Home of Greg Sanders Slash Fiction
Author: Scarlet
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating:FRAO
Archive: Ask and you shall receive.
Feedback: Oh please, yes, yes, yes!
Email: [email protected]
Authors Web Site: www.geocities.com/scarletsfiction
Disclaimers:CSI is a product of CBS, Alliance Atlantic, Jerry
Bruckheimer, Anthony E. Zuiker, and a zillion other people that are
not me.
Authors Notes: Thanks much to Kaz for the beta.
Summary: Worshiping from afar isn't all it's cracked up to be.
_________________________________________________
For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most
difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof,
the work for which all other work is but preparation.
Rainer Maria Rilke (1875 - 1926)
--------------------------
He knows that it's ironic, the way they are, the way they look. It's
ironic how, between the two of them, they're the veritable epitome
of gay stereotypes. One is beefy and broad with a toothpaste smile.
One's slight and currently fair-haired with a twinkle in his eyes�
the man-child that barely looks a day over twenty, even though
thirty is a closer friend than his teens. The absurdity of that very
thing may be what keeps Greg silent. From behind the glass walls and
partitions, he watches and wonders and stares blankly at printouts
while his mind wanders to more pleasant images.
The interdepartmental softball game, Nick shining with sweat and
smiling into the sun.
The Torres case, Nick's lips pinched between his teeth as he pushes
together fragments of glass that might or might not be important.
Nick, tucking heartily into a stack of pancakes in the pre-dawn
hours after an especially important case had kept them all working
through the night.
Greg turns these memories over his head like a child might do with a
pebble from a favorite beach vacation; they're the times he counts
as being uniquely Nick. Defining him, the way he defines his mother
by her making a casserole, or adding to her rubber band collection,
or crying softly with him the first time he got beat up at school.
When Nick's name is spoken, Greg's mind turns over these images and,
for a while, he pretends he *knows* Nick. Knows him the way good
friends do. Because in reality they're not good friends any more
than he could have been friends with Kyle Sharpe, captain of the
basketball team and King of Cool in high school. Nick's too big, too
beautiful, too smart, and everything to everybody, to be more than a
casual acquaintance with the coffee boy from the lab. But sometimes,
when it's late, when Greg can charm a grin or a chuckle from between
glorious lips, he imagines a world where he and Nick are friends.
Then he returns to reality and takes his place in the absurd caste
system that permeates the world in which he lives.
Greg knows he has his own brand of cool. He's not stupid; he's far
from it. Some have claimed "brilliant" in his presence and he has
never once blushed with modesty. He's had his share of dates and
never wants for company on a Friday night. But still�it's not the
same. He knows it's not the same because there's no amount of pop-
culture trivia or dazzling jump-shots that will make him on remotely
the same Cool Level as Nick.
"Greggo, I need the Kaminski results. I thought they'd be done by
now."
"A half-hour ago, actually. You need to check your pager more
often." He flicks a perfunctory smile in Nick's direction, trying
not to look in his eyes the way he doesn't look into the sun�fear of
the light's destruction. He hands the papers to Nick with an
embellished sweep of his arm and drops his head low�the servant
catering to his master's swims. If Nick only knew. But Nick does
*not* know, and Greg will not tell. He only watches out of the
corner of his eye as Nick scans the page intently.
"Thanks." Then Nick's gone again.
*
Greg has a dream. CSI showers that smell like feet (and look half
that appealing). He's warm, though, and wet as he stands under the
spray. A bar of soap's in his hand and he turns it over and over,
the lather growing thicker until his hands are filled with foam.
Then husky words muttered just behind his ear tell him, "I'll take
it from here, Greggo."
When he wakes he's hard and when he arrives at work he takes the
south elevators�the ones that don't come anywhere near the locker
rooms. Because it's all about plausible deniability, baby. Greg's
good at that, too.
"DNA back on my mugging?"
His body shivers, a bone-shake that hurts his teeth. One person
shouldn't have that kind of power, the ability to render an almost-
grown man unable to speak.
"Signed, sealed, and delivered�now." He places the sheet in Nick's
hands, the paper still warm from the printer. Greg loves the smell.
"Excellent!"
Perhaps Nick appreciates the rich ink and paper smell as much as
Greg does, because he doesn't walk away, just stares at the paper,
then at Greg. Greg, who doesn't look away fast enough and must stare
with raw adoration at the man across the counter.
Nick taps on the paper. "Thanks."
Then he leaves. Nick's lifting the paper as he turns the corner and
Greg imagines he's sniffing it just the slightest bit.
*
After midnight. Well after midnight, and he's thrashing through
Enter Sandman on the stereo. Exit light, enter night.
"Will you crosscheck this sample with the waitress?" Nick has a hair
this time. Good skin tag. He's chewing on a wad of peppermint gum,
working his jaw in a way that makes Greg jealous and embarrassed all
at once.
"It shouldn't be too hard." Then he almost laughs, because his words
sound fucking hilarious in his ears, like and episode of Three's
Company. No, Mr. Roper, not hard at all�behind this counter.
"Good. I'll be playing next door," Nick says, then waves a clear
plastic bag of confetti-like bits of paper. "If you see Warrick,
tell him I could use his help in evidence room four."
Greg manages to hold back eager questions and overenthusiastic
comments long enough to say, "Will do." He concentrates on the hair
and the waitress and not the empty burn at the pit of his stomach.
It's closing in on one o'clock when he casually pops his head into
evidence room four. Nick's head is bent over the lighted table and a
pair of forceps pinch and push at brightly colored squares. Greg
stares at the top of Nick's head before commenting.
"Got the results back on your hair. Definitely a match."
"Uh-huh," Nick grunts and doesn't look up.
"And it turns out, it's aardvark fur. Very rare, I've called Dan
Rather."
"Uh-huh."
Greg then leaves the printout on a counter and circles Nick,
watching his fingers grasp the forceps. "The puzzle with the kitten
hanging from a tree branch too easy for you? Had to find something
harder?"
"Very funny. Perp thought we wouldn't be able to find his prints if
he cut up the evidence."
"Well you'll show him," Greg says in his most motherly voice. Nick
grunts and pushes what appear to be two halves of a red diamond
together. "Do you want some help?"
"Don't you have to stay in the lab?"
"It's a slow night. Griss won't mind. "
"Can I quote you later when I'm taking the heat for letting you
leave?"
"Of course. Come on," Greg adds, with his most disarming grin, the
one guaranteed to extort money from grandparents and old
girlfriends. "You know you wanna�Come on�" His wheedling pays off
and Nick shoves a pair of forceps at him. Greg sits down on a stool
and sets his mind to puzzling out the tiny bits of red, white, and
black.
"Tropicana?"
"Tangiers."
"Oh."
The walls tremble. He forgot to turn off the stereo. Thrashes to
Metallica in his head.
They work quickly, silently, and it's just� nice. Greg turns the
force of his intellect on anticipating shapes and patterns, at
examining the striations on the edges of the crisp bits of cards.
Sometimes he's aware of Nick, other times he sees only the evidence.
Two hours in, and Nick's forceps hold *just* the piece of a heart
that he needs. Greg wheels his stool down the length of the table
until he's right next to the older man, then leans close to the
coveted square, examining it. His chest presses against Nick's arm,
rough polyester labcoat against bare, tan skin.
"Jeez, Greg! Fucking back off and let me breathe. You're too close."
Greg is frozen for a second, then kicks off from his position next
to Nick and rolls to the other end, blushing scarlet and abandoning
the four of hearts he'd been looking for.
He has a half of a king of diamonds, and two clubs of some kind that
he can work on. Got to find a black piece, obviously. A black one
far away from Nick. A piece that's not in the personal bubble that
has just embarrassingly, mortifyingly, been invaded. He sifts
through the plastic coated squares and sorts them into color-coded
piles. He does not look at Nick for several long minutes. He's
almost managed to press his embarrassment into a small corner of his
head when
"Shit, now you're too far away."
Before Greg can determine what *that* means, or *should* mean or�
Warrick's at the door, his face tired and determined. "Heard you
need some help."
Greg sacrifices the forceps, pulls his labcoat tight, and casts a
fleeting look at Nick. Nick's lips are pinched tightly between his
teeth, just like they were during the Torres case when Greg last saw
him in this room.
"�you're too far away�"
His mind should stagger with potential implications of Nick's words,
but he presses them into a tight lump in his chest like Superman
crushing coal into a diamond. It's one more stone for his
collection. A Nick Moment. Strange though it might be.
*
The problem with collecting Nick Moments, he decides days later, is
that at some point you have to clean house. You can't keep all of
these perfect moments jumbled in your head or else you might forget
an important one. So he tells himself he'll only remember the ten
most important ones.
Okay, fifteen max.
Nick slowly licking tuna fish from his fingers on the other side of
the large lunch table Greg's sometimes allowed to sit at. Well, the
one he sits at when no one tells him to leave.
Nick covered in soot after one of Grissom's experiments backfired
and laughing, *laughing*, even though his eyebrows are nearly singed
off.
Unrequited love is the lamest love of all. It's not from a song, but
it should be. Pink could sing it, he thinks. Maybe Gwen. Just belt
out a tune about how loving someone you'll never tell is so fucking
*stupid* that you want to throw up, but you still say nothing.
Because wishing, hoping, dreaming, and not *telling* is still better
than *knowing*. Knowing you're a sad fucking loser instead of just
hypothesizing.
*
His dreams change, evolve, at some point. Greg imagines his dreams
are like post-apocalyptic viruses, mutating after a catastrophic
event. Except there's been no catastrophic event that he knows of,
but maybe his subconscious thinks differently.
In his dream, large hands stroke his body and deliver the lather to
every bit of his bare skin. This is normal. Then the stinking
showers give way to an Arabian Nights fantasy as concocted by Hugh
Hefner. The room overflows with opulence and busty chicks with
platters of grapes. Greg's naked and hard and looking for Nick, but
he's alone with the ladies and there's no way out. He knows some men
would kill for a dream like this and he feels like the world's most
ungrateful schlub, but he can't find Nick and his anxiety grows to
terror.
He wakes sweaty and hot, but still hard. Then he rolls to his
stomach and pushes his cock against the cheap cotton sheets. Tells
himself for the third time this week that he'll invest in some
really *nice* sheets when he gets the chance. Then he rolls his hips
into the scratchy fabric until he comes with a grunt that sounds
animal-like and strange in his ears.
He wonders what Nick sounds like when he comes.
Now he avoids the elevator near the showers, the showers, and opts
to go to McDonalds when Nick packs tuna fish sandwiches.
*
It's a Thursday when he sees Nick again, sees him alone, and Greg's
thankful that he hasn't had a dream about Nick in four days. It
makes it easier to stand in the same room and not try to smell him
or touch him or beg some higher power for looser pants because the
pair he's wearing seem to grow too small when he's alone with Nick.
"You know much about sea turtles?"
Greg's momentarily taken aback, his hand halfway to the ancient
refrigerator in the break room. Nick is staring at a computer
printout crushed in the pages of a large book on aquatic animals.
Then he drops the book loudly onto the counter.
"Not much, actually."
"Wow. I thought you knew everything."
It's a pride-filled blush that warms Greg's cheeks as he bends low
into the fridge, searching for his bologna and pickle sandwich.
Someone's shoved it to the back again and he can just make out the
top of the Starsky & Hutch lunchbox with his name inked on the side.
"Just about," he boasts with a grin and a faux-prideful cock of his
head, then leans further into the refrigerator in order to reach his
food. Whatever took precedence over his lunch is floating in murky
jars in the front and Greg's last wish is to disturb them in case
they turn out to be some highly contagious experiment of
Grissom's. "You know, Grissom should keep his specimens in his own
refrigerator."
"I hear you. Pass me the brown bag."
"Sure thing." Greg's fingers find purchase on his own box and he
dislodges it gently, then pushes through the questionable jars for a
brown lunch bag, but to no avail.
"I've got it from here, Greggo," Nick says as he leans past him into
the refrigerator.
And yes, it could almost be a line pulled right from his dream.
And no, it's nothing at all like his dream. It's not hot or wet or
burning with unsuppressed ardor but dammit, something about it feels
so familiar that Greg stops. Then he shudders as intensely blushing
skin meets refrigerator cold. Nick's so big and so strong and
standing *right there*. Right where Greg wants him to be.
Greg's moving back into the heat before he realizes he's doing it.
His body fits almost perfectly against Nick's. Greg arches upward
and molds his body backward against the larger one, then stays there
for a moment before reality reminds him that he's almost fucking
*grinding* himself backward against another body. Another body that
doesn't much like to be touched by *anyone* without permission, let
alone the DNA guy from night shift.
He moves forward quickly, stepping out of the warm arch of flesh and
fabric, and prepares quickly for the explanation that will have to
follow.
"I didn't realize you were there."
"I thought you were my girlfriend."
"I was momentarily effected by whatever the hell Grissom's keeping
in here."
Then he finds himself frozen, because an arm is sliding around his
waist before he can turn around. He feels Nick's body, much larger
and broader than his, push against him. Hot breath in his ear is
uncertain. Nick pants roughly and Greg is struck with the though
that Nick's no more clear on what's going on than Greg is. But Nick
doesn't move, only holds Greg tightly against him and gasps heavily
into his hear.
Just as Greg's eyes sink shut, Nick abruptly drops his arm, steps
back, and leaves without saying anything, sans his lunch.
It's a memory that Greg keeps that's totally unlike his others. It
can't be classified, quantified, categorized, or flawlessly
analyzed. It's anomalous and, therefore, completely unnerving to a
person whose life thrives on neatly organized chaos.
He continues to avoid direct eye contact but, for the first time
that he can remember, Nick does the same. Their interactions are no
less lively, their encounters no less frequent, but there's just
something�something.
Greg's dreams become more frequent. Now he avoids the breakroom,
too.
*
When Nick comes in the room, more often than not, Greg's palms
sweat. The thing that pisses Greg off the most is that he's not
*like* that. He's asked guys out, asked girls out, even had some say
yes. Most, actually. He's a snappy dresser, knows how to dance, and
his head holds knowledge that would get Watson and Crick hard. He
hasn't been a loser in a long, long time. He should be able to do
this�this whatever they have. And yet...
"Results back on the blood spatter?"
"Which one?"
"What do you mean, 'which one'?"
"What do you mean, 'what do you mean'? I've got four spatters, three
hairs, and I'd rather opt for what's behind door number three than
find out what Sara just dropped off. I'm backlogged and I haven't
eaten and every one of you think *your* case takes priority."
Greg's grumpy. And tired. Grumpy *because* he's tired and tired
because of Nick. Because each night alone between scratchy sheets is
another sign of his failure to be everything he wishes he could be
and knows he's not. He doesn't want to *be* Nick, of course. It's
not that. It's just�
Fuck, he's tired.
"Sorry if you're feeling overwhelmed, Greggo. It was just a
question."
And Nick almost, *almost*, sounds pissed. But Greg knows that Nick
doesn't really get pissed. Still, it twists his gut and Greg
imagines that any small, infinitesimal percentage of a chance he had
with Nick slips every time his belly does that guilt-riddled
lambada.
Nick leaves and Catherine tosses out a breezy, "I'll come back
later," when she pops in and sees the glower from under Greg's brow.
An hour passes and Greg is distracted from his microscope by a
shadow that's not so much standing as *hulking* in the doorway.
Awkward when it has no reason to be.
"Catherine said you like pepperoni."
The box in Nick's arms is greasy and fragrant. Greg eyes it hungrily
because it's so much better for his psyche/ego/id to imagine
devouring the pizza inside than to let the barer of such gifts see
those hungry eyes turned on him.
"Yeah."
"I didn't�I mean, I don't think that�" Nick's face twists up,
confusion drawing his brows together, arching like, well, something
cool that arches. Greg drags his eyes away from the dancing struggle
between beautiful face and delectable greasy goodness.
"What?"
He takes the box from Nick's hands, then slaps it on a relatively
clean counter. The first whiff of pepperoni out of the box is
heaven, nirvana. He breathes it in as his stomach growls.
"I didn't think�I *don't* think that my stuff should come first."
Greg's confused, then nods guiltily. "I shouldn't have snapped."
"Yeah, well I shouldn't have�assumed�" Nick doesn't appear sure as
to how he wants to finish his sentence so Greg does it for him.
"Hey, Pizza the Peacemaker is always a viable solution. Pull up a
slice." Greg works two thirds of a slice into his mouth, pushing and
chewing it side to side, then bites it off.
"Uh! How can you eat like that?"
"Wiiike whaaa?" He chews hungrily on the tasty wad that fills his
mouth.
Nick gapes at him, then shakes his head with a smile and a snort.
"I'll have you know, I was pizza eating prizewinner at Stanford. Two
pies in eleven minutes," he mumbles through his mouthful.
"You're serious?"
"Yep. Got the tongue burn to prove it," he adds, after swallowing.
Then he thrusts out his tongue and tilts his head, trying to coax a
giggle to cover the tension that's seeping under his skin like
mildew.
It might be the tongue that does it, but Nick laughs then. He sets
one enormous hand over Greg's head and shakes it good-naturedly.
"You are a freak, Greggo."
When Greg laughs back, Nick's hand slides lower until he's covering
his eyes, shoving and twisting Greg's head with a deep, rich chuckle
on his lips. Then his hand slides lower and his palm moves across
Greg's mouth. Greg's own smile softens, disappears as the hand moves
lower and then it's just blunt fingers touching his lips.
Nick swallows and Greg watches the path of his Adam's apple. A thumb
runs over his lips and Greg's eyelids lower as he concentrates on
the feeling; rough skin on greasy lips. He doesn't think, just opens
his mouth and lets the thumb fall in like that's where it wanted to
go. Lips wrap around the digit with a mind of their own and Greg
sucks as his eyes fall shut, his tongue teasing the tip of Nick's
thumb.
Nick's thumb.
The hand is yanked away, slick and shiny with spit. Greg cringes
inwardly, but outwardly tries hard to remain unruffled. He almost
manages it, too.
"Enjoy your�pizza."
Greg watches Nick run his hand over his pants to dry the wet thumb
as he spins quickly around and leaves, his hands shoved deeply into
his pockets.
*
His mom visits on the first Sunday of the month, every month, like
clockwork. Greg makes sure to clean house before she arrives, which
means spraying some Lysol into the air and hiding his porn. She
stays until dark, clucking about his weight, his hair, his bachelor
status. It's a familiar thing, this dance they do. Sometimes they
see a movie. Other times it's a museum. Today, it's the latter.
She's seeing somebody new. He can tell. She's wearing earrings,
lipstick. That's new.
As he walks her to the sensible sedan parked next to his Jetta with
the Rage Against the Machine sticker in the window, she hugs him
close.
"I just don't want you to be afraid," she says, which startles him
because it's not part of the script.
"What?"
"Ohhhh, I don't know. Just thinking out loud. People can be afraid
of so many things, can't they?" Her heels click-clack on the
asphalt. "Snakes and spiders and bumps in the night. But the things
we're really afraid of, the things that affect our lives, are the
other kinds of fear. Fear of being alone or being unsuccessful or
hurting someone." She stops, taking one of his bleached spikes
between her fingers and twisting affectionately. "If I recognize
that earlier, maybe your father..." She lets the moment pass then
hugs him hard. "Be good," she says at last, returning to their
script and climbing into her car.
He waves at her taillights as the car pulls away, red eyes that
blink as she slows at the corner, then turns.
*
He's quiet that night. Introspective. His mother isn't a
psychiatrist or a counselor or a therapist but she * is * Mom, and
moms are... moms.
Are there things he's afraid of? He mulls it over while he prepares
samples. He doesn't think so. Well, he has a healthy fear of heights
and rats and explosions of every kind. Any kind. His skin itches
with that thought and he rubs the back of his neck.
Everyone's afraid of dying, on some level. And some live lives that
make it that much more fearful, but not him. Not Greg.
His neck itches harder; his back is damp and tingling.
"You got my samples ready?" Nick's snapping a piece of gum; a
peppermint cloud precedes him. Greg's grin is weak, his mind still
caught up in memories of sparkling glass and an apocalyptic-sounding
explosion.
"Yeah," he says quietly, and pushes a microscope toward the tall man
standing next to him. Greg spins on his stool and discretely
unbuttons his top button, shifting his shirt so the thin Hawaiian
print pulls away from his tingling skin. Nick dips low to look into
the scope and Greg spins further away from him. Not far enough. He
can still smell his hair, his skin, the minty cloud. Greg's eyes
stare into space impatiently.
"Did something bite you?"
"Huh?"
"You're scratching." Nick doesn't look over as he makes notes in the
folder he's holding, then he turns his eyes to the scope.
"Naw, just tactile memories. My skin still foolishly thinks it has
nerve endings."
Saying it out loud makes the itching worse for some reason. He lifts
his shoulder and rubs it against his neck, trying to get some relief
from the phantom pain.
Nick sets his folder down; his hands rest on the surface, tapping
nervously.
"Let me see." His hands moved to the back of Greg's neck. Greg
freezes as fingertips rub against the grain of the hair on his neck
and the shiver it excites chills Greg's skin.
"Is that better?"
The finger dips lower, pulling the shirt and lab coat with them.
Greg's been touched there before, by ignorant hands that pick and
scrape, prying where they've no right, feigning concern and masking
disgust. Nick's hands are nothing like those hesitant touches. He
rubs hard with his thumbs, traces the bumps and ridges with his
fingers, massaging and scratching. Soothing. Greg sits up taller,
stretching into Nick's touch.
"It's not that bad," Greg mumbles, his head trying not to fall
forward as Nick works some kind of magic. "Just a scar." And some
part of him wants desperately to pull away and stand up. To keep
that area safe and private. But the other part, the bigger part, is
screaming that Nick is touching him, hesitant and polite, and that
that can't be stopped for any reason because it won't happen again.
"Feelin' better?"
"Yeah," he gasps, because to moan might reveal too much, though
moaning is what his body wants to do. "A lot better," he adds and
begins to modestly draw his shirt and labcoat together as Nick tugs
it down lower.
"I didn't know," Nick mumbles.
"Know what?"
"It was so big." Maybe he hears how it sounds because he chuckles
then. "Your *scar*."
"Yeah, I'm the Ron Jeremy of scars."
"Let me see."
So Greg lets him. And it feels normal, which might be why it's so
strange. That thought baffles Greg as he stands and unbuttons the
shirt the rest of the way, feeling more than naked somehow, even
though his shirt is still technically on. Nick pulls at the back of
the collar some more and it slides down, over Greg's shoulders,
baring his back. Nick's fingers explore the still red area and stop
over a smooth area of scar tissue that covers the bump of his spine.
Then they trail up, up, up to the more pronounced vertebrae of his
neck, then back down again, playing each one like a flute. Greg
shivers, then sighs, as Nick spreads those wide palms across his
skin, warming him in the cool air-conditioned room. Just his thumbs
now, playing their silent song on Greg's scarred spine, and Greg
knows he's about to fuck up this Nick Moment royally, but he *has*
to say it.
"Nick?"
"Uh-huh?"
"What are you doing?"
In his head he can see it; Nick steps back, flushed,
embarrassed. "Sorry, Greggo. Just trying to help." In his head he
sees the moment as it undoubtedly will unfold: precious, perfect,
and lost to him. But then the reality�
Nick waits nearly a full minute before answering.
"I have no idea."
He doesn't move at first. Then, like earlier, his arms come around
Greg. One slides to his stomach, the other across his chest. Greg
doesn't move to him this time, but Nick moves to *him*, pressing his
chest to the scarred skin and squeezing tight. In other
circumstances it might be a friendly hug. Brotherly. But in reality
Greg rolls his head back to rest on Nick's shoulder and Nick's head
comes forward, lips pressed to the nervously pulsing vein on the
side of Greg's throat. His hands come up and cover Nick's, holding
him there, encouraging.
Nick's heart is thundering; Greg can feel it beating against his
back and he realizes that, for once, the King of Cool is scared,
too. Fear, the great equalizer. It would be so easy to pull up his
shirt, to smile gratefully and press this Nick Moment into his heart
and watch Nick move on. Simple, this fearful avoidance. Safe.
Greg lets his eyes sink shut and tilts his head away so that his
neck is more exposed. A warm mouth opens against it, lips rubbing
and almost-kissing. Greg realizes that his own mouth is hanging lax
and that he's breathing heavily. He licks his lips and turns in the
circle of Nick's arms. Nick has the look, *that* look, the one that
says he's about to bolt. And then he does.
"I gotta go."
He's gone so fast, he might never have been there at all, if not for
the sweet peppermint cloud. Greg is horny and irrationally pissed.
Their dance has become a joke and each sleepless night one further
example of his inevitable disappointment. He decides right there,
right then, that he'll stop tormenting himself about Nick.
With renewed determination he turns himself back to his work and
decides that it might be time to swear off peppermint gum, too.
*
The knock comes as Greg is pouring a bowl of fruit loops; a yellow
loop is chasing a red loop around the bowl with the assistance of
Greg's spoon as he's eating. He's wearing his favorite bathrobe.
It's blue and ratty and shows signs of repeated wear. He can't
really remember when he first got the robe. Somehow it seems as
though it has always been there, better than a security blanket. He
answers the door self-consciously retying the bathrobe, conditioned
since the explosion from countless embarrassing encounters with
loose hospital gowns. When he opens the door, Nick is on the other
side, squinting in that too-late-to-be-call-morning light. Normally,
Greg would wish he'd chosen to wear something better than the
Bathrobe of Love and the Santa socks that Sara gave him at the last
Christmas party. But Nick's at his door--his fucking door!--and so
Greg's not complaining.
"Grissom said you have to sign these. They have to be turned in
before midnight or he'll be found non-compliant on�something. "
"What does that mean?"
"Hell if I know."
Greg dumps the bowl in the sink, nervously scrubbing his hands on
his bathrobe, then takes the official-looking papers from Nick and
scans the first page quickly. "I'm coming in before midnight. He
could have given these to me then." Griss must be slipping, he
thinks. Or taking too many clues on how to be anal from Eckley.
"Well, that's. . . That wasn't the only reason I dropped by." Nick
looks warm; he's sweaty even though it's still early in the
day. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
"Sure. Of course, sure. Make yourself at home." Smooth. Greg steps
back and wishes he'd cleaned up even a little. There are CDs
everywhere, magazines open in various stages of being read. That was
actually how he planned on spending the rest of his day until Nick
dropped by so unceremoniously. But again, not complaining. "Can I
get you anything? Coffee? Tea?" Me? "Martini on the rocks?"
"Water would be good." Nick looks fit to melt, and Greg presses a
bottle of water into his hand quickly. As Nick tips his head back
to take a long drink, his aviator glasses slipped back and he
scrambles to readjust them. Uncool, unsmooth, it's decidedly *not* a
Nick move and the mystery deepens.
"So what else did you want to talk about?"
"I've ... we've known each other a long time, right?" He squints
like the sun's in his eyes; it's almost a grimace. Then Nick runs
his hands over his mouth, drying his upper lip.
"Nick? Has someone been working without the hood vent?" That brings
a smile and, oh yeah, Greg remembers what it's like to be on the
receiving end of those smiles.
"I just�"
Greg's arms are folded over his stomach, subconsciously holding his
robe together. "You�?"
"I hope you know I think a lot of you, Greg. I mean, you're a great
kid."
Kid. Only one step shy of "You have a great personality" or "Let's
just be friends". The growing burn in his stomach turns to nausea
in a split second.
"See� I feel like sometimes when I'm around you, when we're together-
-alone, you know?" Nick rubs his hands over his face
again. "Sometimes I think�God, I can't believe I'm actually doing
this�" Nick gets quiet.
Nausea turns to anger. "You what? I don't have all day, you know. I
have things to do." He quickly scans the messy room. "And I wasn't
really planning--"
"I-I feel different. Jeez, I don't know." Then Nick is simply
there, huge hands wrapped around Greg's upper arms. "I don't think
I'm crazy--please don't tell me I'm crazy or I'll fucking�"
Nick doesn't seem sure about how to end to that sentence and Greg's
not sure he heard correctly. Nick's voice is soft and frantic and
his hands are so fucking strong.
"Crazy?"
"I want� Shit, I can't talk, I�"
Nick bends to press his mouth into the small triangle of skin below
Greg's neck. His mouth is wet and hot and just�open. Nick's arms
wrap around him, pinning his arms to his sides. Then his mouth moves
and Greg's good luck can't hold out this long, can it? This
daydream, or nightmare, or chemical induced fantasy can't be real
because Nick--Nick!--is sucking on his chest, tongue working at the
bare skin and moving slowly up toward his Adam's apple.
The Godfather poster on the opposite wall is a good focal point. He
stares at it, trying to breathe normally, and riding out the
fantasy, but it's not stopping and Greg decides heaven might feel
something like this. Or probably hell, if his dad had anything to
say about it, but now is so *not* really the time think about him.
Greg nuzzles the top of Nick's head with his chin, too afraid to say
anything that might break the moment. Nick releases his arms. Greg's
free hand cups the back of Nick's neck, keeping in place.
Encouraging. Then he pulls it back and smiles. Nick looks flushed
and terrified and Greg feels so incredibly powerful that for a
moment he's the King of Cool. He leans forward and then presses his
mouth to Nick's, kissing hard and forcing his tongue between
trembling lips. Nick moans softly and Greg's other arm snakes around
Nick's neck, holding on tightly in case Nick feels the need to bolt
again.
A low groan confirms, though, that Nick picks things up quickly and
isn't looking to bolt. Nick's hands pry Greg's bathrobe open roughly
and, before Greg can blink, hands are cupping his bare ass,
squeezing and lifting him. His legs latched tightly around Nick's
legs as he hurries to untie the robe. It gets hung up on his right
wrist and he realizes that somewhere in the mix he's come to be
holding the water bottle. Greg lets it drop to the ground and drops
the robe off with it, now naked save for a pair of Santa socks,
sadly out of place in mid-July.
The vein on Nick's temple is pulsing, his muscles standing taught
under a thin, blue T-shirt, but Nick doesn't complain. Nick's hands
still hold Greg by his ass while his tongue slides in circles in
Greg's mouth. Greg moans and wonders exactly why he's never kissed
Nick before. He feels simultaneously limp and hard and incredibly
exposed, with just socks to shield him from the world, yet it seems
incredibly sexy.
Nick moves then, and Greg marvels at how fucking *strong* he is.
Nick pushes him up against the wall, banging his knuckles in the
process but barely acknowledging it. Greg's cock is hard and high,
pushing between them and straining toward Greg's stomach. When they
finally part to breathe, Nick looks down with awe while Greg just
catches his breath.
"What?" he pants, when he feels able to form words.
"I thought--I don't know." Nick is still gazing downward.
"First dick?" He looks at the ample length swaying between their
bodies.
"Besides my own?" Nick's response tells Greg all he needs to know.
Greg grins as Nick's fingers traced the tip of Greg's dick and come
away wet. "It's�cool."
Greg shudders, then gasps, "Why did you wait so long?"
"To see another guy's dick?" Greg just stares and Nick licks his
lip, buying time to think. Finally, he answers, "I wasn't sure. I
thought I knew, but I wasn't�I didn't know if�"
"You're a fucking CSI, Nick."
"Hey, cut me some slack. This is new for me. It's not like there's a
piece of equipment in the lab that undisputedly answers every
burning question I've ever wanted to ask you." Nick grins softly and
kisses Greg again. And again.
"You could have just asked," Greg gasps between kisses.
"I tried. You have no idea how many times I tried."
"I might have some idea." Greg's still naked and Nick is
demonstrably not. "Here's our new plan, okay? You get naked." Nick
chuckles against Greg's mouth, which means Greg needs one more kiss
before going on. "Then you get laid." He kisses Nick's neck as he
works the fly of his jeans and then fumbles on to the belt. "Then we
both get a clue." They laugh and Greg whips Nick's belt out with an
exaggerated flourish. "Then you get me."
Nick's eyes look glazed, and damp for reasons Greg's not going to
speculate on right now�why tempt fate? But he nods, then captures
Greg's lower lip in a brief kiss.
"It sounds like a fucking great idea to me."
-The End-