. Jim had been drafted? It made Gil pause for a minute in his head, stopped his thoughts long enough for him to get his pants on properly.

Probably the lack of knowledge about each other was what kept the propagation of the human species going, he decided.

"I didn't know that," Sara was saying then. "I thought you were always in the force."

"Yeah well who knew huh? Secrets are usually there for a reason. In my experience, at least." Jim cleared his throat and said in a louder voice. "You okay in there, Gil?"

"Yeah. Just... a little off balance." Inside and out, but there was plenty of things he could lean on and catch himself on in there, and he'd step out soon. Once he was sure that the two of them weren't circling each other for a kill.

"I'll pack your things up out here. Sara can give me a hand." Jim called back"They'll be up with a wheelchair in a minute."

"Good." Good because he was tired, and a glance in the mirror proved that he looked as tired as he felt. He looked like hell. No, no -- he looked like Will, which was almost the same thing, and it made Gil want to laugh a little before he pulled himself together enough to think about taking care of any last minute business in there before he went outside.

He wasn't going to miss that catheter.

By the time he got out there he was worn out, Jim had packed up all his gifts and books and the hospital orderly was standing waiting for him with the wheelchair. Sara was giving him very strange looks.

"Let's get you home then, Gil," Jim said with a smile and not even a hint of the conversation he had just had.

After all. Home wasn't a place so much as a place where the people were.

"Why don't you sit down, Mr. Grissom. I think your friend here is going to go around and get his car... ?" The nurse's aide was saying that like a heavy suggestion, and it made Gil smile a little, a bare twitch of a gesture.

Jim quirked a smile at him. "See you downstairs, Gil. Sara can escort you out."

He watched the pair of them exchange a look and Sara nodded slowly. "Of course."

And the only difference as they moved through the hospital to freedom was she inexplicably didn't talk about the FBI any more.

Gil had started it -- or maybe it had been Brass, or both of them. But the idea of impromptually and officially going over evidence in the break room after a long shift was good for the team. People could drink coffee and ruminate over papers and talk loudly, argue if they needed to, without worrying about sneezing or spilling something on the evidence.

Which Catherine wished there were more of. There just wasn't enough, and she wasn't sure what she needed to share with the team about the Lecter-notes that she'd recovered from Gil's house. Were they relevant? Irrelevant?

"Right... so we've dealt with the DB in the drain. Nice one, guys," she said looking at Warrick and Nick"And Sara's unknown mystery guy, so we're back to the Millander case. We're coming to a bit of a standstill and it's still the Sheriff's favorite topic of conversation. And the news as well. Let's go over what we have and haven't got, okay?"

"What we haven't got is a motive," Sara started. "Not for Millander, and most of the evidence points to Lecter, despite Griss--despite witness testimony to the contrary."

"Uh, yeah, about that?" Greg squirmed in his chair a little, and pulled a few sheets of paper out of the folder he was holding. "I managed to find a piece of DNA from the uh 'pudding' that I could run, from the flesh? It's XX, and it's a match to all of the other XX we had on the scene."

"You got a sample out of that?" Catherine was astonished. She'd been assured that the FBI with all their equipment had written that off as"impossible".

"Hey, way to go Greg," Warrick drawled. "So... Millander's flesh was cooked in that dessert? What the hell is that about? Millander being dead maybe?"

"Right. So..." Greg shrugged his shoulders a little. "I mean, how could a guy be already dead on a crime-scene that he hadn't yet had time to commit?"

"That's our job to figure out," Nick said, taking the files from Greg. "Not that I have a clue where to start. How does a guy go from being digested to being up and walking around and attacking people?"

Catherine felt the ever present headache ratchet up a notch or two. What would Grissom say? He'd say they were assuming something. "Well we've got two scenarios. One is Lecter has assumed the identity of Millander and consumed him, and secondly... consumption of flesh does not mean someone is dead."

"No, but it would imply a willingness, cooperation if Millander was willing to let someone eat part of him." Sara's eyebrows scrunched together for a moment. "It could be significant of some kind of pact between the two of them -- Millander and whoever his partner is. Cannibalism is very symbolic."

"That's a good point," Warrick pointed out. "That's almost biblical. What do they call it? A... covenant. Yeah."

Catherine nodded. It was a good point, and worthy of consideration. "So Lecter contacted Millander or vice versa and they made some sort of alliance with Grissom as the target?"

"It's possible. I just wonder why they didn't... finish him off. Griss said that Millander wanted him to survive, even if he didn't go out on a limb to assure it. If this is some big drawn out game for them, then -- or maybe a warning?" Nick offered with their possible theories. But there was no evidence.

Motive was so hard to prove even with evidence.

"It's possible that it was Lecter that wanted him to survive," Catherine said and cleared her throat. "I discovered evidence that implied Lecter was possessive about Gil." Possessive was a better word than anything else that leapt to mind.

"Possessive how?" Warrick asked. "Possessive enough to nearly kill him? Didn't he try to kill him before?"

"Yes." Catherine admitted"And his family."

"So..." That was Sara jumping into the fray again, still looking thoughtful. "If that's the case than this would be, what? Territory marking, or? Against who?"

"Man, I'd rather have a dog pee on my shoes any day," Greg muttered.

"It is possible that it's a challenge," Catherine agreed. "Grissom seemed to think so, though I'm not sure how that works. It looks more like a copy-cat and that would be more a case of obsession?"

"Last thing we need is an apprentice serial killer," Warrick said. "Two Lecters running around?" He shook his head.

"Griss was pretty adamant that it wasn't Lecter. I'm not sure whether he was saying that it wasn't his style or what, but he flat out denied any possibility that it was Lecter working through Millander. He said Millander was doing it to get to Lecter and that there was something going on between them. He wasn't sure."

Of course, Gil would know Hannibal's style best, intimate or torture and murder. But even when Catherine had talked with him, his words were heavy on implication and light on outright statements.

"I hate to say it, but we're getting to a point where we might need his help to work out what is Lecter and what isn't. A lot of the evidence appears to be him, but then Millander is an expert in faking up crime scenes," Catherine said. "Our evidence is leading us to a dead end though I know there has to be some meaning in it. I'm more inclined to believe Grissom's judgment over the FBI viewpoint that Millander is a puppet. The reason being that he's had a more recent correspondence with Lecter than they have. "

"Wait -- recent correspondence?" Sara leaned forwards against the table, clutching at her coffee cup. "How do you know? How recent?"

"Lecter sends Grissom letters. I was given a warrant to search his house for the originals and... there's one from this year," Catherine admitted. "And the tone isn't aggressive in any respect. Quite the opposite."

"What's it sound like? Can we see them so we can figure out what's going on?" Sara kept pressing.

"So... Gil writes to him? Or Lecter writes to Griss? That's... wow, that's fucked up," Greg exhaled. "Wow. Isn't that kind of a Stockholm syndrome thing going on?"

"Sounds like it," Warrick agreed. "And this has been going on all the time?"

Catherine nodded. "The letters are part of the case and as we've exhausted every other avenue..."

Fuck, she had no choice.

"We'll have to look at it."

Nick was the only one who didn't look fascinated by the idea. He was looking at the others and then down into his mug, and then back at Catherine. "Shouldn't we be trying to figure out where Millander went? I just... I don't know what pertinence those letters are going to have to the case if Lecter's not the one committing the crime."

"You're right, we should be, but we have nothing on that except the information from Mrs. Mason and his mother," Catherine replied. "We don't have any other type of evidence pointing to what he might be doing. He took out a significant withdrawal in cash just after the attack and vanished. No credit card trace, no report of sightings. Even his wife can't think of anywhere particular, but then she didn't know about the warehouse." Nick was right but they didn't have any evidence leads that way. "If you want to look into that, Nick, if you can find a handle on it... go for it."

"I... yeah. I'd rather try for that angle for a while." At least until another case came up and she put him on it.

Sara sat back in her chair, nodding even as Nick said that. "I want to see those letters."

"Then you'll have to liaise with our friendly neighborhood FBI Agent as they have them at the moment," Catherine said. "Warrick, you can help Nick. I want to be sure we're not missing something on that angle."

"What about Grissom?" Warrick asked leaning back in his chair.

"I don't want to bother him. Not until we have no other choice." And not even then if she could help it. She just hoped Brass was looking after him.

That was why Jim had taken all of that time off, after all, so he could look after Grissom, so he could make sure he rested and healed and was... all right. As all right as he could come out of what had happened.

In a way it was their chance to prove the team. No Brass, no Grissom, just whatever they could achieve themselves. As little or as much as that was.

"Right. Nick, you want to look over our favorite transsexual's dual lives with me?" Warrick pushed his chair back, and started to stand.

"My idea of a fun time," Nick replied with a slow smile. "C'mon, Greggo, we could use your eyes on this if the lab is slow."

Catherine had to try and hide a smile at that; Greg would get things done in half the time so he could help out. Sara wanting to know, that worried her. She couldn't be sure of motive.

Morose interest or her own urge to know more about Gil, to understand the puzzle. Catherine didn't want to tell her that it wouldn't help -- that she'd gone over them all by then, and Gil made no more sense half the time now than he had before. If anything, his sanity was what baffled her now.

By her reckoning, any normal person would be wrapped in a strait-jacket and bouncing off of padded walls. In fact there were other victims who were doing that.

It was just as well Gil had never been ordinary. By any stretch of the imagination.

And for all she knew it was his... mindset, the very things that had made the FBI peg him for unstable in the first place that had kept him afloat. Gil had always had a skewed, funny way of looking at the world, and she knew he'd never lift a hand to anyone without provocation. And sometimes not even then. He liked to fight with words and law and... And Catherine's head was hurting. Sara gave her a funny look, and finally left Catherine alone in the break room.

She needed not to make things worse. She'd hurt Gil with their brief conversation but she'd also made promises to Grissom. And if keeping him safe involved getting a tracker or something off of the Feds and planting it on him, she'd do that.

But before she waded into it all again, she was going to the shooting range and make sure she was as good as she remembered. Because she had a feeling she would need to be.

~~~~~

Jim had known Gil would crash out the moment they reached his place -- even the short journey had been very wearing. So he'd put Gil on the couch, watched him fall asleep within the space of ten seconds or so, and carried on tidying up a little. Not that his place was untidy. It was generally clean as well, which would have surprised a lot of people, but Jim had been living alone for some time. In the end, a guy made things as easy for himself as possible.

His place was split level with a large living room area that blended into the kitchenette, a small downstairs guest room that he usually used as a computer room and the bathroom and up the stairs was his own pretty sizeable bedroom. Needless to say he'd spent time clearing out the computer room though it always had a bed in it in case he ever got Ellie to return his calls and come over some time. He hadn't heard from her in a long time.

He'd probably never hear from her until it was too late. That was the way of things, and maybe not even then. But he was prepared and... And, well, he could put Gil up in the guest room. When he woke up from what looked like a pretty heavy sleep on the sofa. Jim had dragged a light blanket from the closet and draped it over Gil. If he was going to be that easy a person to care for the next two weeks, Jim figured he was going to be pretty bored.

Not that it mattered. He was just going to be around. There would be a point when Gil would fall apart and though he wasn't good at jigsaw puzzles, he knew how to pick up the pieces.

He looked at the diet sheet that he had stuck to the fridge door of things Grissom should avoid and tried to think of what was in his food supplies that would work. Soup maybe. Or they could order out something easy like Chinese. Rice was okay. Fatty foods weren't. Simple things.

Easy to digest things, and Jim didn't want to think about that. Didn't want to think, but it still crept into his mind when he gave his fridge one last look-over and finally grabbed a beer to tide him over until whenever Gil woke up. There were saltines if Gil wanted to munch on something while Jim cooked, whenever that happened, but there wasn't much point in making a meal if Gil wasn't going to come around for another eight hours.

Gil needed simple foods because some bastard -- a bastard who didn't even have a natural dick -- had raped Gil that badly. A man's ass was sacrosanct, no matter what kind of sex they liked. Hell, a woman's ass was the same, but Gil wasn't a woman. Gil was... Gil. And Jim had had that ass, had been there even if he didn't remember it too clearly, and that was maybe what made it so strange.

Cath talked about their theory of Lecter's possessiveness and he hated the fact that he could see a small part of himself in that theory. He had no doubt that if Lecter or Millander crossed his path he might conveniently forget procedure and just shoot the bastards. Or bitch. And he wouldn't feel a moment of guilt or remorse about it.

Catherine shouldn't have been telling him details but he got the impression she needed to speak to someone. This whole thing was taking a toll, and cleverly applied make-up could only cover so much. He cracked open the beer and took a swig. It had been a long time since his brush with too much drinking.

That wasn't what he was doing. He could drink... in a controlled way now, he guessed. A couple of beers a week at the most, a couple of drinks with friends at the most. And that sort of counted as a drink with a friend if he was sitting across from Gil in a Lazy boy recliner that had seen better days. Never mind that Gil was asleep, one arm hugging his pillow like the world was going to end.

He was going to have to think about security of sorts. He knew for a fact elaborately planned security never helped. It just made people over confident and less alert. It was best to be ready for something unexpected. Fight like he had been jumped on the streets. Fight hard, and dirty and not worry about the rules. So all the precautions he had when he used to be in the field more at New Jersey were back. Second weapon, a blade of sorts, the penknife on his key ring. Simple things, but effective. Sometimes people overthought things.

The best security system he'd ever paid money for had been one on his front door that made an insanely loud whooping noise. He could try another one of those -- it was thirty bucks well invested, because if someone was taking the time to pry up a window to kill him, then he was probably more fucked than any speedy response to an alarm system could manage for him. But doors... doors were another story. And so was just carrying more weapons. Simple as that.

"Nnngn."

"Gil?" He turned to look to see if Grissom were waking up. It didn't exactly seem like it. "You awake?"

No answer, except Gil turned his head, pressing his face into the pillow in a way that had to be uncomfortable for his neck and his back, twisted up and facing the back of the sofa.

Maybe he ought to wake him, or at least push him over to a position where he didn't look like he was going to suffocate himself. He pushed himself up and bent over him. "Gil? If you don't wake up I'm just going to move you over a bit, okay?"

There was a twitch in his shoulder muscles, and he curled in on himself a little more. Yeah, he was going to smoother himself on couch cushions, and if Jim let that happen, Catherine would smother him. With a high heel, somehow. Somehow.

He reached down, touched Grissom's shoulder and was taken by surprise as fists started flailing at him immediately. He was so surprised the first one cracked him in the eye with an impressive sounding thud.

Jesus that hurt, but Gil had twisted towards him so fast, lashed out so fast that Jim barely missed the edge of the coffee table when he stumbled back and fell on his ass. It was a damn good thing he hadn't had his beer bottle in hand when he'd done that little investigation. And even with him not there, Gil was still getting punches out, twisting and thrashing in a way that couldn't be good for him.

He'd rip his damn stitches out if he carried on like that, and then Catherine would definitely kill him. In his care for all of a couple of hours and Grissom would end up back in the hospital. Well, if he arm-locked him around the upper arms, he'd miss most of the scars and stop the thrashing. If he could get behind him that would mean Grissom had less chance of kneeing him in the groin.

All that consideration took a fraction of a second and he was up and moving and clamping Grissom's arms from behind so he could hold the pressure away from his chest. It was a messy attempt at restraining as he usually didn't have to be careful doing it. "Easy, Gil, easy... settle down. Easy..."

It didn't work well, but Gil's legs got caught up in the blanket, and slowly, the longer Jim just held on, the less he fought, the less he even tried to kick or swing a fist out. Jim gentled his hands down to Gil's elbows, glad he'd gotten Gil sort-of on his side on all of that. It left him a way to soothe Gil towards calm, or try to. He was making noises, and his hands were in front of him, and Jim had to lean over his shoulder to see what he was doing. There was a faint whine escaping Gil's throat, and he had a hand wrapped around -- oh, fuck. One of his wrists that was still raw in spots and scabbed here and there.

"Shit. No, Griss, come here..." Jim exhaled as he reached round to intercept and pry off the hand that was trying to apparently break his own wrist. He was more solid, tougher than Gil but when the grip latched onto him it was enough to make him wince. "Wake up, Gil... C'mon, yeah." What the hell, his hands were a bit tied up so he sat down half pulling him onto him so he could stop him moving around so much.

Gil clutched at him for a minute with that hand, the motion too tight and too-strong, but then it started to fade a little, falter, and he could hear Gil suck in a shaky hitch of breath. Maybe he was awake now or asleep again in a quiet way.

Well if this was the way things were going to go, there was no way that Grissom could sleep on his own. So much for the spare room. He might have to move the bed upstairs or something. He could hurt himself way too easily. "You awake, Griss?"

There was another funny, too-awake breath, and he could feel Gil shift from sleeping tense to a more awake tense. He opened his eyes, the edges of them looking damp while he tried to focus on Jim. It was almost enough of a response for Jim to forget that his own head was ringing and his eye hurt like hell.

"Hey. Rough nap, huh?" he said at a loss how to fill the silence, even as he released his grip.

Gil's voice was a low rasp of sound, and now he was staring at Jim's face. "Yeah. What... Your eye?"

"It's nothing. Had worse trying to get the last donut. Vega gets serious about sugar, you know that?" Jim replied in a low voice. It was very nearly true as well.

"No, I..." Gil was talking without thinking, but Jim could see things catching up in his mind, enough to see that he was sitting upright, almost in Jim's lap, and that Jim had a black eye, and who knew what else was going through his head. Jim barely caught sight of Gil's bruised wrist, fresh bruises already blooming red and angry, before Gil was to his feet and lurching for Jim's kitchen sink.

Okay, so maybe this was going to be a challenging couple of weeks after all. "Whoa, whoa, Gil..." He had to move fast to try and catch up with him. By the time he did, he was heaving into the sink. "It's okay... What can I do, huh?"

Other than be glad that his sink was stainless steel with a garbage disposal. He could get water for Gil, or flat ginger ale and some crackers. Something to get the taste out of his mouth. Ice or something for his wrist, and maybe ice for his own eye.

"I, I hit you..."

"Yeah?" He really couldn't see what the problem was. He got thumped and battered on practically a daily basis. It wasn't like he had good looks to worry about. "Well I guess everyone should try it once right? You want a drink? Let me get you something. Water or ginger ale -- doctors said to steer clear of juices at the moment. Too acidic or something."

Gil managed a nod, and it looked like he was going to gag again, just for a moment before he got it under control, head hung down between his shoulders. "Sorry..."

Jim patted his back gently"Let me get you ice for that wrist, yeah?" He opened the fridge and got some of the ginger ale, and extracted some ice cubes and wrapped them in a clean dishcloth. "Drink that a minute and I'll get some uh... crackers or something. you want that?"

"Sure." Gil just kept standing there, unnervingly leaning against the edge of the sink like it was all that was holding him up, eyes closed tight. "I'm sorry about this... I..."

Jim looked at him"No need to be sorry, Gil. C'mon, we'll sit and talk. I'm no shrink but that's a good thing right?" He passed over the ice in the cloth. "For your wrist. I'll borrow it in a minute."

"Use, uh... Frozen peas. Vegetables. It works better." Gil turned a little, and grasped onto the ice, staring at Jim while he did so.

"Good point," Jim said rummaging around for his frozen peas. He then got the crackers out and tipped some on a plate and got out the butter. "Here we go."

He decided to munch on one himself even as he looked back. "You okay?"

"No?" Gil was still leaning against the counter's edge, and he wouldn't quite meet Jim's eyes. "I hit you." Sure he'd hit Jim, but it wasn't that big of a deal -- for Jim.

"So?" Jim looked at him again. "Was a pretty poor hit to be honest. Not even sure I'd call it a punch. More of a tap." He half smiled at him. "What's the problem?"

"I... I don't hit people, Jim. Not you, not... anyone. I..." He clutched his fingers over the hand towel full of ice cubes, crushing it down over his wrist. "I can't think."

"Now that's the last thing anyone can accuse you of," Jim replied having to try and steer him over to the couch. "Go easy on that, will you? Look, Grissom, I get hit, battered and bruised pretty much every day on the job. Sometimes before I even make it out the front door. An accidental swipe isn't anything to get worried about. You didn't mean it."

He'd been asleep. How could Gil mean it if he'd been asleep, and more logically, how could Gil think that Jim would think he meant it if he'd been asleep when he'd done it. "I thought..." Something. Gil trailed off, and Jim got him to sit down on the couch again.

"You thought I was someone else?" Jim supplied even as he fetched over the ginger ale, crackers and frozen peas. "Well, when you've got your eyes closed I'm guessing that's a pretty normal thing. Who was I impersonating, Millander or Lecter?"

He didn't want to think about that much himself, but there was something ghosting over Gil's eyes as he picked up the peas and offered the package to Jim instead. "I'll stick to the ice-pack. You use these. You... weren't either."

"Well that's good, because I think I'm much better looking," Jim said automatically as he took the peas and pressed it to his rapidly swelling eye. "I'm lousy at impersonations. Sometimes I have problem impersonating myself. So what was the deal?"

He sat down close to Gil and leaned back, still totally at ease with him that close.

And if Gil had a problem with it, he didn't say anything. Jim wasn't sure if he should've pressed it like that or not, but Gil seemed to be moving again, reaching for a cracker. "Nightmare."

"Well, that changes things a bit," Jim said thoughtfully as his face numbed off. How was he going to move the bed upstairs? Maybe he could put the mattress up there and he'd sleep on that and Gil could get some decent sleep in his bed. That would work.

He could out-argue Gil about that, easy. Even if Gil looked at him sideways for a moment, and then exhaled slowly. "Does it?"

"Yeah. I'll have to take the mattress upstairs into my room. You were on your way to hurting yourself then," Jim said easily enough. "I'll take the mattress, you take the bed. That way if you have another I can hear you. I sleep pretty light."

"I don't sleep well," Gil shrugged a little. He was still chewing on his cracker, and Jim could see that slowly, slowly, his breathing was slowing down. That was good. "Unless I'm exhausted."

Figured. Jim took away the bag of peas from his eye. "So you'll be okay with me sleeping in the same room right?"

Jim knew he wasn't the subtle type. He was crafty, and clever in a street way but he didn't over analyze. He just cut through things. And maybe that was what Gil needed. Because he looked down at his wrist, well, at the bag of ice, and then he leaned forwards carefully to pick up the glass of ginger ale. "You... don't have to baby-sit me, Jim."

"Yeah I know. But I'm going to." No point denying it. "Because if I took you back to hospital with a broken wrist or pulled stitches Catherine would make sure I had some of my own to worry about. If it's me being in the same room, I promise I won't do anything."

Grissom might be unhappy about that. He wouldn't blame him if that were the case.

"That doesn't bother me. I just..." Gil closed his eyes, like he wanted to avoid the conversation all together. "Everything's a mess and I can't think clearly, Jim. I can't... explain it."

"You don't have to if you don't want to," Jim said simply. "If you wanna talk then that's okay as long as you don't think I'm playing mind games or anything. I don't do that. Besides there's no compulsory thing for you to have to think clearly."

No pressure. That was the idea, a bit of time and no pressure. Maybe the first time Gil had had that in a long time.

"No, he's..." Gil took a slow drink, and Jim had to wait for find out what 'he' was or who he even was. "He's in my head again and I can't stop thinking, and I can't think even though I can't stop."

"He?" Jim had to ask that. "Who's in your head?" This was a worrying development. He was beginning to wonder if he had bitten off more than he could chew.

"Everyone?" Gil gave half a laugh, and lifted his free hand, wet from the face-cloth and ice-cubes idea -- which retrospectively was just going to leave a wet spot on his couch -- and rubbed at his face.

"Well, Gil is the guy speaking to me so..." Jim looked at him and shrugged. "We've just got to make you louder than all of them right?" It probably violated a half dozen rules of psychiatry, but this was his way. Simple, to the point.

"It doesn't help that Jack... Jack's been here. I know what he wants me to do and I can still do it -- I, Lecter's still in my head." And maybe it bothered Jim a little to see Gil's fingers flex a little before he lowered them to his wrist again.

"Jack can get lost. Look, Gil, I'm no psychologist or anything but that doesn't mean I don't know how things work. I did some undercover. Worked with some guys who did undercover and the very best were always walking that line, you know?" Jim bet he did know. "I'm thinking this isn't that much different. You can't get under someone's skin without some of it getting back, right? And I guess what you used to do was like a more extreme version of going undercover. But there's always a way back, especially if you've got someone around to remind you who you are."

There was another look darting over Gil's eyes, and it took Jim a moment to realize that he'd heard Catherine mention a phrase like that being in one of Gil's letters from Lecter. So the muted, faintly disconsolate-sounding,"Sure," wasn't very comforting.

Jim reached and took a cracker. "So what are you most worried about, huh? Not remembering who you are?"

That would've bothered him, personally, except Gil was silent in response. He'd already set down his glass of ginger ale and just didn't have a response.

"You want to know who you are?" Jim took a bite of the cracker. "You're the guy who phones me up on my day off and persuaded me to go up to the body farm with you and then nearly pissed myself when those flesh eating beetles dropped on my head. For your information that was a manly bellow of alarm."

"How can you believe in me when I can't?" Gil's voice was quiet, tight, and he seemed to be struggling to string words together.

"Because I know you. Because day after day, you and I and the rest of the team looked at death together, and that's when you really get to know someone, right? Forget the stuff about what has happened, just remember what happens every time you see some poor bastard dead there and you're alive. Every damn time you mentally pat yourself down and say... hey, I'm still here. They're not. We take it for granted now, I guess. I've seen you do it. You've seen me do it. You don't know things about me, but I still think you know more about me than anyone else I've ever known."

A lot more. Sometimes more than Janice ever had, but... hell. That had been a mess, and when Gil got his head screwed on a little better they could probably swap stories. "I take it for granted... because I'm not all here. Everything's..." Gil sighed. "In pieces and I can't think about it. I tried to explain it to Catherine..."

"You wanna try explaining it to me? I'd give you a beer but you can't have it," Jim asked leaning back and putting an arm around Grissom. It was a buddy thing. They were all a tactile bunch -- well, nearly all of them.

Gil wasn't so much. He swung between tactile and not tactile, but Jim was still a little surprised that Gil shifted, slouched down a little and leaned into him. "I can't function like this. With everything... right there. I can't do it again."

"You don't have to. Anyone tries to make you, I'll live up to my reputation," Jim said in a low voice. So Gil wanted physical contact? Well that had to be a good thing. "Gil, let him earn his damn pay for a change. Let the guys at the lab stretch themselves a bit. Step back a little."

"People are going to end up dead. Because I'm here. It hasn't been like this for so long..." Gil was at an angle that Jim couldn't quite see his face properly, but his voice sounded tired. "I've gotten complacent."

"I could point out that people end up dead anyway," Jim replied looking at him. "So he made you think it was your responsibility, yeah? There's no way anything a serial nutcase does is your fault, Gil."

"I've managed to, to stay off of his radar for so long, Jim. As long as I didn't do anything, as long as..." Gil shivered a little. "I don't know."

Jim found himself pulling him closer as if that would warm him up and help. "Look Gil, I know you don't want to hear this, but if what Catherine tells me is the case, then he was always going to come back at some time. Don't fool yourself that he hasn't been watching you -- I know his type. Maybe I don't know how he thinks, but I know the sort of thing they do. And sooner or later he'd be back to tidy up loose ends."

"I know that, Jim. I know how he works, how he thinks. I know him," Gil reiterated. "I know that he's watched anything that, that got into the media, I know that he's planning how to get back into the country. I'm... territory. Apparently, apparently to be disputed over by two mad-men."

"You're more than that." Jim looked at him. He was frustrated at not being able to put into words what he wanted to say to him. He knew it in his head but knew he didn't have the academic background to logic away all of this. "Look, Gil... when I was training I was put with an experienced cop in Jersey. He used to say if you want to win, don't play the fucker's game. That's what it boils down to."

"I'm just the other side of the coin from Lecter. And I hurt you. That... scares me." Well, it was probably the most damned articulate thing Gil had said since he'd woke up.

"Yeah, but you are the other side of the coin. You're not him..." Jim felt he had to get that across. "So you hurt me. I'm okay with that. I'm a solid guy, built for impact. It wasn't intentional. You think I haven't done my share of flailing around in my sleep?"

"They were going to pull me up for battery charges on Molly for a while there in LA County." Like it was a challenge -- was there some weird subconscious thing going on where he didn't want Jim to be okay with him?

"You did this in your sleep to Molly?" Jim asked. "It's not like you're doing it deliberately. Let me guess, that was the reason you checked yourself in for a stay having your head looked at?"

"No." Another pause stretched out, and Gil didn't move, hardly breathed. Jim was starting to get worried, but Gil finally murmured an answer. "I couldn't handle the thoughts in my head. I couldn't not think like Hannibal. I wanted to die."

"You feel like that now?" Jim asked. Maybe he really should have let someone with a bit more tact and subtlety deal with this. He was afraid now that he was going to fuck this up by saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. And that might finish off Grissom completely.

"I don't know." The pause that followed was shorter before Gil quietly added,"No. I didn't, don't want to die."

"But you can hear him in your head. It's stirred that up again, right?" Jim asked. "So... how did you fix it last time?"

That seemed the logical thing to do.

"Molly helped. She... I don't know. It went away eventually." Gil shook his head a little, still slouched down against Jim. "Jack'd be happy to give you a litany of every, every stupid thing I did in the meantime."

"Look if you're worried about being on your own, don't be," Jim said, absently petting at his hair. "You can stay here as long as you like. That's not a problem. I like having you around."

Which was the honest truth, even if he hadn't contemplated too much that Gil might have mental things to work through that weren't directly related to what Millander had done. Just when he thought he'd been prepared and ready for what he was doing...

Life -- well, Gil -- threw another curveball at him.

"Okay."

He was going to have to get used to the silences, the stretches of time where Gil said nothing, stared at who the hell knew what.

"We'll deal with this. We're good at working through things. You can talk to me about it. I may not have a lot to say but you can still talk," Jim said in a low voice. "This is another puzzle you can solve Gil, and I've never seen one you couldn't put together."

Gil was still silent. He shivered a little, but it didn't stop Jim from stroking his hair just yet. It took him a minute to realize that the shivering was a constant motion.

"You cold?" he asked eventually not knowing what else to say. Asking if he were okay was probably a stupid thing to do so he didn't bother. Gil's hair felt a little like it could stand a washing. It was a little soon to be offering that sort of thing, but he wouldn't mind.

There still wasn't an answer, though, and it was starting to wear at Jim, worry Jim. He leaned a little, pulled back a little so he could look at Gil's face. Gil's shoulders stayed stiff even when Jim drew back a little, and once he could see Gil's face, he could see that he wasn't blinking. Wasn't moving except breathing, and shivering, both of which seemed involuntary.

Okay, this was worrying. "Gil? Gil, can you hear me?" He jostled him a little, feeling a stir of fear. "Gil, c'mon buddy... come back to me here, okay? I know I'm not the best conversationalist but..."

But. His fingers fumbled for a moment to search for Gil's pulse. Not much change -- it was a little faster than 'normal', but Jim had always thought that Gil's lack of a fast pulse was kind of freakish at the best of times.

He was breathing okay, he wasn't going blue and... he was at a loss. He'd seen someone go a bit like this before with shell-shock, once. They hadn't been able to do anything except keep him warm and he came out of it in time to get shipped back home. So. Warm and quiet was probably the thing to do then. The doctors didn't have anything that would do much aside from put him to sleep and it would be better if he could do that on his own.

"I think I need to put you to bed, okay, Gil? This could be interesting considering."

Nothing. He was talking to himself -- that was all right, Jim was pretty damn good at doing just that. He'd moved around to stand in front of Gil, looking at him, trying to figure out how he could approach the task of moving him.

Gil was taller than him but he might just about be able to carry him if he did a fireman's lift. It was either that or wrap covers around him and drag him. He'd try the lift first; it wasn't that far upstairs.

"You realize that if I put my back out doing this we are both in trouble?" he said aloud. Yeah well, then he'd have more time off and it wasn't like Gil didn't need the help. He was part way trying to lift Gil up when he realized he couldn't put him over his shoulder because of his injuries. He'd have to try and carry him dead weight in his arms much like some scene out of a Victorian melodrama.

He was still thinking about the best way to do it -- turning Gil around and dragging him up the stairs backwards or? -- when Gil blinked once.

"Hey, you in there?" Jim peered at him. "Blink once for yes, okay? That's how they do it in the movies, right?"

There was a pause where Jim figured his stupid idea wasn't going to work -- and then Gil blinked in a way that seemed deliberate. Yeah that was how it was done in the movies and apparently in real life, too.

"Well okay. You want me to call a doctor? Or put you to bed?" Jim paused, kicking himself. "Sorry, two questions there. Call a doctor?"

No blinking. Gil didn't blink then, and his eyes darted a little. That could be a 'no', Jim figured.

"So you like the idea of bed right? Being warm? Just resting?" He'd hate to get all the way up there and find out it was a bad idea.

That was a blink, another definite blink. Jesus, he had no idea what was going on, but he could definitely get Gil up the steps and get him in bed. He shouldn't've been sleeping on the couch anyway.

"Right, I'm going to lift you and possibly give myself a hernia, okay? I'll try not to hit you or anything but..." But he reached his arms under and lifted, groaning at the weight. "You... have to go... on a diet, Grissom."

Jim staggered towards the steps, his back already burning and already doing the mantra of 'just one more step. Just one more' to get him to the stairs and then up one by one.

Gil practically bounced when he let him down on the bed and flopped beside him. "Jesus... I need a heart bypass. That's it, you're staying up here."

There wasn't any motion or blinking in response to that, but Gil was still breathing, and Jim, well, hell, Jim was still breathing, hard. His arms hurt like fuck, his legs were already aching, but Gil was upstairs at least.

Jim wasn't sure he could make a trip downstairs to drag the mattress up.

He pulled himself up. "Let's get you in and comfortable, okay?" He figured it was better to keep on talking as if Gil were there and with him, just silent. He tugged off Gil's shoes and socks, left the pants and top since they looked like they would do as pajama's anyway, managed to get him under the covers -- not as easy as people would think -- and finally asked. "You still cold?"

Jim couldn't just glance at him and wait for a nod. He had to try to pay close attention to his eyes. There was a little darting motion with his eyes, and one more blink. Still cold. Okay, Jim could handle that. He could handle anything because it was him or a hospital again.

So he could get a hot water bottle if he had one, which he didn't because it wasn't the sort of thing a man alone shopped for, or he could get in there with him and warm him up the old way. Body heat. By rights, they should be stuck in a snowdrift or about to die of pneumonia to be pull this stunt, but Jim didn't really care.

"Give me a minute." He hastily changed into something that would do for bed and slipped in with him. It was a little awkward getting into a position where he could hold onto Grissom, look at his eyes if he needed to and be comfortable. He managed two out of the three. Comfort wasn't really important for him "There. Better?"

There was a pause, and Gil blinked again, and this time his eyelids managed to stay half-closed. Good, maybe he could sleep, and when they both woke up, everything would be all right.

If not, he was going to be in a lot of trouble for waiting all night before getting Gil to a hospital. But he was sure it was better this way.

Sureness was all Jim needed.

"You'll like this." He remembered the words, that voice, gentle fingers rubbing, massaging at the small of his back. It had been easy to relax, easy to close his eyes and stretch out, excited and loose and tense all at once. Fingers teasing at the puckered skin of his anus, an amused voice commenting on its color and texture before two fingers delved in, slick with massage oil. It felt good, stretched and tickled, made him hot and eager, made his dick weep against the expensive sheets.

That was usually where the dream-memory took a sharp turn to the surreal reality, towards the feeling of muzzy consent turning to struggling, hard and hot and scared. Because there was a hand up his ass and he couldn't think, couldn't think to scream or protest or do more than bite his bottom lip and thrash his head. Afterwards it had felt like consent again. Afterwards, after he'd come and there'd been more wine and soft conversation and actions like nothing odd had happened then, like he hadn't been not-asked.

But in dreams, it never worked that way, and there was no calm slow after, there was just that feeling, Him behind him, and then the sudden sharp knowledge that it wasn't a hand, it was a gun.

He felt like he was paralyzed and was trying to struggle. Millander going to do what he threatened, or Lecter. Metal cold against him, wanting to push and he wanted to scream and fight in protest, as hard as he could. Break free and fight because he knew that was something that would never be consent. No blurred lines with the cold steel.

"You'll like this." The voice, voices were blending now, suppressed stammer and familiar coaxing tones sliding together, running circles around the inside of his head and all he could do was let the fear freeze him to stone, let the fingers wrap around his dick, coaxing him to enjoy it even as the raised edge of a sight slipped inside of him. "Oh, you can do this. You just took more than that, come on, Will. This is nothing."

"This is nothing, Will, you can do this. A flash in the pan, and we'll be done and get you home and back to Molly. I promise."

Jack always said that. Jack lied. Every time he lied. He'd gone home to Molly and he'd been a stranger. There was no home to go back to because all of that trust had been broken along with Jack's promises. It was that which made him angry rather than scared, fear starting a slow burn to anger. Fuck Jack. It was easy for him to say, but he never had to be the one that lived in that moment. He always escaped knowing, really knowing. He needed Will Graham because he wouldn't get his hands dirty.

And Will had. Will always got dirty, Will always ended up somehow on his hands and knees, fighting to survive because he took the risks, he made the effort to live, and--

A hand pressed against the small of his back, a shove that muffled a scream inside of his throat. "Will. I'm not losing you, am I? Gil? Gil?" And the gun was there, and now he was being shaken.

"Come on, Gil, I've got you, it's okay..." That was Jim's voice. Jim's solid presence there, so close. Why did he want to be so close? It had been a big sacrifice for Molly to get close enough to touch him. Jim might get attacked too if he stayed so close and he was being held...

He opened his eyes completely disorientated as the scream tried to break free.

It was a struggle to calm down more, to realize that the hands that were pinning his arms to his sides were Jim's, that the forehead pressed against his was Jim and that was why it had been hard to focus, because familiar, tired eyes were right there in his line of sight in a room gone mostly dark around them.

Jim was there, holding him still, and all Gil could do was concentrate on breathing when he wanted to thank Jim.

"That's good. Better," Jim was saying to him. "Least it proves you can move again, right?" The grip relaxed a little and became more of a comforting presence than a restraint.

At least he could move again, and that was what made Gil's mind start to register what had happened the night before. Being frozen and the fear when he couldn't move, struggling to move, and Jim talking calmly to him, trying to communicate with him. "Sorry... about that."

"Hey, talking, too. My lucky day," Jim murmured. "Relax, Gil, you're safe here. Not sure what you're sorry about, so I'll just keep talking."

He managed to dredge up part of a laugh, and shook off a little frustration. Everything was hurting, but... hell, he was still alive. "Glad you didn't take me to a hospital. Thanks."

"Well it was a long way and I don't think I could have carried you to the car..." Jim made it sound light, but Jim often did that. "I'll relax the death grip here a little."

"What time's it?" He vaguely recalled that he was supposed to take medications every so many hours, but even though he was moving, everything was sluggish. Shifting an arm brought out an ache -- probably from having had his muscles clenched tight.

"Around ten I think," Jim replied yawning himself. "I'm glad you unfroze, Gil. Looked like a kinda shell-shock."

That was one thing to call it. Shell shock, when body and mind took a break so cognitive dissonance could settle in for a cage match. "I've done it before."

"Yeah? Go on for long that time, did it? What happens? Your mind just freeze up on you?" Jim asked stroking at his hair absently.

That was nice. No, that was soothing after all of the sharp thoughts of pain that had drifted through Gil's head. "Something like that. I kept trying to stop thinking and to get hold of myself..."

"Well looks like you have. Gil," Jim said yawning again. "Got hold of yourself. You sound like yourself again. You want something to eat or something? I can do toast, or... something."

"Drugs on toast?" Gil joked quietly, closing his eyes. He finally shifted to lie on his back, stretching a little. "Or toast on drugs. You, uh, sleep well? How's your eye?"

"Colorful," Jim replied. "It'll be pretty for a few days and then be gone. It's not bad. Gives me credibility." He stretched as well. "I'll get something in a minute. I wasn't sure how comfortable you would be waking up with me here."

"Why?" Gil shifted one leg, feeling the muscles tug and ache at him. Maybe his brain still wasn't awake, because it was only after he'd asked the why that his brain kicked up an answer -- the very obvious answer.

"Well, we never spoke about..." Jim cleared his throat. "I mean you were raped and then there was the time we... just didn't talk about afterwards.

"I, uh..." Gil turned his head, looking over at Jim. Jim was still lying down, looking like he was lying still, very still, on purpose. "Silence speaks volumes, Jim."

Jim got up rather suddenly. "I guess that means that you didn't want it then. That I did force you. Jesus, Gil why didn't you say something? Press charges... I've been wondering all along why you didn't say anything, now I know."

"Wait, what?" It took a little more effort than he'd been expecting to sit up, to carefully prop himself up on his elbows. "Jim, no, I didn't mean that. I thought that you -- that it was a mistake, and when you didn't say anything, I just..." Shrugged it off. Jim thought he'd forced Gil? Where the hell had that come from?

"Well we were both drunk and I don't remember asking, I just remember doing," Jim looked back at him. "I've tried for a long time to remember asking. Fuck. I thought you would say something and I'd know what happened. So I take it I did? Or I didn't?"

"Ask?" Gil shifted back a little, contemplating getting to his feet. "I seem to remember asking you." The memory was hazy in spots, well-worn maybe until Gil wasn't sure what had happened and what he'd wished had happened and where he'd filled in blanks, but he did recall asking Jim to do it. That was consent.

Jim looked a bit speechless. He didn't have the temperament for brooding or angst and he looked uncomfortable and relieved. "Oh." He paused a moment and smiled a little. "Should have just asked."

"Right." Gil blinked for a moment, and tried to work out how they'd even reached that topic. It had started with waking up, then Jim asking him if he were all right with it, then... It wasn't easy to follow, but Gil peered at Jim for a moment before he shifted to try to sit fully up. "So when I said, 'Silence speaks volumes', I meant it... to mean that since there wasn't a follow-up call, I assumed it was a bad first date. Or whatever someone would call it. I've learned not to risk friendship when I can."

Jim nodded. "At the risk of really bad timing, if I hadn't been feeling..." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Uh... guilty, I would have picked it up straight away. So, sleeping in the same bed is okay then?"

"Yeah." It was warmer, which wasn't always a good thing in the desert, but... it couldn't hurt. Having Jim close could help, and that was the most Gil could ask of his friend. "So, can I get a hand up?"

"If you don't want breakfast in bed, yeah," Jim replied stepping closer and reaching out to him.

"I've spent too long in bed," Gil murmured, lifting a hand out to grasp Jim's hand. He was a little taller than Jim, but Jim definitely had the more solid body, the lower center of gravity. His wrists ached, but that was partially the fault of his own subconscious. "I can at least watch you burn toast."

"I burn it well," Jim answered pulling him up and carefully avoiding holding anything painful. "Now move carefully, I bet you'll be stiff."

"Yeah." He sounded a little short, but the sudden shift of body weight onto unsteady legs hurt, reached right up the muscles along his back in pain. "Maybe this wasn't a good idea, huh?"

"Lie back down," Jim said. "No reason to hurt too much if you don't have to."

Gil shifted one foot, and bit back a groan. "No, just... help me to the bathroom. I can manage to get back. I promise I won't try to get down the stairs."

"Just as well I have a bathroom on this level," Jim replied. He smiled as he put his arm around him to support him. "Easy does it then."

One foot in front of the other. Gil sucked in a shaky breath, and sighed, leaning into Jim a little as he did so. "Thanks. So, uh... anything else we should clear up?"

"Nah, I think that was it." Jim shrugged. "I expect we'll trip over a few things. Different identities, unknown pasts. That sort of things."

"I think I'm... still the same person you've always known." He put a hand on the doorjamb, steadying himself as they moved into the bathroom. "Not sure if that helps or hinders."

"Well it's a step up from who you thought you were last night," Jim said with a hint of irony. "I guess it's because I've been a detective for so long. I always assume I don't know the full story about someone."

"I probably don't know your entire story," Gil pointed out as he pulled away to lean on the edge of the counter with his hands. "I never expected anyone to know most of mine."

"Well we can always talk about it when you get bored of puzzles and bad TV," Brass offered. "You need help or you want me out?"

Which made Gil suspicious about whether one was a big deal or not. "I was just going to uh... go to the bathroom and see if any of this needs to be changed." The bandages that were under the t-shirt he was wearing, and the hassle of that was something he hadn't thought about yet.

"In that case I'll stay. You can't stretch well," Jim replied. "It's a pain in the ass messing around with dressings on your own."

"All right. Do you, uh. Should I sit down?" He'd get the hang of it again, eventually. Being comfortable with someone else helping him.

"Probably be best for you," Jim replied putting the lid down on the toilet. "There. We should make sure you didn't rip anything out."

"Last night?" Gil shifted, reaching down to try to see if he had the range of movement to pull his t-shirt up over his head.

Jim helped him a little when he became too sore to move. "Yeah. You had that nightmare and then I practically threw you on the bed. That might've busted something."

"Better than going to the hospital," Gil decided as he set the t-shirt in his lap, and leaned back a little, watching Jim.

"Let's see your wrist. You were set on breaking it last night," Jim pointed out picking up the hand and unwrapping some of the dressings. "They didn't stitch these did they?"

"No. It was probably too wide to bother doing that." He couldn't deny that he'd been set on breaking it, because he had been, or part of him had been.

It was unwrapped carefully, slowly and there was a sign there that he had bled a little, but not too much." Looks pretty okay. Let me go and get the stuff they sent you home with okay? I'll put something fresh on there." Jim suggested even as he was heading out the door. "Take a look at the others as well and I'll bring up your meds."

"Thanks." Gil was going to stay right where he was, but he could start to pick at the edges of bandages. It all needed to be changed with fair regularity, which seemed excessive to Gil -- or would have if he hadn't had so much experience with it.

He heard Jim go down the stairs with a heavy tread. He could hear him rustling around down there and wondered again why he was doing this. He'd been married and this sort of care had tested their bonds to breaking point. Maybe it would for their friendship as well. He didn't want that to happen.

He needed his friends, and he needed Jim. Jim and Catherine and Al and everyone else there in Vegas that he'd known since he came there or since they'd come there. Well, everyone except Ecklie.

He needed someone, something to rebuild on. He could put himself together if he had a stable enough foundation to stand on, but he had been dreading it because there was no Molly this time. No Kevin. He hadn't been sure who he could build himself back on and then... it seemed like he had no lack of volunteers to be that anchor point.

It seemed very surreal to Gil, and he'd never been more surprised to be wrong in his life. Everyone was trying, offering help, and there'd been that moment in the hospital where he'd been expecting Jim and Sara to get into fisticuffs.

Gil leaned his head back against the wall behind him, and took a deep breath before he pulled at the patch of bandaging at his chest. Who needed chest hair anyway?

Not that there was much left after all the stitching and attention. They had told him that the swelling had gone down and the wounds were knitting slowly. Slowly with Millander's attention carved into his flesh indelibly. He had yet to see the 'Red Dragon'. He imagined the lines and stylized powerful muscles that had made up Dollarhyde's tattoo. Blake's vision of another's vision. The Revelation of Becoming etched into flesh. He could feel the tug of those thoughts waiting to reel him in.

He was going to concentrate. He wasn't going to become anything -- he was Gil Grissom. He was a CSI level 3, recently supervisor. He was a good field officer and he was a scientist, and he wasn't going to let thought memories and tenuous links between events pull him back to that place again.

With only a moment of hesitation, he peeled back the first dressing revealing the first neatly stitched smooth line. After that it was almost compulsive to have to see what he looked like, the stitch thread black like tattoo ink as he revealed more and more of the pattern. It was sore and itchy which meant it was healing but he couldn't see much from where he was peering down at his chest. He needed a mirror.

Gil needed to stand up, and see what he could make of it. He could manage that, get a hand on the counter, another on the lid of the toilet, and lever himself up. Looking in the mirror made him draw a deep breath but he made himself look himself in the eye before he looked down.

Millander had talent, that was true. The Dragon was pure, with simple lines and spread wings over his chest, the removed and now grafted flesh made an eye so wide it reminded him of an owl peering into the night. It wasn't the Red Dragon. It wasn't Blake's avatar of the Devil. It was different somehow and enveloping all of him.

There wasn't any way he was ever going to get rid of that scar. He'd still try once the wounds themselves had healed, but that was a ritual mutilation that he wouldn't be able to shake off. Its head curled up to his left shoulder, just to that cutting mark at his collar bone, the eye peering out from the center of his pectoral. One spreading wing-line cut through a nipple. And the 'shading' that detailed it was dark with stitches, thick lines that looked like embroidery over his chest.

He was lucky to be alive, and all Gil could think of was that it was going to bother him until he could figure out what the dragon stood for.

Blood Dragon, Red Dragon. They were meant to draw that comparison. But if the comparison was meant to be just that then he would have mimicked the picture. He had the talent for it. It wasn't an ugly scar, save in memory. Fuck, there were probably people who would pay for this but he wasn't one of them. He had been marked by a dragon and there was something niggling at him. Something about the way Millander had been talking and context. It was all about context.

Evidence was useless without context, except it kept rising up in his head that the context was pain and rape and Millander breathing hard and groaning over top of him, sucking him off, and then kneeling on his groin to keep him under control while he'd worked on his piece of art. The larger picture was slipping through his fingers because all he could think of was that.

It felt a little like failing.

He hated to fail. Sometimes he wondered if it was that that brought him back over and over to try again.

"You all right up there, Gil?" Jim called up. "I'm just getting the pills. I put them somewhere and... it was a safe place, you know?"

So safe Jim forgot, probably, and Gil looked at himself in the mirror for a moment when he smiled. Still looked like his face. There wasn't anyone else in the expression, even if most people wouldn't have been looking for it. "I'm okay," he called back. More time to contemplate what Millander had done to him.

"Be with you in a minute," the other man called up and he studied his chest again.

What had Millander said?

~You might enjoy this..~ No, wait was that him or Lecter? Was he blurring the lines between them or drawing distinctions? Or both at the same time. He frowned a little. He had said something about making him recognize rape.

To be sure it was rape. That Millander had been going to make sure he understood it was rape, where he... He, Gil, had called it consent before. Lecter, maybe, a sick strange similarity between the two that drew a distinction.

If that were the pattern and he could feel a pattern there, it was an instinctive knowing that had snapped back into existence when the thoughts of his older self had awakened. He would find that in everything there. A similarity and a distinction. He was sure it was a challenge to Lecter. Sure of it.

If the original Red Dragon was the violator, the kidnapper and the avatar of chaos and evil, then the similarities were obvious. He had been violated, kidnapped and...

He stroked over the rough texture of stitching a moment. Where was the distinction? The opposite. Not chaos and evil, but order and virtue. What were the cardinal virtues again? Wisdom, fortitude, temperance and... Justice.

Justice was the difference, but Justice was not mercy. Justice usually lacked mercy, meting out and uncomplicated. Justice did not Judge and weigh and mitigate, it was. Just like the evidence was, yes or no.

Justice tested. The virtuous man could not be corrupted. Gil paused a moment, fingers touching the owl eye of the dragon on his chest. It hurt to touch, made his chest throb sharply.

"I have been a brother to dragons, a companion to owls... "

Job.

The unwitting victim of a bet between god and Satan, and God had said... God had said something. Gil couldn't remember, and wished that he'd had some religion other than Catholicism to have rejected, because he at least might have read more of the Bible. But it fit. Brother to dragons, companion to owls, and that fit, didn't it? Cops and Agents and scientists, dragons and owls.

He needed a Bible. He needed to find that. Hell, the internet would be better than the Bible.

"Gil? You with me? Or am I going to have to carry you to bed again?"

"What?" He jerked a little to find out that Jim was right up on him, hand on his shoulder. Right there and he'd never even noticed. "No, I was just, I figured it out."

"Great. What exactly?" Jim asked also looking at the reflection that showed the dragon there in stark texture on Gil's body. He put the dressings and pills down but put the hand back on his shoulder.

"'I have been a brother to dragons, a companion to owls.'" Gil waited a beat. "Job. The dragon wasn't the one I thought it was."

"But there was a picture of that painting in the apartment. Cath told me that," Jim said with a slight frown. "So it's a different dragon picture. It's still a red dragon right?"

"Blood might be more accurate," Gil murmured, looking at Jim in the mirror. "This isn't Blake's Red Dragon."

"And how did you get to Job from that then?" Brass asked patiently. "It could be any type of dragon if it's not that one."

"It..." He had to pause, had to keep watching Jim before he looked down. "It was something Millander said."

"Okay. Tell me about it while I put these dressings back on," Jim said reaching for one of the sterile wipes. "I've done enough of my own to know the drill. So, Millander said something and this dragon isn't Blake's Red Dragon?"

"I studied the pictures enough -- it's not any of Blake's dragons. This is a more traditional dragon." He let Jim goad him back to sit on the toilet lid again. "What Millander said..." About rape, but Gil didn't want to bring that up with Jim. He didn't want to talk about it at all, except in the confines of his own skull. "He drew a line between what he was doing and what Lecter had done, for all the similarities."

"So he wanted it to seem the same on the surface but different if you just bothered to look deeper." Jim asked as he wiped around the stitches carefully. "A code then. Like his other crime scenes." Jim glanced at him. "Codes are made to be broken, you know that, but it doesn't have to be you, Gil."

"There are things that the FBI hasn't shared. That Jack hasn't shared, that matter, but... It's hard to explain." He lifted his chin a little, watching Jim and trying to keep his breathing steady despite that it hurt.

"Sorry. Look, I'm in favor of what has to be done being done, but I look at all this and think, hell there's people being paid a whole lot more than you to do this job," Jim pointed out. "Gil, I know you're good, I know Will Graham was the best. I read the books, too, but that doesn't mean you're the only one with skills. If you need to back off from this, you back off. We pass on the tips and let them look."

"I..." Didn't want them having the tips. Not that one, but Gil could see the sense of what Jim was saying. "Who would I tell? Jim, it's not something I'm proud of having done..."

"Tell me. Or Cath. Not Jack, because I know we won't fuck you over, but Jack... Jack is another matter," Jim replied sticking on another dressing. "Look, if you're right about it being a challenge to Lecter, he'll know by now. Sorry, Gil, but that's something that's unavoidable. It hit the news; it hit the FBI pretty quick. That's already done. The difference is this time you don't have a team that's going to leave you hanging out to dry."

"I was the team, Jim. I left myself hanging out to dry. There was Price in prints, but that was when everything was indexed in books. Bloom, our official psychological consult, we had a documents tech and a trace tech, and... Jack." Him and Jack, and they were it, the meat of the team, with a full array of technicians at their disposal, but they'd never had any field training. It would've been like putting Greg on a scene and telling him to collect evidence.

"Playing it fast and loose, huh?" Jim looked up at him a moment and then cocked his head slightly. "So that's why you're a stickler for process."

"So everything doesn't rest on one person. So the strength of the case can carry it," he murmured, looking back at Jim with ease on his expression. "I'm just not used to being the other side of it."

"No one is. Being investigated gives you a whole new appreciation of how things work," Jim answered with a quirk in his expression that made it obvious he knew what he was talking about from personal experience. "Healing up well. Gil."

As well as he could. Gil watched Jim concentrate and fiddle with the tape, and he closed his eyes for a moment. "Jim? I don't know where to start. Because I know that my eureka moments won't stand up in court because I'm the victim in this." It was just a shame that he couldn't give his thoughts to someone else for a couple of weeks and turn his own brain off.

"We'll work out something." Brass said confidently. He continued in silence for a while. "Gil? If you think this is going to make it to court, you're in a different world."

There was something in his eyes then that was utterly uncompromising. The moment when his friend moved from easy going to pure diamond.

"Stranger things have happened." Lecter had gone to court, even if he'd been ruled not guilty by reason of insanity, and given life sentences to an asylum. "I want to imagine that Millander stumbles up, is easily caught and things... carry forwards."

"I want to imagine he resists arrest," Jim replied giving him another look even as he dressed the last area. "That would suit me fine. Especially if I'm there."

"I don't want you there." It was the most he could say on the matter without having to articulate it better than he was capable of in that moment. "I want you safe. Any other case... but this one."

"Well I'm going to be hanging around wherever you are, Gil, so..." Jim shrugged. "You stay safe, so will I. You're not being tossed out as bait on this one. There... all done. You better take your pills."

Gil absently rubbed over one wrist. He could smell coffee, faintly -- the scent of grounds on Jim's hands a little stronger than antibacterial ointment and the smell of bandages. He'd probably set the pot brewing downstairs, and while Gil couldn't have any, he could enjoy the smell. "When... if Catherine comes around, I need to tell her some things for the case." He'd tell Jim in his own time, as it entered his head, as he found words.

"Sure. Knowing Cath, she'll be around to make sure I haven't screwed up or anything," Jim said with a faint smile. "But you are getting back to bed and I'll get toast or something. I'm going to need to go get groceries you can eat, Gil."

"You probably have some beer near the back that's fermented to the point that I could chew it," Gil teased quietly, watching Jim line up the pills for him. "You haven't screwed anything up. I'm glad you're letting me stay here."

"We'll, it's been a long time since I shared space with anyone. Or a bed," Jim replied. "So, screwing up is a possibility. And if I'd known about the other thing, I would have asked you to stay a lot sooner."

"If you, uh, want to, we can work on that... sometime when I can think straight. After this," Gil offered, trying to sound as genuine as he felt. Jim knew him, and Jim knew that even Gil had to have limits, and he was bad with relationships to begin with. But not so bad as not to think before he mentioned to Jim that Millander knew that Gil had issues with the lines between consent and not-consent. He didn't even want to think of how Millander had found that out.

Millander seemed to either be as much of a warped genius as Lecter, or he had some direct link into the computer systems. Or both.

"Sounds good. So toast, yeah? Or cereal or something equally healthy?"

Gil picked up the pills, and then took the glass of water that Jim offered him to take with them. "Toast is good." It almost went over his head that Jim was agreeing to the idea, and that they were planning or hoping to edge towards some tentative, unclear... something. Gil wasn't going to think about it until he was at least physically better. Couldn't think about it before then because it wasn't fair to Jim to make decisions when he wasn't in his right mind.

From the silent form of agreement he got from Jim helping him back to the bed, helping him swill down the pills and then the way he headed off downstairs and the aroma of burning toast drifted up a little later, Jim knew when it was time to stop pushing.