Title: No Strings Attached (2)
Author: podga
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: CSI and its characters do not belong to me. I write and post for fun only.
A/N: I realize the timing in this series might be a little confusing. As a brief explanation, “Present” refers to anything occurring after the events depicted in Dee’s fic, and “Past” to anything prior to those events. Gil’s thoughts (italics) are always in the present, though he may refer to things in the past. Now that I’ve cleared that up…
Series: No Strings Attached by Dee, No Strings Attached: Past 1

Present:

 

Nick starts to get out of the truck, then, with one foot already on the ground, apparently changes his mind. His jaw set, he climbs back in, pulling the door shut. He stares straight ahead, shaking his head, his fists clenched on his thighs.

“Why would you even tell me that in the first place?” he asks finally, his voice gravelly with fury.

“Tell you what?” Even though Gil knows he’s only adding fuel to the fire, he has no choice but to ask; he’s still too dazed by everything Nick said to him, by the sudden attack and its unfairness – its viciousness, even – to remember what he said to set Nick off. Something about asking Nick if he was okay, and then it all escalated.

“That she wants you to join her? You shit, you complete and utter shit! What are you implying, that I walked away from you and she hasn’t? That it’s my fault, that I broke up with you?”

“Well, you did,” Gil says, trying to keep his voice even and reasonable. It’s the truth, after all. “But—­”

He wants to explain that he was implying nothing when he told Nick about Sara’s request that he join her. If anything, it was just a stupid lapse, some half-baked idea that, despite everything, he and Nick remain friends, that they can still act as each other’s sounding board. After all, wasn’t it Nick who invited him to breakfast just a few weeks ago right after Sara left?


He never gets the chance.


“Fuck you, Grissom,” Nick interrupts, opening the door and, this time he climbs all the way out. He slams the door shut so hard that the truck rocks.

 

 

Events rarely occur without witnesses. When you question them, however, it’s important to remember that they will almost never tell you what really happened. Even the most cooperative can only tell you what they saw, or heard, or thought, or remember. They will embellish, forget, obfuscate, sometimes even straight out lie. They are unable to accurately interpret motives or to foresee consequences; they tend to either over– or underestimate the effect of their own participation. Complete disinterest in the event does not guarantee the accuracy of their observations. Their emotions – joy, anger, fear, grief, guilt – color their perception of reality. You can never tell how much you need to adjust for any of these factors and at the end of an interview, you’re often no closer to the truth than you were at the start of it.

“You sucked me dry,” Nick said, and yet I don’t remember it being that way. Nick isn’t weak and whatever he once may have felt for me, he was never a pushover.

But then, witnesses are never 100% reliable.

 

 

Past:

 

“What’s the matter?”

Until Nick’s question, Gil thought he’d been doing a pretty good job concealing, even overcoming, his bad mood. He should have just asked for rain check, told Nick that he’s not up for breakfast together. On the other hand, breakfast with Nick had seemed infinitely more appealing than spending time alone and mulling over what an asshole he’s been towards Sara. Not only had he not held the post–PEAP counseling session with her when he should have, but he did nothing to correct the situation even after Ecklie officially reported his omission. He can make any number of excuses: workload, his effort to keep Sara at a professional distance which led to his being uncomfortable discussing personal issues with her, just plain forgetfulness. The fact remains he let her down as a direct report, as a member of his team, not to mention as a friend.

And there are too many reasons he can’t discuss any of this with Nick, even if he wanted to.

“Nothing.”

Nick looks at him sharply for a moment, then shrugs. “Okay.”

The frustration he feels at Nick’s response catches him by surprise. He should be happy that Nick is giving him his space; instead – absurdly – he’s disappointed that Nick doesn’t probe a little further, when he’s so obviously lying. He pushes his scrambled eggs around in his plate, trying to decide if he should let the subject drop, but he’s sick and tired of bearing the entire burden alone. God knows he has enough to complain about.

“Sara apologized to me today,” he says.

“What about?” Nick asks after a slight hesitation, his voice wary.

Gil recognizes that voice. It’s the voice of every suspect who knows an unpleasant conversation is about to ensue. And it annoys the hell out of him.

“About having given Ecklie ammunition for his witch hunt.”

Nick abruptly shoves his plate to the side and sits back in his chair. “Gil…” he says in an exasperated tone, then shakes his head and exhales noisily. “Look, it’s been a month. Can’t you drop it?”

“Drop it? I’ve hardly discussed it.”

Nick snorts.

“I haven’t,” Gil insists irritably. He hasn’t.

“Okay, you’re pissed off. I get it. It shouldn’t have happened the way it did. But stewing over it ain’t gonna change anything.”

“What do you mean, ‘the way it did’?”

Nick appears unfazed by Gil’s glare.

“I mean it shouldn’t have happened the way it did,” he repeats.

“But it should have happened?”

“Well, ‘should’ is kind of a strong word.” Nick says, then, without any change in expression, reaches out with one hand and gives Gil’s shoulder a gentle shove.

The move makes Gil realize that he’s leaning forward aggressively, elbows on the table, getting in Nick’s face. He deliberately sits back, folds his paper napkin and smoothes the wrinkles out, then places it neatly on the table. He inhales and consciously relaxes his facial muscles in an effort to look interested and patient. Then he gestures to Nick: Okay, let’s hear it.

“It’s just that… well, even if Ecklie had it in for you, what could he have done if you’d had your house in order?”

“What?” Gil asks, his outrage causing him to forget his resolution to hear Nick out without interrupting. “Look at what he did to Sophia.”

“Yeah, look at what he did to Sophia. He demoted her. But you’re not pissed about her, you’re pissed about you, and all that happened to you is you lost some face and your team got reshuffled a bit. Which ain’t all bad.” Nick smiles a bit as he says the last part, but Gil’s not in the mood to go off on a tangent about the benefits of not having Nick report directly to him. Not right now, at least.

“I don't care about my face," Gil says, ignoring Nick's raised eyebrows. "Good teams don’t happen by accident. I built this team. Me. And the only reason I lost it is due to something that happened between Conrad and me years ago.”

“No. Whatever it was that happened between Conrad and you just doesn’t let you see that there are valid reasons, as well.”

Gil shakes his head in disagreement, but Nick isn’t done yet.

“And Gil? You didn’t build the team. Except for Sara, the team, you included, was put together by Brass. And if not for Catherine, and for pure dumb luck that we all liked each other enough to support each other through thick and thin, we would have fallen apart long ago.”

Gil opens his mouth to protest, but he’s at a loss as to which part of Nick’s statements he should argue first, or how they can possibly find common ground.

Nick leans forward and lightly touches Gil’s fingers, a whisper of a caress.

“Look,” he says in a soft voice. “I don't  mean to imply it could have happened without you. You know we all loved working with you. I learned more about forensics and solving cases at your side than I could have learned in a million years in Ecklie’s team. You’re a great teacher and there isn't anybody out there who’s better. But, Gil, let’s face it: as a supervisor, you suck.”

The warmth in Nick’s brown eyes and the gentle humor in his tone take the sting out of his last words and Gil’s anger and indignation subside a little, though he’s still not prepared to stand down. He knows he’s not good with paperwork and administration, he doesn't even particularly want to be, but there are more important aspects to being a supervisor than attending meetings and approving expense reports and leave, and he’s damned if he can’t prove that to Nick.

“So you prefer working with Catherine?” he asks, confident of the answer he’s about to receive.

“No, I prefer working with you,” Nick says. Gil’s satisfaction is short-lived, as Nick continues: “But I prefer working for Catherine.”

“But—”

“Ask me why.”

Gill suspects that Nick is starting to enjoy the conversation a little too much for comfort, but he’s still leaning forward, the same earnest expression on his face.

“Okay. Why?” he asks reluctantly.

“Because she would have never pulled that silk, silk, silk crap on me. She would have provided me with the right kind of feedback, so that I’d know where I stand and how to improve.”

“Nick, I recommended you for a promotion!”

“Yeah, you did, and you know what? I never quite figured that one out either. Sara’s solved as many cases as me, more in fact, and rumor has it you gave her a higher evaluation, so why me? Why not her? Why not Warrick, for that matter?”

“Because you didn’t care whether or not you got the job.”

“Wait, what? Gil, that has got to be the stupidest reason I've ever heard.”

“I don’t happen to think so,” Gil says firmly, even though he’s starting to question whether he ever explained himself well enough on that call. What he’d meant was that Nick was the most likely to stay impartial under pressure and to get the job done. He didn’t need affirmation in the same way Sara did, and although he empathized with the victims as strongly as her, he was less likely to turn a case into a personal crusade that might cloud his judgment.

“Whatever,” Nick responds, shaking his head. “God knows I’m no expert, Gil, but if you want to keep your job, you need to be paying more attention: both to what your people need and to the paperwork. It’s not only about teaching and solving cases. Promise me that you’ll at least think about it, okay?”

Gil hesitates for a second, then he nods.

 

 

When we first got together, I figured out that we’d already spent close to five thousand hours in immediate proximity. We’d seen each other at our best and at our worst; we’d laughed together, argued with each other, watched each other’s backs. "We know each other," I told Nick, "we know each other better than most couples ever will, and we love each other, so what will waiting accomplish?" Nick had initially been ambivalent about moving in together too quickly, but the five thousand hours argument convinced him.

“You like ‘complicated’, don’t you?” Nick accused me at some point during his diatribe.

Hell, no, I don’t like complicated. I hate complicated; it’s always hard to navigate and too often it exposes my weaknesses for all to see. I’d seen that breakfast as irrefutable proof that Nick was well aware of my weaknesses and accepted them as part of the package, imperfect though it may be.


In retrospect, of course, that proved not to be the case.