Moment of Truth, Part 8
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nickngregTitle: Moment of Truth, Part 8
Author: Fragile Destiny (Alex Morgan)
Genre: Angst, Action, Drama
Rating: R
Synopsis: This chapter is from Greg's POV. This time, the thoughts in italics throughout are Greg's.
Disclaimer: The usual, blah blah.
Moment of Truth, Part 8
Monday
Catherine Willows stared at Jim Brass across the empty desk. "So you're saying there's nothing we can do?" She tapped her fingernails on the anonymous wood.
Brass sighed and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "Catherine," he began, his voice weary from an all-night shift. "You know the law as well as I do. Dean Sanders has done his time. His sentence is up, he's out. The parole board will keep a close eye, but essentially - he's a free man."
Catherine swore under her breath. Since Nick had confided in her, she'd been racking her brain to find some way that the department could protect Greg from his vicious father. But it seemed that, as usual, the law fell short.
"But Greg has a restraining order... surely that counts for something?" As soon as the words were out of Catherine's mouth, she knew what the answer was going to be.
"Cath... you know better than anyone that restraining orders aren't worth the paper they're written on. How many vics have we processed..." Brass trailed off. He was going to say "...who've been found clutching a court order in their cold, dead fingers", but the look on Catherine's face had stopped him in his tracks. This was Greg they were talking about. Catherine glared at him and he felt the icy blast from her eyes.
"I know, Cath... I'm sorry." he muttered.
"Jim..." Catherine leaned forward. "This is one of our own. This is Greg, for god's sake - not some cheap hooker from Melville Street. There's got to be something we can do!"
Jim rubbed his chin. "Cat... the law is the law. I'm sorry. I'll have the D.A.'s office keep an eagle eye on Dean Sanders, and if he goes within a mile of Greg's place, we can get him for violation of the restraining order. But otherwise...." Jim spread his hands ruefully.
Catherine banged her chair back and stood up. "Well, so much for victim's rights," she muttered.
"I'm sorry, Cat - I wish there was more I could do."
"It's not your fault, Jim - I know that. Sometimes I just get so sick of this town."
Catherine strode off down the hall to give Nick the bad news.
------
Tuesday
Greg Sanders was in his element: his state-of-the-art sound system blared his favorite track of the moment (Jet, "Are You Gonna Be My Girl") and he flung himself around his apartment, playing air guitar and singing loudly (and slightly off-key) to himself.
"Now you don’t need money when you look like that do ya honey?"
The night was young and he was planning on going out later, just as soon as he'd finished distressing his apartment to just the right pitch of elegant disaster. Nick's maid service had cleaned the hell out of it and he couldn't live like that. As much as he adored Nick, Greg found his idea of comfortable living intimidating. He was afraid to put his beer down unless there was a coaster under it; and Nick's condo was so sleek and understated, it was practically Japanese.
"You look so fine that I really wanna make you mine!" Greg screeched at the top of his voice, stopping in mid-rockstar-thrash as the lights snapped off and the speakers fell suddenly silent. His constantly humming refrigerator shuddered and died.
"Oh come on, my singing's not that bad!" he muttered out loud. The fuse must have blown again - it was an old building and there was...
Greg stood dead still. He could feel the blood draining from his face. His hands began to shake. No. Oh please, dear god, no.
Sensations that he hadn't felt in 15 years began to sweep through his body. His knees seemed to be made of water, and a wave of cold nausea washed through his every nerve. His muscles melted under his skin, a river of fear searing everything in its path, like whitehot lava. He tried to speak but no words came. He tried to turn around but his legs wouldn't work. His heart had stopped beating. Nick...oh god, please... Even his mind was frozen in the deep ice of sheer terror.
"So, Gregory Sanders. The little fag-boy's all grown up." The sneering voice was the same. Greg closed his eyes. I can't breathe - why can't I breathe? Something came loose in his throat. "Dad..." he whispered. His hands were shaking uncontrollably.
"Thought you'd gotten rid of me for good, didn't you. No such luck, son....I haven't forgotten what you did to me."
Greg could feel his father smirking in the darkness. Tears welled into his eyes but he blinked them away.
"And I haven't forgotten what you did to Mom..." he croaked. His breath was all jammed up in his throat, like a car wreck.
"She deserved what she got, the frigid bitch. And so did you, you miserable little shit - except that you ran away before I could give it to you. Well guess what? You betrayed me and now you're going to pay."
Dean Sanders pulled off his belt and cracked it on the floor. Greg jumped. It was a sound he hadn't heard since he was 12 years old. He couldn't move, he couldn't think, he couldn't look at his father. He couldn't run.
"On your knees, fag-boy!" his father ordered. Greg shook his head. Never. You will never have me. "No." he whispered. He was somewhere else, just like before. Just leave your body, go to another place in your mind... a place where you're happy. Nick....
"I'm going to have you, boy, just like I should have done back then. There's no-one here to save you this time..." Dean Sanders drew in a sharp breath and whipped his belt at Greg's back. The buckle tore into his skin and blood started to seep down his shirt.
A sob tore out from Greg's throat. He was 12 again, and it was his fault, he couldn't do anything right, it was always his fault. His knees started to crumple.
"Get. On. Your. Knees."
"No." Greg's voice came out in a hoarse whisper. His throat was shut tight, but he forced the words out. "Never." He clenched his fists to stop his hands from shaking. The sound of the revolver hammer being pulled back was unmistakable in the dark, silent apartment.
"You really didn't think the parole board was going to rein me in, did you Gregory? And that I wasn't going to track you down, now that you're a cop and all? With your nice cop boyfriend, you fucking queer?" The voice was pure loathing, tinged with envy.
Greg turned around slowly. He could feel the blood that had pooled and turned to ice in his feet, start to surge around his body. He looked at his father. A burning rage was beginning to flare inside him. When he spoke, his voice trembled with a cold fury. "I ran from you once. Never again. I told you that day, you'd never have me, and you never will. I hate you. You can kill me right here, I don't care anymore. At least I'll die standing."
Dean Sanders curled his lip in a sneer of contempt. "Which is more than I can say for your boyfriend, when I track him down. Nick, isn't it?"
Greg's heart began to race, and he fought down the rising panic in his throat. He stared into his father's cold, grey eyes. "You complete and utter bastard."
Greg held his father's menacing stare. His hands started to shake again and he dug his nails hard into his palms. "If you touch him... if you hurt him, I'll kill you. I swear to god, I'll kill you with my bare hands."
Dean Sanders smirked. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it son. You're no different from me after all."
Greg glared at him. "I'm nothing like you, you sick fuck." But he felt numb inside. The darkness in the apartment seemed to be seeping into his mind, into his soul. He swayed slightly. I can't do this, Nick. I just can't do it anymore. I'm so tired...
The blast of the handgun was deafening in the small space. Greg's ears were still ringing as he hit the floor, his heart pounding with the sudden rush of adrenaline. A warm pool of blood seeped towards his hand as he lay face down on the hardwood. He tried to move, but couldn't. Am I dead? Almost as soon as the thought passed through his mind, Greg realized it was ridiculous. He was alive... but he was pinned by a body lying across his legs. The sickly-sweet smelling pool of blood spread further, and began to steam. Slowly, Greg pulled his legs free and struggled to his knees, then let out a strangled cry.
The person lying in the pool of blood was Nick.
-------
"Nick, no, no, no, oh god, Nick....!" Greg's heart hammered against his chest. I can't lose you. I can't go through this again.
"You're not getting rid of me that easily, Sanders." Nick muttered groggily, struggling up onto one elbow.
"Oh, thank god!" Greg flung his arms around him. "You're not bleeding?" Greg said, confused.
"That's what Kevlar is for, my friend," said Nick, getting to his feet and giving Greg a hand up. Greg turned slowly to follow Nick's gaze. He tracked the pool of blood to its source: his father, with a neat 9mm hole in the centre of his forehead, and his discharged revolver lying next to his outstretched hand.
Nick rubbed his shoulder. "Damn, that stings!"
Greg was in another world. He started to tremble all over. "Is he dead?" he whispered.
"Yep, pretty dead, I reckon," said Nick. He looked at his friend with concern. "Come on buddy.... you can see for yourself. Here." Nick shone his flashlight into Dean Sanders' face. Greg stepped closer, gingerly. He knelt and took his father's pulse. Nothing. Cold. Dead. The blood was turning sticky. Greg straightened up and stared down at his father's body. "He's dead." His voice was flat and lifeless. Nick cast a glance at Greg, seeing something in his eyes he'd never seen before: cold hatred. He shivered inwardly.
"Hey. It's okay, G. Let's call this in and get a team down here. You don't need to be seeing this. Come on, buddy. It's over - the good guys win."
"The good guys..." Greg repeated, woodenly.
-------
"How did you get in?" Greg asked as they drove behind the squad car. "I climbed the fire escape," Nick answered, frowning at the road ahead. "You really didn't think we'd leave you without protection from him, did you? We had surveillance in place first thing Monday. As soon as the electricity went out, they were on the radio."
"I thought Brass said..."
"Brass says a lot of things. But when he's faced with the wrath of Catherine Willows, how long do you think it takes before he caves?" Nick smiled and shot a glance at Greg, who was staring ahead impassively.
"Are you alright, G?" Nick asked.
"I don't know.... I think so...." Greg's voice was on the verge of tears. Nick took a look at his hands and saw that they were shaking violently.
"Hang on."
Nick swerved to the curb, anchored up and slammed the truck into park. "Come here." He pulled Greg into his arms and held him tight. Greg squeezed his eyes tight shut and wrapped his arms around Nick. A ragged gasp tore from his lips and he started to sob. Nick rocked him in his arms like a child. "Ssssh, it's okay... he's dead, and you're free. You won, Greg. For your mother, and for you. It's over, you're free."
"Free...." Greg whispered. Free.
"Thank you..." Greg mumbled into Nick's chest. Nick smiled. "You're very welcome, my friend."
Greg closed his eyes and sighed. No more fear. Could it be true? Nick's steady heartbeat was strong and comforting. The warmth of his arms felt like home. Something like sleep washed over him, and the last thing he remembered was a warm hand, gently stroking back his hair as he slipped into the deep, dark chasm of merciful nothingness.
**********************
Author: Fragile Destiny (Alex Morgan)
Genre: Angst, Action, Drama
Rating: R
Synopsis: This chapter is from Greg's POV. This time, the thoughts in italics throughout are Greg's.
Disclaimer: The usual, blah blah.
Moment of Truth, Part 8
Monday
Catherine Willows stared at Jim Brass across the empty desk. "So you're saying there's nothing we can do?" She tapped her fingernails on the anonymous wood.
Brass sighed and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "Catherine," he began, his voice weary from an all-night shift. "You know the law as well as I do. Dean Sanders has done his time. His sentence is up, he's out. The parole board will keep a close eye, but essentially - he's a free man."
Catherine swore under her breath. Since Nick had confided in her, she'd been racking her brain to find some way that the department could protect Greg from his vicious father. But it seemed that, as usual, the law fell short.
"But Greg has a restraining order... surely that counts for something?" As soon as the words were out of Catherine's mouth, she knew what the answer was going to be.
"Cath... you know better than anyone that restraining orders aren't worth the paper they're written on. How many vics have we processed..." Brass trailed off. He was going to say "...who've been found clutching a court order in their cold, dead fingers", but the look on Catherine's face had stopped him in his tracks. This was Greg they were talking about. Catherine glared at him and he felt the icy blast from her eyes.
"I know, Cath... I'm sorry." he muttered.
"Jim..." Catherine leaned forward. "This is one of our own. This is Greg, for god's sake - not some cheap hooker from Melville Street. There's got to be something we can do!"
Jim rubbed his chin. "Cat... the law is the law. I'm sorry. I'll have the D.A.'s office keep an eagle eye on Dean Sanders, and if he goes within a mile of Greg's place, we can get him for violation of the restraining order. But otherwise...." Jim spread his hands ruefully.
Catherine banged her chair back and stood up. "Well, so much for victim's rights," she muttered.
"I'm sorry, Cat - I wish there was more I could do."
"It's not your fault, Jim - I know that. Sometimes I just get so sick of this town."
Catherine strode off down the hall to give Nick the bad news.
------
Tuesday
Greg Sanders was in his element: his state-of-the-art sound system blared his favorite track of the moment (Jet, "Are You Gonna Be My Girl") and he flung himself around his apartment, playing air guitar and singing loudly (and slightly off-key) to himself.
"Now you don’t need money when you look like that do ya honey?"
The night was young and he was planning on going out later, just as soon as he'd finished distressing his apartment to just the right pitch of elegant disaster. Nick's maid service had cleaned the hell out of it and he couldn't live like that. As much as he adored Nick, Greg found his idea of comfortable living intimidating. He was afraid to put his beer down unless there was a coaster under it; and Nick's condo was so sleek and understated, it was practically Japanese.
"You look so fine that I really wanna make you mine!" Greg screeched at the top of his voice, stopping in mid-rockstar-thrash as the lights snapped off and the speakers fell suddenly silent. His constantly humming refrigerator shuddered and died.
"Oh come on, my singing's not that bad!" he muttered out loud. The fuse must have blown again - it was an old building and there was...
Greg stood dead still. He could feel the blood draining from his face. His hands began to shake. No. Oh please, dear god, no.
Sensations that he hadn't felt in 15 years began to sweep through his body. His knees seemed to be made of water, and a wave of cold nausea washed through his every nerve. His muscles melted under his skin, a river of fear searing everything in its path, like whitehot lava. He tried to speak but no words came. He tried to turn around but his legs wouldn't work. His heart had stopped beating. Nick...oh god, please... Even his mind was frozen in the deep ice of sheer terror.
"So, Gregory Sanders. The little fag-boy's all grown up." The sneering voice was the same. Greg closed his eyes. I can't breathe - why can't I breathe? Something came loose in his throat. "Dad..." he whispered. His hands were shaking uncontrollably.
"Thought you'd gotten rid of me for good, didn't you. No such luck, son....I haven't forgotten what you did to me."
Greg could feel his father smirking in the darkness. Tears welled into his eyes but he blinked them away.
"And I haven't forgotten what you did to Mom..." he croaked. His breath was all jammed up in his throat, like a car wreck.
"She deserved what she got, the frigid bitch. And so did you, you miserable little shit - except that you ran away before I could give it to you. Well guess what? You betrayed me and now you're going to pay."
Dean Sanders pulled off his belt and cracked it on the floor. Greg jumped. It was a sound he hadn't heard since he was 12 years old. He couldn't move, he couldn't think, he couldn't look at his father. He couldn't run.
"On your knees, fag-boy!" his father ordered. Greg shook his head. Never. You will never have me. "No." he whispered. He was somewhere else, just like before. Just leave your body, go to another place in your mind... a place where you're happy. Nick....
"I'm going to have you, boy, just like I should have done back then. There's no-one here to save you this time..." Dean Sanders drew in a sharp breath and whipped his belt at Greg's back. The buckle tore into his skin and blood started to seep down his shirt.
A sob tore out from Greg's throat. He was 12 again, and it was his fault, he couldn't do anything right, it was always his fault. His knees started to crumple.
"Get. On. Your. Knees."
"No." Greg's voice came out in a hoarse whisper. His throat was shut tight, but he forced the words out. "Never." He clenched his fists to stop his hands from shaking. The sound of the revolver hammer being pulled back was unmistakable in the dark, silent apartment.
"You really didn't think the parole board was going to rein me in, did you Gregory? And that I wasn't going to track you down, now that you're a cop and all? With your nice cop boyfriend, you fucking queer?" The voice was pure loathing, tinged with envy.
Greg turned around slowly. He could feel the blood that had pooled and turned to ice in his feet, start to surge around his body. He looked at his father. A burning rage was beginning to flare inside him. When he spoke, his voice trembled with a cold fury. "I ran from you once. Never again. I told you that day, you'd never have me, and you never will. I hate you. You can kill me right here, I don't care anymore. At least I'll die standing."
Dean Sanders curled his lip in a sneer of contempt. "Which is more than I can say for your boyfriend, when I track him down. Nick, isn't it?"
Greg's heart began to race, and he fought down the rising panic in his throat. He stared into his father's cold, grey eyes. "You complete and utter bastard."
Greg held his father's menacing stare. His hands started to shake again and he dug his nails hard into his palms. "If you touch him... if you hurt him, I'll kill you. I swear to god, I'll kill you with my bare hands."
Dean Sanders smirked. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it son. You're no different from me after all."
Greg glared at him. "I'm nothing like you, you sick fuck." But he felt numb inside. The darkness in the apartment seemed to be seeping into his mind, into his soul. He swayed slightly. I can't do this, Nick. I just can't do it anymore. I'm so tired...
The blast of the handgun was deafening in the small space. Greg's ears were still ringing as he hit the floor, his heart pounding with the sudden rush of adrenaline. A warm pool of blood seeped towards his hand as he lay face down on the hardwood. He tried to move, but couldn't. Am I dead? Almost as soon as the thought passed through his mind, Greg realized it was ridiculous. He was alive... but he was pinned by a body lying across his legs. The sickly-sweet smelling pool of blood spread further, and began to steam. Slowly, Greg pulled his legs free and struggled to his knees, then let out a strangled cry.
The person lying in the pool of blood was Nick.
-------
"Nick, no, no, no, oh god, Nick....!" Greg's heart hammered against his chest. I can't lose you. I can't go through this again.
"You're not getting rid of me that easily, Sanders." Nick muttered groggily, struggling up onto one elbow.
"Oh, thank god!" Greg flung his arms around him. "You're not bleeding?" Greg said, confused.
"That's what Kevlar is for, my friend," said Nick, getting to his feet and giving Greg a hand up. Greg turned slowly to follow Nick's gaze. He tracked the pool of blood to its source: his father, with a neat 9mm hole in the centre of his forehead, and his discharged revolver lying next to his outstretched hand.
Nick rubbed his shoulder. "Damn, that stings!"
Greg was in another world. He started to tremble all over. "Is he dead?" he whispered.
"Yep, pretty dead, I reckon," said Nick. He looked at his friend with concern. "Come on buddy.... you can see for yourself. Here." Nick shone his flashlight into Dean Sanders' face. Greg stepped closer, gingerly. He knelt and took his father's pulse. Nothing. Cold. Dead. The blood was turning sticky. Greg straightened up and stared down at his father's body. "He's dead." His voice was flat and lifeless. Nick cast a glance at Greg, seeing something in his eyes he'd never seen before: cold hatred. He shivered inwardly.
"Hey. It's okay, G. Let's call this in and get a team down here. You don't need to be seeing this. Come on, buddy. It's over - the good guys win."
"The good guys..." Greg repeated, woodenly.
-------
"How did you get in?" Greg asked as they drove behind the squad car. "I climbed the fire escape," Nick answered, frowning at the road ahead. "You really didn't think we'd leave you without protection from him, did you? We had surveillance in place first thing Monday. As soon as the electricity went out, they were on the radio."
"I thought Brass said..."
"Brass says a lot of things. But when he's faced with the wrath of Catherine Willows, how long do you think it takes before he caves?" Nick smiled and shot a glance at Greg, who was staring ahead impassively.
"Are you alright, G?" Nick asked.
"I don't know.... I think so...." Greg's voice was on the verge of tears. Nick took a look at his hands and saw that they were shaking violently.
"Hang on."
Nick swerved to the curb, anchored up and slammed the truck into park. "Come here." He pulled Greg into his arms and held him tight. Greg squeezed his eyes tight shut and wrapped his arms around Nick. A ragged gasp tore from his lips and he started to sob. Nick rocked him in his arms like a child. "Ssssh, it's okay... he's dead, and you're free. You won, Greg. For your mother, and for you. It's over, you're free."
"Free...." Greg whispered. Free.
"Thank you..." Greg mumbled into Nick's chest. Nick smiled. "You're very welcome, my friend."
Greg closed his eyes and sighed. No more fear. Could it be true? Nick's steady heartbeat was strong and comforting. The warmth of his arms felt like home. Something like sleep washed over him, and the last thing he remembered was a warm hand, gently stroking back his hair as he slipped into the deep, dark chasm of merciful nothingness.
**********************
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