Denial

He had thought it was just another day. Nick pulled his car into a space in the parking lot and climbed out, already mentally justifying the forgotten phone call.

He never had to use that excuse. Grissom gave him the slip for a case meant for him and Warrick. But Warrick wasn’t there.

“I’ll call you later.” This was most definitely later. But he made the call. And there was no answer, not at Warrick’s apartment, not on his cell.

Nick waited for a while, watched the other CSIs disperse. He went outside and looked for Warrick’s car, but didn’t find it. He got in his own car and drove towards Warrick’s apartment.

It was funny to him how vividly he remembered those actions later. He remembered the sun beating down on the back of his neck, thinking today had been one of those days where the heat is visible in waves, coming off the pavement, floating up to suffocate you. He remembered the sound of gravel crunching under the tires, how it always reminded him of the ranch back in Texas with the dirt paths leading to the different pastures.

What he remembered even more vividly was the feeling in his chest as he saw Warrick’s car parked next to the diner they had eaten at last night. For no reason at all, his heart sunk and his stomach turned to lead, his lungs constricted and he locked his jaw, even as he told himself that Warrick was probably grabbing a quick meal before work. For no reason at all, he took a deep breath before he turned off his car and got out.

He counted the steps to the driver’s side of his best friend’s car. Seventeen. Seventeen slow steps, each seeming to echo off the familiar walls of the building.

He put his hand lightly on his gun, ready to grab it if necessary. There was no reason to think it would be, but he thought that nevertheless. The metal felt cool and smooth against his sweaty palm.

“Warrick?” His voice broke. He told himself Warrick would laugh at him for days about that, but some part of his mind told him that he wouldn’t.

Nick could see the shape of someone in the driver’s seat around the seventh step. Around the twelfth he noticed the glass under his boots, glittering where it was spread across the ground. Around the fifteenth he pulled out his cell phone and called Grissom. At the seventeenth step he stopped. The phone fell from his hand, the battery bursting out of body of the device when it connected with the glass-covered ground.

Anger

What he couldn’t remember were the sounds that were made. He couldn’t remember what he said to Grissom, what Grissom said to him. He couldn’t remember his conversation with Warrick last night. He remembered that he had said something, but there were no sounds here, save for his mind screaming that this had to be a dream.

He couldn’t remember the sound of sirens when the police finally came. He couldn’t remember Brass saying anything to him as he was taken by the elbow and steered away from the car. As far as he knew, there was no sound left in the world.

He did remember the coolness of Warrick’s skin as he felt for a pulse. He remembered the wet crimson of blood staining his fingers, spreading to cover everything in his sight as a hot blood pounded through his own body as fast as the thoughts flowed through his mind. He couldn’t remember ever being so angry. Not after he was stalked, not after he was buried alive. Not even after Warrick was framed for murder.

Why did this happen? he tried to ask. He felt his mouth move, but there was no sound. But no one was there to hear it anyway. No one alive. Why did you let this happen!?

Bargaining

The green eyes staring at him were empty, glassy. Nick had seen enough dead bodies in his time, this shouldn’t bother him, and yet it scared him more than anything else.

Please, stop looking at me like that. I’ll give anything if you’ll just stop looking like that. Please, just stop looking dead, because I can’t take this. I can’t take you being dead, Rick. Please, please, stop looking at me like that. Warrick didn’t respond, just stared at him with those glassy eyes, looking into him more than at him, looking right through him. Open to see Nick’s every move, though nothing Nick could do would make Warrick see again.

Depression

By the time Brass pulled him away from the car, he was as empty as Warrick’s eyes had been. He was a shell, skin and bones and muscle walking around with no soul attached.

Someone put a jacket around his shoulders, though he wasn’t cold. He ignored them. He sat in the back seat of Brass’ car, with the door open, watching as the area was taped off. He didn’t blink, not even once. His eyes felt too dry, everything was blurring. He couldn’t stop thinking of the unblinking eyes of his best friend.

He couldn’t remember how long he sat there. He couldn’t remember who had tried to talk to him, what they had said. The next thing he remembered was Grissom.

Grissom crouched down in front of him to meet his eyes. He asked something, but Nick couldn’t remember what. He didn’t respond.

Catherine was there then, tears sparkling in her eyes like the glass covering the ground.

Greg was there, silent and still. The four of them stood together next to Brass’ car, the only ones left.

He couldn’t remember how long they stood there. What he could remember were the people, the look they had that remained unchanged the whole time, as if they too were corpses, no longer able to move.

Greg. His eyes wide, the shock still reflected there, as though he had just been slapped unexpectedly. He was so remarkably still. No more than the rest of them, but he had always been more prone to fidgeting.

Catherine. Tears flowing down her face like tiny streams, her mascara dissolving, leaving long black lines, like prison bars, locking her into a situation she couldn’t fix.

Grissom. His eyes not surprised, not fearful or angry, but disappointed. Disappointed by the world that had caused this. Disappointed that Warrick, who had so much life still to live, had lost it all.

But Nick took it in without feeling. He felt cold inside, frozen in place, the temperature in his heart at absolute zero, where nothing moves and nothing survives. He was a shell.

Acceptance

Nick wondered if Warrick had been able to remember. If he had been able to think of something good before he was killed, if he had been happy. He wondered if he couldn’t remember because Warrick couldn’t either.

At some point, he thought of the five stages of grief. How it always ended in acceptance. Except that it didn’t. It didn’t end in acceptance because Warrick dying was not acceptable.

He finally remembered something that had been said. Something he had said. “I’m glad you’re okay.” He hated himself for saying that.

Always, Warrick made things okay. He said “It’s okay,” and the world believed him and made it so. Nick said “I’m glad you’re okay.” There was no power there. It was an admittance that he didn’t have power, even though things had worked out the way he wanted. He hated himself for not taking that power and making it so.

Warrick had done just that so many times for Nick, in every close call he had had. Nick didn’t make things okay for Warrick. That wasn’t acceptable.

But what really got him was how many chances he himself had had. How many close calls there had been, but every time, he came out fine. Warrick got one chance, and now it was gone. That, that was unacceptable.

Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. It always ends in acceptance. Or at least, that’s what they say. Nick wondered if Warrick had time to accept it. He highly doubted it. If Warrick wouldn’t accept it, then Nick wouldn’t either, and then maybe it wouldn’t be true.

Everything ends in acceptance. If neither of them accepted Warrick’s death, then maybe his life never ended.