Home of Greg Sanders Slash Fiction
Chapter Two: The Texas Paradox
Characters: Gil Grissom, Greg Sanders, Nick Stokes
Rating: FRAO
Warnings: None
Summary: In which Greg breaks it down for Gil
His happy thoughts of being a mature adult about this are gone by the time Greg clocks out for the night and he races across town to Nick's complex and hopes to hell he gets there first.
He does, and he pulls his keys out of his pocket and lets himself in. It feels overwhelmingly like coming home, but Greg forces the thought from his mind and goes instead into the bedroom. He wants to do this all at once, he's decided, so he's only taking the bare minimum. The clothes he can't live without, his CDs, his PlayStation 2 (he gets a good feeling of cruelty at that, knowing what a fit Nick is going to throw about losing it), the books he brought with him over the months.
Months. He stops, sweater in hand, half-stuffed into his duffel bag, and thinks about it. Let's see. They started dating in May, he more or less moved in that summer, so that would make it... hell, that would make it eleven months.
Eleven months. Man, how did he put up with this bullshit for eleven months?
He hears Nick come in then, hears him and stands up so he's not sitting down when it starts. Doesn't want to give him the advantage of height on top of everything else.
They meet in the hallway outside the bedroom. Nick's nostrils flare and Greg's eyebrows furrow.
"What are you doing here?" Nick asks.
"Getting my stuff," Greg says, "and returning your key."
Nick nods once, and looks down at the bag and the box Greg's working on. "You're not taking the PS2," he says.
"Yes," Greg tells him, "I am. It's mine."
"It's ours," Nick counters.
"First of all," Greg says, "anything that is ours is half mine at this point. And secondly, it isn't ours at all, it's MINE. It was a birthday present from my mother, remember?"
Nick frowns, thinks for a bit, then shrugs. "Right, fine," he says. "Take it, I don't care."
"I don't need your permission, Nick - it belongs to me."
"You know what?" Nick says. "Take whatever you want. I don't fucking care anymore."
Greg sighs, turns back to what he's doing. "You never did," he mumbles, thinks that Nick is probably sulking in the kitchen by now.
"What did you say?"
Ooops. He sighs, stands up again. "You never cared," he says, more loudly and with a much clearer enunciation than is strictly necessary. "If you did, you might have actually asked me what I wanted at some point in the last year, and then we wouldn't be doing this right now."
"Oh," Nick says with a huge and utterly humourless smile, and holds his arms out to the sides to make a point of some kind. "Oh, oh, I get it. I never asked you what you wanted, is that it? So this is all my fault?"
"Well," Greg says, "now that you ask... Yeah."
Nick is speechless for a moment, and it's nowhere near as funny as when Grissom was speechless yesterday. "You little shit," he seethes. "How do you figure any of this is my fault?"
"Well, let's see." Greg takes a step back, starts counting on his fingers. "One, there's the sex thing."
"What sex thing?" Nick demands.
"We haven't had SEX in - in - in FOREVER!"
"What? Greg, we have sex every goddamn day-"
"No," Greg says, "I go down on you every goddamn day. There's a difference."
Nick opens and shuts his mouth once or twice. "You said you liked it," he says.
"I did like it," Greg says, "back in the day. But I like a little variety now and then, you know? And I'd like a little attention paid to my dick by some part of your anatomy other than your hand."
Nick starts to blush, and it's strange that Greg can tell the difference between his blush and his flush of rage. "I can't do that," he says through clenched teeth, "I already told you."
"You can let me swallow you whole," Greg says, "you can grab hold of my fucking head and direct the action - but you can't even bring your face to within a foot of my crotch."
"Greg - I tried, man, you know I tried-"
"You won't fuck me, you won't let me fuck you - hell, you can barely even LOOK at me when I'm coming-"
Nick clenches his jaw. "I tried-" he says again.
"No," Greg says, "you didn't. You tried once, like nine months ago and haven't bothered to try again."
Nick clenches his jaw again and Greg watches him take a few deep breaths. "Fine," he says, "so we had a problem in bed."
"No," Greg says, " we didn't have a problem in bed - you had a problem."
"Whatever." It's pretty remarkable that Nick can talk at all without opening his mouth or even moving his lips.
"One," Greg says, "there's the sex thing. Two, the gay thing."
He watches Nick bristle at that. "I'm not gay, Greg-"
"No," Greg agrees, "by most accounts you aren't. I mean, you won't have sex with me, you won't touch me - not even hold my hand, not even when we're alone. You won't go to movies with me, you won't even let me rent a gay movie - even if it's not porn - you can't stand the thought of being seen in public with any of my gay friends, you don't even like Eric because he's a little TOO gay for you - nope, you're not gay. Okay, so you share a bed with a guy - okay, so that's a little strange - but it's definitely not gay."
"Look," Nick says, "I'm from Texas, okay? We do things a little differently there."
"Yeah," Greg says, "no shit. So, where were we? Oh yeah. One: the sex thing. Two: the gay thing. Three: the secret thing."
"Now wait just a damn minute-"
"No." Greg pulls himself up to his full height, crosses his arms on his chest. "You never even wanted people to know we were hanging out."
"They might have put it together-"
"What," Greg demanded, "that the two geeks from night shift play video games sometimes? Go out for pizza? Are actually friends?"
"In Texas-"
"WE-ARE-NOT-IN-TEXAS-NICK."
There's a long silence between them. Nick's nostrils are flared and he's breathing heavily, and Greg is so close to crying he's not sure if he should throw something at Nick or go hide under the bed.
"Well," Nick eventually says, still furious, "if this is how you feel, why did you stick around?"
"I don't know," Greg admits. "I honestly don't." He wants to laugh, now, can feel his shoulders start to shake. "I'm losing it, Nick," he says, "I should have bailed ten months ago."
Nick tenses up again. "Well I'm sorry that you've wasted ten months of your life, Greg," he snaps, "I'm sorry that I was such a - a distraction from your happy, gay little life. But you know what? I've just had a really shitty day, you know that? People are talking about me, saying things they have no goddamn right to say, and to top it off, Grissom tore me a new one just as I was leaving."
Greg goggles at him. "Excuse me?" he squeaks. "I think I win the 'honey I had a bad day' contest, Nick. Everyone at work thinks I fucked you over, and you hit me in the FACE. Is any of this ringing a bell?"
Nick blanches, suddenly, takes a startled step back. "Jesus, Greg, I already said I was sorry-"
"Whatever, Nick." Greg pulls his key from his pocket, works Nick's front door key from the ring and throws it over Nick's head into the living room. "I'm out of here."
He goes into the bedroom and grabs his duffel bag, slings it over his shoulder and kicks the box along in front of him. There's a moment in the narrow hallway when it looks like Nick isn't going to move for him, then he does: he bends down and picks up the box, carries it down the hallway to the front door.
When he turns around he looks exhausted. Exhausted and broken. "So," he says.
Greg swallows hard, instructs himself not to break down and sob like a baby until he's in his car, and takes the box from Nick's arms. "Thanks," he says, won't meet his eyes.
"Shit, Greg..." Nick touches his shoulder.
Greg shrugs his hand off. "Later," he says, and stumbles out into the night with his worldly possessions.
Gil drives by the place again, unsure. He wants to go in and check up on him - on his way out of the building at around ten-thirty this morning he heard a vicious version of the fight from earlier, as relayed through a security guard, two lab techs from day shift and the secretary at the front desk. According to the story, Greg had cheated on Nick, lied to him, given him syphilis and then desecrated his grandmother's grave.
He thinks, by tomorrow it's going to be even worse.
And he really wants - he does - to see that Greg is okay.
Ah, what the hell, he thinks, and sees a parking spot about half a block up. It can't really hurt, and by tomorrow night Greg is going to need everyone on his side he can get.
He strolls back along the block, wondering how he came automatically to be on Greg's side. Sure, okay, he heard what actually happened between them near the break room, he knows who slapped who, and that's got to bias a guy. Plus he got a look at Greg in crisis the night before, and it was a pretty painful sight.
He wonders if maybe because Greg is younger, Gil's got a protective instinct in him that makes him side with the 'kid'. That much he supposes is built into the genetic makeup of being human - protect the younger generation, because without them we're nothing. But Greg's not much of a kid, not really - not since he started working outside of the lab, assuming he had any innocence left before that.
He reaches for the door buzzer, scans the list next to the box for Greg's name, and is about to ring up when the door opens. An older woman is coming out, smiles openly at him and holds the door for him.
"Thank you," he says softly.
He climbs the stairs - third floor, as he recalls, and the elevator looks a little rickety - and hesitates before Greg's door. He can hear music, but it's not the painful cacophony he's used to hearing from the DNA lab. It's - classical. Vivaldi?
He knocks.
"Fuck off," comes the eventual reply, in a voice wracked by misery.
He knocks again. "Greg?" he calls out. "It's Grissom." He winces, clears his throat. "It's... me."
There's a shuffle of feet and the door opens. Greg looks out at him. "Grissom?" he asks uncertainly. "What...?"
The sight of Greg with tears running down his face, his eyes rimmed in red and his whole body - usually so electric, so alive - in such a complete slump... It takes Gil's breath away, and he takes a step forward, brings his hands up to Greg's shoulders before he realizes he's done it.
"Greg," he says, "what happened?"
Greg snuffles and shrugs, his shoulders jumpy under Gil's hands. "Nothing," he says, and wipes at his face. "You wanna come in?"
Gil closes the door behind him, takes a few steps inside, trying to ignore the little voice in the back of his head that's telling him he doesn't want to get sucked into this. That this is not his problem, that he should let them sort it out on their own.
But then he sees Greg sidestep a box of clothes and books and he thinks, I'm already sucked into this. Have been since that damn fight. No, he corrects, since the night before, at the side of the road into town. Who knew?
He takes a breath, lets it out slowly. "How are you?" he asks.
Greg lets himself drop onto an ugly sofa, and pushes a stack of CDs onto the floor from the chair next to him, clearing a space for Gil. "Been worse," he says, "been better."
Gil wants to ask about 'worse', wants to know what else has happened to him in his short life. "Tell me about it," he says simply.
Greg hesitates like he isn't sure he should say anything, then he lets his shoulders fall against the cushions. "Nick - I don't even know where to start."
"Pick somewhere," Gil suggests with a warm smile. "I'm sure I can fill in the blanks."
Greg shakes his head slowly. "I'm sure you can," he says, and lets his head loll against the fraying back of the couch. "Well, let's see." He looks up at the ceiling and after a long time he smiles sadly. "Nick's from Texas," he says, and then stops.
"...and?" Gil prompts eventually.
"No," Greg says, "that's about it."
"He's from Texas." It's not that he doesn't get it, exactly - well, okay, Gil admits, he doesn't get it.
"That seems to be the root of all his prob - of all our problems."
"Texas."
"Real cowpokes aren't gay."
"Ah."
"It started in February," Greg continues.
Gil wonders what started - the dating, or the problems? But Greg doesn't need an interrogation, he needs someone to listen. "Oh?"
"We agreed not to do anything mushy or stupid for Valentine's - you know, we both worked that night, yadda, whatever - but the next weekend I made him dinner, got a good bottle of wine, you know - bought him a CD that he wanted - god, I bought Shania Twain for him, how humiliating is that? I mean I actually stood in line in public, me, and bought - never mind."
Gil grins even though Greg can't see it. Maybe because Greg can't see it.
Greg shudders melodramatically and sighs deeply. "So I went all out for him, in my own way of course - I thought he'd like it. I mean, it was just us, we were at home, no one else was going to be there, no one was going to see anything..."
"What happened?"
"Well." Greg licks his lips. "First, he flipped out. Went nuts, said I was crazy, what if someone had seen me buying the wine, the music, the fucking candles - I had candles, you know, it was pretty-" He sighs again, a little huff of air, and lets his eyes close.
Gil can sense a fresh wave of tears building behind those eyelids, and his heart hammers. "Greg," he hears himself say, "I have to ask you this - has Nick ever hit you before?"
Greg laughs, his shoulders shaking once or twice and then falling still. "No," he says, "he probably wanted to but - no. Maybe he should have. I would have left a long time ago if he'd-" His voice hitches and Gil winces, wants to do something to ease his pain but hasn't got a clue what.
After a few shaky breaths, Greg lifts his head, wipes his eyes and looks around. "Shit," he says, as though seeing the place for the first time. He half-hiccups, half-laughs. "This place is a mess."
Gil looks around too, tries to keep a straight face. "It's not that bad," he says.
"Ha."
"No, it - okay, it's pretty bad. But I've seen worse."
"Yeah, there's usually a dead body in the middle of the floor, though."
Gil comes close to smiling at him. "Well, yes," he concedes. "So hire someone to come in and clean."
"What?"
"Call one of those house cleaning services, pay them to come in and deal with this while you're at work."
"Isn't that expensive?"
Gil shrugs. "Just once, not really. It's better than doing it yourself."
Greg is looking at him strangely, with something bordering on suspicious respect. "You sound like you're speaking from experience," he says.
Gil shrugs. "I get caught up in work," he says, "so yeah, once in a while."
Greg looks at him for a long moment and Gil's not sure what he's supposed to be doing. Then Greg starts laughing, and it's a real laugh and because this time he's crying out of something like hysteria, Gil starts to laugh, too.
It takes them almost a full minute to rein themselves back in, and when they do, when they're sitting facing each other and not laughing like idiots anymore, Greg shakes his head.
"Thanks," he says.
Gil returns the sheepish smile he sees. "For what?"
"Making me laugh. I needed that."
Gil glances away, still grinning. "So did I," he says softly.
It's like his batteries have been recharged when Greg arrives at work the next day.
He dyed his hair blue after Gil left, called his friend Eric to come over and do something drastic with an electric razor to the back - he still hasn't seen it, but what he can tell by touch makes him grin evilly - and he bummed some really obnoxious music from Eric's boyfriend. Hell, even he can't stand the noise on the disc, but this is about image, it's not about substance.
It's about pissing Nick off.
And he gets a fucking beautiful chance to do it, too, not half an hour after he gets there. He's settling in for the night in the lab, figuring out exactly how loud he can blast the racket and still be able to concentrate on his work, when he gets the distinct impression that someone is watching him.
He turns, has a stupid smile ready to spring on his observer if it's Nick - and look, it is. "Hey," he says loudly, refusing to be rattled.
"Look," Nick says, just as loudly. It's clear he wants to kill the music but he doesn't want to come inside Greg's domain to do it. So he stands at the door and yells as quietly as he can.
"What?" Greg calls back. He scoots across the lab floor on his chair to his computer. He moved the CD player as soon as he got in, it's tucked out of sight in a new place and Nick doesn't know where it is. Doesn't know that Greg is sitting with his thumb against the power button, just waiting.
"Look," he tries again, "I just want to-"
Greg tenses, tries not to let his smile falter, itches his thumb a little more snugly against the button.
"I want to say I'm-" Click, silence. "-SORRY!" Still hollering, and looky looky: more than a few heads have turned to look at him.
Greg manages to keep his triumphant aria inside his head at the sudden flush of anger that creeps up the sides of Nick's face. "What?" he asks innocently.
"Fuck you, Sanders," he grits out between clenched teeth, and stalks out.
And it just gets better from there.
Because before he knows it he's standing between Grissom and Nick, and Grissom is listening to his long-winded explanation about the mitochondrial DNA from some degraded evidence, and Nick is still bristling and finally Grissom sighs, turns to face him and says, "Nick, if you're not going to pay attention, go vibrate somewhere else."
Cha-ching!
Nick clamps down on his tension and lasts through to the end of Greg's monologue, mutters something that might be 'thanks' and walks away.
Before he gets out of earshot, though, Gil says (too, too casually), "I like your hair, Greg. Blue suits you."
And he thinks, I could kiss you right now, Grissom, because he couldn't have asked for a better rebound gift. He bounces back to his lab, still high on the conspiratorial little grin Gil gives him at the last second, and he breezes through the rest of the night. He even leaves the music off this time, and Jacqui and Bobby sort of smile at him.
When he gets home, though, sitting in his apartment and looking at it and thinking that he should hire someone to clean it one of these nights, something filters through the caffeine layers of his brain.
I could kiss you right now, Grissom.
I could kiss you right now, Grissom.
I could kiss you...
He sighs, slumps deeper into the cushions, presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Dammit.
It's not that he doesn't know that Grissom is sexy, not that he hasn't had a few idle thoughts here and there, it's not that he sort of had to convince himself that Nick was good for him at the start there. No no no. And it's not that he's always had a thing for older guys, it's not that intelligence is the best damn aphrodisiac money can buy, it's not that when he finally talked Nick into wearing his glasses on occasion he started having terrible flashes of what Grissom would look like lying next to him in nothing but glasses.
Nope. Not even -
No, wait. Yes, even.
Yes absolutely.
Yes Grissom all the way, who had he been trying to kid with Nick? Nick who was way too young, Nick who was too hung up on what other people thought, too hung up on what he thought other people thought, too self-absorbed and paranoid to actually let himself enjoy what they'd had -
He can imagine what Grissom would be like. But.
...he won't.
He grits his teeth, forces himself to his feet and starts picking things up. His favourite time-waster, his favourite thing to do to keep his hands busy: cleaning. Not. But it needs to be done, and at the very least he'll be too tired after he scrubs this place down ceiling to floor to mope about it.
He thinks, so Grissom didn't freak that you're gay. Didn't freak that you and Nick hate each other. Stuck it to Nick, in fact, in his own way.
Doesn't mean he's interested in you, Greggo, though, does it?
Hm.
Doesn't actually mean that he's not interested, though, does it?
Hmm.