Author's Note: Oneshot. Angst. Nick/Greg. Greg's POV. Slash. … I seem to be writing a lot of angst lately. xD

Acknowledgements: As always, I'd like to thank Amanda for proofreading and editing.

Disclaimer: The song lyrics are from The Good Left Undone by Rise Against. I also do not have ownership over Nick and Greg … sadly.

Summary: How long does it take for hope to wither and almost die? For Greg, three weeks. Three weeks of silence and three weeks of praying for Nick's voice.

Praying for Your Voice

All because of you, I haven't slept in so long
When I do, I dream of drowning in the ocean
Longing for the shore, where I can lay my head down
I'll follow your voice; all you have to do is shout it out

Greg sat alone in the bright hospital room, holding the warm but lifeless hand of Nick. His voice was falsely enthusiastic as he said, "We'll get a puppy, Nick. You can name it, and if you don't come up with any ideas, I could do it. Maybe a golden retriever puppy or you could decide on the breed." He hesitated for a moment, as if he was expecting a response from the man lying on the hospital bed.

"Nick …" Greg whispered, his voice filled with despair, "please, just wake up. I can't plan our future alone. I can't do this by myself."

It was fourteen days since the accident. That's what everyone was calling it—an accident. Greg called it an attempted murder. He, Warrick, and Nick had been called to a break in at an antiques shop on Fiftieth Street the day the Texan would be put into a coma. Nick had been going over the sidewalk in front of the shop when a black Buick had made a sharp right when passing, heading right for the Texan.

Everyone said Nick had been lucky. He'd only broken four ribs, his left wrist, and both legs, but his head had received the worst of it. A deep, bone-shattering gash on the back of his skull. Luckily, none of the bone had severely pierced the brain, and the internal bleeding had subsided after a couple of hours, but Nick hadn't woken up after the surgery.

Greg hadn't left the Texan's side since he had gotten out of the emergency room. The doctors had made an allowance for him, letting him stay there overnight. After Nick woke up, they said, he wouldn't be able to, though. He would need his sleep. Greg only left the hospital room for short coffee breaks and to allow other members of the Las Vegas crime lab some time with Nick.

So far, Warrick, Catherine, Grissom, Sara, Brass, Doc Robbins, David, and even Hodges had stopped by, along with a few other lab rats. Greg didn't know if anyone had contacted Nick's parents, because they still hadn't shown up. All of them had asked Greg how he'd been sleeping (they must've seen the gray tinge to his cheeks and his sluggish movements) and he told them he was sleeping just fine. Of course none of them believed him, but they didn't push the subject.

The fact was was that he wasn't sleeping anymore. He'd only get maybe two hours of sleep a day (if he was lucky) because every time he closed his eyes, he would see the gaping hole in the back of Nick's head, the blood gushing out of it in torrents. In his dreams, he would drown in that blood, choke on it. The metallic, salty taste would flow down his throat and into his lungs. He would try to swim, but he couldn't. There was too much blood, and he was just getting sucked under.

Shaking his head, Greg glanced over at the table along the wall, overflowing with flowers already—roses, lilacs, petunias, and chrysanthemums were all vying for a spot on the oak surface. Cards were also piled up on the bedside table, many of them lying flat to conserve space.

After Nick had been put into Intensive Care, Greg had sought out Grissom, intent on asking for a leave of absence until the Texan woke up.

Grissom had regarded him without any expression on his face before saying he would run it by Ecklie. The younger man couldn't tell exactly what was hidden behind Grissom's ice blue eyes, but he knew it was probably the same thing that was running through his own mind: what if Nick never woke up?

Brass had stopped by a few hours before the hospital had closed to visitors, just after Catherine and Warrick had left. It was only the first day that Nick had been in the hospital, but his room was already teeming with flowers and get-well cards. Brass had kept his face calm and his eyes clear, but the younger man knew that the tough police officer's heart was breaking.

"I wanted to stop by to tell you in person about …" Brass had said as he entered the room, but he trailed off as he looked down at Nick's broken form. Both of the Texan's legs were elevated, along with his left arm. His head was propped up in a special way, making sure that no pressure was on the wound. A breathing tube blocked Nick's mouth, covering the lower part of his face.

"Tell me what?" Greg quickly asked, jumping up from his chair to stand beside the detective. He didn't want to look at Nick like that. He didn't want to see the broken man lying on the hospital bed … Greg wanted to keep the image of Nick as he used to be—vibrant, smiling, alive.

Brass ran his hand along his jaw and said, "I wanted to tell you about Curtis Daniels. We've ID'd him as the man who broke into LePolle's Antiques, and he also, as you know, purposely ran into Nick."

Greg felt a fiery hatred erupt in his stomach. His hands curled into fists, his fingernails cutting into the fleshy heel of his palm. "Murder's a lot worse than breaking and entering," he growled fiercely, staring at the older man.

A weary expression crossed Brass' face. "He's not dead yet."

The feeling cooled off quickly, leaving the younger man horrified about what he had just said. "I didn't mean—"

The detective softly put his hand on Greg's shoulder and said, "I know, but don't lose hope. You have nothing left when your hope is gone."

The hospital room was silent. A pale light shone through the filmy white curtains, bleakly lighting up the light blue walls. As another cloud passed by the sun, the room was thrown into darkness.

For once, Greg wasn't talking to the Texan. He wasn't telling Nick about all the things they could do in the future, all the things Nick had to live for. Greg was quiet, yet he wasn't asleep.

It had been three weeks of silence in the hospital room. Of course, other people had come and gone, but without Nick's voice, every other noise seemed too loud, too abrasive. Without Nick's voice responding to what Greg had been saying, life didn't seem like it was worth it anymore. Three weeks without hearing a sound out of the Texan … and now Greg didn't think that he would ever wake up.

The younger man felt his eyes prickle with tears and he leaned forward, picking up Nick's right hand. He focused on the older man's face, trying to ignore the other injuries. The breathing tube was finally gone from the Texan's mouth; the doctors had said it was no longer necessary, because he was breathing fine on his own. Nick's ribs were also healing quickly, along with his legs and his wrist. Nothing could be said about his brain, however, because Nick still hadn't woken up. The doctors had told Greg that if he didn't come out of the coma within two weeks, they were going to have to reassess some things.

What that meant, Greg didn't want to know.

He gripped Nick's hand tightly as he said, "Nick, you have to wake up. I'm not scared of you dying in your sleep any more; I'm scared that I might. I'm scared that I won't wake up if I don't hear your voice telling me to get out of bed, to stop sleeping. I can't live without you, Nicky. Please … please wake up."

Greg swallowed, his body starting to buzz oddly with anticipation. He could feel something happening, something changing. A wild, crazy thought sprang into his mind: Nick was going to wake up. He was going to look at Greg with those beautiful brown eyes and say something. It didn't matter what the Texan said—any sound would be welcomed. Any sound would be cherished.

The younger man licked his lips, leaning forward. A tingle was spreading from his fingertips to his torso, then down his body towards his toes. Nick was going to wake up any second … any second now.

Long, agonizing minutes passed by. The feeling faded and Greg felt disappointment and anger well up inside him. He let go of Nick's hand and pulled his chair back. He had been so sure. So sure that the older man was going to wake up—so sure that everything would be all right.

Greg's jaw began to tremble violently, his eyes brimming with tears. He lowered his face into his hands, his elbow on the armrest of the chair.

He didn't know how much longer he could sit here beside Nick's bed, knowing that the Texan would never wake up. Eventually, someone would have to make the decision about whether or not Nick would be taken off life support. Would Greg still be here to see that? Or would he have moved on, far away from Las Vegas, trying to put his hurt behind him. Trying to lose his broken heart.

It would only be a matter of time before Greg wouldn't want to Nick wake up, because he knew the Texan wouldn't be quite right. It would only be a matter of time before Greg felt himself die inside, along with his future with Nick.

Only a matter of time.

Even if Nick woke up tomorrow, no one knew what state of mind he would be in. The Texan could have lost all of his motor skills or he might even be paralyzed. He could even be a vegetable, only able to stare at a fixed spot on the far wall. The doctors had warned everyone that Nick could have permanent brain damage, but some people had pulled through this and ended up being completely normal.

Some people …

No one knew if Nick would be one of the lucky few. Hell, no one even knew if the Texan would even wake up.

But what Greg did know was that he would give anything just to see Nick open his eyes. He would give everything he had just to hear the Texan's voice one last time. Maybe he was being selfish—even if Nick was paralyzed from the waist down, Greg still wanted him to wake up. The older man would suffer, but Greg would be happy just having him awake. Would death be easier in that situation? Not just for Nick, but for all those around him who would have to see him struggle every single day?

The younger man let out a sob, the tears falling thickly onto his jeans. He blindly reached forward to grasp Nick's hand. He gently squeezed, wishing his life would flow into the Texan—wishing that a miracle would occur.

"Nicky, I need you. I need you to wake up. I need you to be able to see again, to speak again. I keep praying that you'll wake up and I just hope that this is one prayer that gets answered. If you aren't going to wake up, then please, God, I just need an answer. I wish that something would happen—I can't sit here anymore. Please, Nick, God, anyone! Please …"

Greg bowed his head, trying to keep his sobbing quiet. It was a lost battle and he knew it. His rested his forehead on the metal frame of the bed and the coolness calmed his hot skin. With his free hand, he wiped his eyes, still holding on to Nick's hand.

Suddenly, he felt the older man squeeze back.

Greg almost missed it, but the pressure became constant, and Nick's thumb had started to stroke the palm of the younger man's hand.

He would later swear that his heart stopped when he looked into the open eyes of the Texan.

For a full minute, they both stared at each other. Greg's mouth had dropped open and he felt the tears still sliding down his cheeks. He couldn't let go of Nick's hand.

Those rich, warm, mocha brown eyes were locked onto his. Greg had forgotten how beautiful Nick's eyes really were—they were captivating, breath taking. An undercurrent of pain was in them, along with exhaustion, but they were vibrant, responsive, and alive.

Without letting go of the Texan's hand, Greg reached for the call button on the wall, but Nick's hand tightened around his, keeping him in his seat. The older man shook his head, a fleeting look of pain shooting across his face. The younger man hesitated for a second, still gazing into Nick's open eyes. Eventually, he lowered his arm and pulled his chair closer to the Texan's bed, hardly daring to breathe. Hardly daring to believe that this was real.

Minutes passed, and Greg waited. Waited for an explanation, a word, a breath. Anything.

Nick coughed and licked his lips before finally saying, "Thank you." His voice was raspy and scratchy but it was his. After weeks of soul-breaking silence, he had finally spoken. A relieving warmth was slowly spreading through Greg's veins.

The younger man bent down to kiss the Texan's hand, his lips soft and gentle, like a summer breeze. "For what?" he asked after he had straightened up, brushing a few stray tears off his cheeks.

Nick swallowed and coughed a few more times. "For waking me up," he answered.

Shivers abruptly began to fly unchecked up and down Greg's legs. His heartbeat sped up and he softly said, "I—I didn't. You woke yourself up."

The older man shook his head slower this time and murmured, "No … I followed your voice."

Greg was struck dumb—had this kind of thing ever happened in reality? This wasn't some soap opera or love story. Could Nick have actually followed his voice back to consciousness? Was it even possible?

The Texan's hacking coughs interrupted his frenzied thoughts and he rubbed Nick's hand earnestly, hoping that something else would be said.

"At first I didn't … know whose voice it was," the older man continued, his words halted and still unbearably raspy. "It sounded sweet. I … first thought it was an angel … but then I realized … it was you. It was today that I … recognized your voice. I followed it." Nick broke the connection between them by looking away. He stared at the far wall, his lips trembling slightly. Greg still couldn't say anything—he knew that his eyes were glittering in the somber sunlight; more tears were pricking at his eyelids.

The Texan tightened his hold on the younger man's hand and softly said, "You saved me, Greg."

It was the utterance of his name that made Greg finally react—he reached up and pressed the call button. Nick's eyes had refocused on the younger man's and they were back to gazing at each other, waiting in silence for their lives to start getting pieced back together.

Suddenly, the silence seemed to be too much for Greg. He leaned a little bit closer to Nick and whispered, "I love you."

A tear slid down Nick's bruised cheek and he smiled at the younger man. Greg knew everything was going to be okay—he could feel it in the way Nick held his hand, in the way he was looking up at him, and the way he had said 'Greg' … In just that one word, it was as if nothing had ever happened. Nick had not been in a coma for weeks on end and Greg had not almost given up hope.

That silky, knee-melting accent could he be heard in that one word, despite the rasping quality that was heavily in the Texan's voice from weeks of silence.

A nurse came into the room, her bright blue eyes lighting up and a smile touching her red lips as she looked at the clearly awake man lying on the hospital bed. Without a word, she hurriedly went over to the phone on the table and pushed the intercom button, paging Dr. Kabell to room 114.

After getting that out of the way, she came to the other side of Nick's bed. Her face was kind as she asked, "How are you feeling, Mr. Stokes?"

"Sore," Nick croaked.

The nurse gently straightened the blanket covering the Texan's body. "You're lucky to be alive," she told him. "These are serious injuries. All of us were wondering if you if you were going to make it." She stopped straightening the light green blanket and glanced up at the ceiling. "It's times like these that make me wonder if we have someone up there watching over us."

Nick sneaked a glance at Greg, a tender smile on his face. Neither of them had to say a word—the younger man could tell that the look in the Texan's eyes clearly said, "I know I do."

All because of you, I believe in angels
Not the kind with wings, no, not the kind with halos
The kind that bring you home, when home becomes a strange place
I'll follow your voice; all you have to do is shout it out