Title: Heart Attack
Author: podga
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: CSI and its characters don't belong to me. I write and post for fun only.
Summary: Established relationship. Gil ain't so young anymore.

For angus_honey, because she likes fluff (and not-so-deep-down, doesn't believe I can write it!)

The sky is cerulean blue. He lies motionless on his back, only his eyes moving. What are those clouds? Altocumulus? Lately he's forgetting things that he used to know well: names of bands he listened to, what preceded the Eoarchean era, the capital of Uzbekistan. He worries about it sometimes. He should get more sleep, try and eat more foods with vitamin B12, like lentils. He hates lentils.

He's not sure how he ended up on his back staring up at the sky. The last thing he remembers, he was running, if not like the wind, then fast enough for a guy his age. The lawn is faintly damp underneath him. It hasn't rained in almost five weeks, so they must have activated the sprinklers. If it doesn't rain soon, the lawn will dry out. Despite the watering, the blades of grass feel brittle and spiky, when he flattens his palm against them.

He can't breathe. It almost felt peaceful, but now his chest is starting to burn. He opens his mouth and tries to inhale. Nothing at first, then he manages to draw a stuttering breath and with the oxygen comes more pain, radiating down his chest and left arm. A heart attack? No. No! He tries to suppress his panic. Breathe. Just breathe. It becomes easier, but the pain doesn't subside.

He feels a thump next to his right ear, sees someone kneeling next to his head in his peripheral vision and then Nick's face is between him and the sky. Nick looks concerned, but he's also grinning.

"Griss? Are you OK?" Nick asks. "Man, you went down like a ton of bricks."

He tries to respond, but it's more of a wheeze.

"Grissom?" Nick asks again. Grissom feels Nick's hand close on his left shoulder and he groans. "Hey, Griss, talk to me. Are you OK?" Nick shakes his shoulder lightly and the pain tears through Gil, causing him to cry out hoarsely and wiping the smile from Nick's face. He instantly lets go of Gil's shoulder. "Grissom? What's the matter?"

"I'm not sure," Gil gasps, not wanting to admit to his fear out loud.

A couple of more faces loom over him.

"Gil? What's the matter?" Catherine asks.

Why doesn't someone call 911 instead of asking him stupid questions? He's growing nauseous. Definitely a heart attack, and he's going to die because a bunch of forensic scientists can't understand what the evidence is telling them.

When he comes to again, he feels like he's floating and bars of light are flashing overhead. It takes him a couple of seconds to realize that he's on a gurney and being wheeled down a corridor. He turns his head and sees Nick walking next to him. So they finally got him to the hospital, but nobody seems to be rushing or too concerned. He frowns.

"Welcome back," Nick smiles down at him.

"Am I going to be OK?" Gil asks.

"Well, it looks like your touch football days are over for a while," Nick says. "You dislocated your shoulder."

He hates being dependent on someone else. Especially when he's admitted to that someone else that he thought he was having a heart attack. He'd never have done it if he hadn't been woozy from the painkillers. At least Nick could have had the good grace not to burst out laughing.

"A heart attack? Gee Gil, I never took you for a drama queen."

"Oh, shut up. Wait until you reach my age."

Nick tried to look sympathetic. For about a second. Ordinarily Gil loves to see the deepening grooves around Nick's mouth when he's fighting a smile. Ordinarily Gil isn't the butt of the joke, however.

More than anything, he wants to take a shower and then lie down, but his arm is bound to his chest to immobilize it, and he's having a hard time even unbuckling his belt.

"Need any help?" Nick is leaning against the doorjamb, his arms crossed.

"No. Thanks." He finally manages the belt. Unbuttoning and unzipping his khakis is easier. He's had plenty of practice doing that one-handed, although the angle is generally different. Trying to take them off is a different proposition, and he hops around on one foot, before collapsing on the foot of the bed. He glares up at Nick.

Nick looks supremely unperturbed. "You're sure."

Gil grits his teeth. "Absolutely." This is all Nick's fault anyway. Gil could have easily thought of about fifty things he would have rather done on a Sunday afternoon than play touch football. But no, Nick insisted, and he, fool that he is, gave in.

He struggles out of the khakis and his underwear and walks into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

"You're cute when you're pouting," he hears Nick's voice through the door, and he shuts his eyes and counts to ten. He's sure his pulse is hovering at around 100, especially when he realizes that a shower is out of the question and that wringing a washcloth is almost impossible with only one hand. He has two choices: go to bed all sweaty, or give in and ask Nick for help. Reluctantly, he opens the bathroom door and peers into the bedroom. Nick hasn't moved.

"Can you help me?" Gil asks gruffly.

Nick straightens up, walks to Gil and takes the washcloth Gil hands him.

"Why don't you step into the shower?" he suggests gently.

Gil does so and then stands quietly, his back to Nick. He feels the washcloth against his nape, back and legs, and the drops of water tickle a little as they roll down his buttocks and the back of his knees. He closes his eyes and leans his head forward. He hears Nick rinsing the washcloth and shivers slightly as his wet skin cools, then relaxes when Nick wipes his back.

"Turn around," Nick says and something in his voice makes Gil's stomach coil and his cock stir. He turns around slowly and stares at Nick, noticing the flush high in his cheeks. Nick hesitates and looks at the washcloth as if he's not sure what to do with it, then up into Gil's eyes again.

"I'll… I'll take care of the rest," Gil says thickly, reaching for the washcloth.

Nick gives it to him, but he doesn't step back and he doesn't break eye contact. Instead he lifts his hand and cups Gil's cheek, his fingertips tracing Gil's ear lightly. Gil shivers again.

"Cold?" Nick whispers, smiling a little, and Gil shakes his head. He feels Nick's other hand close around his cock and he grunts.

"Think the old ticker can stand this?" Nick asks, his hand starting to move slowly.

Gil leans his forehead against Nick's. "I'm never going to hear the end of this, am I?" he asks.

Nick kisses him. "No," he murmurs against Gil's lips, then kisses him again. "But I promise I'll be gentle."