The heat in Texas is oppressive, humidity at 100% and he misses the dry heat of the desert. It's raining today, huge drops that steam when they hit the concrete. He's barefoot, standing in the rain on the patio in a t-shirt and shorts. He's alone for the first time in weeks, and he's standing in the rain, hand out, watching the drops splashslide and collect in his palm.
The rain on his palms is Morse code but he can't decipher the message. He's out of practice, not since Boy Scouts, and he concentrates. He thinks he almost has it, but he loses the rhythm. He closes his eyes.
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He remembers, pushing through doors in his memory. There's a book inside, he thinks, an old guide book on the shelf in the den, but he doesn't want to leave, doesn't want to move his hand. Doesn't want to lose the message. He concentrates.
long long short
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The rain is warm, pooling in the cup where head, heart and love form parallel lines. He can feel the steam curling up around his legs, warm and soft. He opens his eyes, squinting around blurry spots where his eyelashes clump together. He concentrates.
long long short
short long short
short
It was a flash storm, no warning at all. He ran out the backdoor when he heard the first thunderclap, watched the drops as they soaked into the cotton. He thinks of baptism, being washed in sacrifice, becoming clean and whole again. There's a message here, he can feel it. He concentrates.
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short
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And he gets it. Message received, loud and clear, and he can't breathe.
+++
He's dialed the number once since he left, at a payphone downtown when he found two quarters in his pockets. He listened to the voicemail message and hung up, but the voice echoed in his brain, fifteen seconds becoming hours and days.
He wants to call, now. The rain wants him to call, and he's sitting on the couch with his feet under him, curled into a ball with the phone in his lap, and he wants to call. Now. He dials seven numbers and hangs up. He dials eight, nine, ten, and it's ringing and he can feel his heart in his throat. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to explain rainstorms and Morse code, and when it beeps all he can think is "Come. Here." and he says it.
+++
He doesn't look at his missed calls before checking his voicemail, and when he hears Nick's voice he stops mid-step. His heart is pounding and he can feel the blood in his ears and he presses one to repeat the message. It's Nick's voice, Nick's voice and it's two words and Greg tries to tell himself that he doesn't know where "here" is but he knows, he checked the prefix of the phone number and he figured Dallas anyway.
He listens again, and again, and a part of him wants to take the phone to Archie and have the message analyzed. He thinks he hears rain in the background, maybe thunder, and Nick's voice. "Come here," and Greg goes.
Grissom nods when Greg turns in the leave request, tells him to go, they'll cover, they'll figure something out, there's Catherine and Warrick and Sara and go go go and Greg goes. The next available flight leaves in six hours, and he packs in ten minutes so he sits, at the airport and drinks a Coke and worries, frets and stresses, and it's only after the plane has taken off that he realizes he doesn't know where he's going. He only knows why.
+++
"St-- Hello?"
"I'm here."
Nick puts down the bowl he's drying and leans against the counter. "Greg?"
"I'm here, Nick."
He runs a hand over his scalp and frowns. "What does that mean?"
"The Hyatt-Regency in the international airport. Room 862. I didn't-- You said to come. I'm here. I came."
Greg hangs up, or gets disconnected, but the phone is dead and Nick stares at it for ten, twenty seconds before clicking it closed and putting it back in his pocket. He didn't think. He hadn't wanted, except he had, and he's here, now, and it's still raining and Nick's sandals are soaked when he gets into his truck.
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