Title: Mr. Potter and Other Christmas Baddies
Author: podga
Pairing: Gil/Nick (pre-relationship)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: CSI and its characters do not belong to me. I write and post for fun only.
Summary: Nick doesn’t go home for the holidays, and Grissom tries to use reverse psychology.

‘Tis the season to be called names, and Gil’s heard them all: Mr. Potter. Scrooge. Grinch. Professor Hinkle. Burgermeister Meisterburger. They never seem to tire of inventing new ones for him.

Well, he’s tired of hearing them. So he doesn’t particularly like Christmas, so what? He could blame his childhood, like Catherine did once he told her about it, but the truth is that he wasn’t particularly scarred by his mother’s insistence on pretending that his father was a little like Santa Claus, visiting at Christmas to open his gift and leave one for Gil. In fact, it was only as a teenager that he’d decided the custom was weird; but then, by that age he considered anything his mother did as strange, misguided or simply out of touch with reality. Teenagers are arrogant that way, and he was particularly arrogant.

Or he could blame his current job, which proved, year after year after year, that December 25 was just another day on the calendar and that joy, peace and good will towards men didn’t even put a noticeable dent in crime rates. Quite the opposite.

Except for tonight. Graveyard has been as quiet as, well, as a grave. He can hear subdued partying in the lab and despite the fact that people could probably be catching up with backlog, he decides not to intervene. As long as they keep off the alcohol and are capable of functioning if an emergency crops up, the lab rats can take it easy for a couple of nights. And so can he. He leans back more comfortably and picks up his journal again.

Something, a passing shadow, a shift in the light, causes him to look up. Nick is leaning against the doorjamb, his arms crossed against his chest, and he looks like he’s been standing there for a while. Even when their eyes meet, Nick doesn’t speak.

“Something I can help you with?”

“No, not really,” Nick says.

Nick has changed over the past months. There’s nothing really obvious, nothing to suggest that he survived an event that would have left others dead, or in therapy for years, and if Gil hadn’t observed Nick for so long — the same way he observes all his team — he might not have noticed the quietness, the slight hesitancy, the little blank moments here and there, when Nick isn’t altogether present. Most have interpreted Nick’s evolving hairstyles and his brief foray into facial hair, the only overt signs of change, as indications that Nick has realized that life is too short to always be doing the right thing. Gil isn’t so sure about that. To him it seems less like an act of rebellion and more as if Nick is no longer sure what the right thing is, as if he’s somehow lost his compass and is drifting.

“It’s quiet tonight,” he comments, trying to draw Nick out.

Nick nods in agreement.

“Are you taking off for New Year’s? I haven’t gotten to your leave request yet,” Gil tries again, indicating his overflowing in-tray.

Nick smiles briefly, because Gil’s lack of interest in forms and administrative paperwork is even more legendary than his lack of interest in Christmas, then shakes his head.

“I haven’t submitted one. I figured I’d stick around.”

“You’re not going home this year?” Gil hadn’t meant his surprise to be so obvious, but this is the first time in over six years that Nick hasn’t gone home for at least part of the holidays. In fact, Gil is the only one to routinely work both Christmas and New Year’s and even he doesn’t do it every year.

Nick shrugs. “I thought I’d save some days up and take a longer break in late January or early February. Maybe go skiing in Colorado.”

“You ski?”

“Thought I’d try it,” Nick says, though with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm or even interest.

Gil doesn’t normally interfere in the personal lives of his team, but these can’t be considered normal circumstances. Not by a long shot. Despite the fact that Nick has chosen to live apart from his family, it’s obvious he loves them and needs regular contact with them. And this year, when he needs the normalcy of family more than ever, he decides to abstain? It just doesn’t make sense.

“So you’re not going home?” he asks again, not quite sure how he should go about expressing his disapproval, because he knows he doesn’t actually have the right to disapprove. Or any rights, for that matter.

Nick frowns and, although his posture hasn’t changed, Gil can see that he’s tensed. “That’s what I said,” Nick confirms, a hard edge to his voice.

“Nick, are you sure? I mean­­—”

He never gets a chance to say what he meant.

“What do you care, anyway?” Nick says hotly, his anger coming out of nowhere. “It’s not like you spend the holidays with your loved ones. Don’t tell me how to live my life.”

“I care. I don’t have loved ones to spend the holidays with. And I’m not.”

“Oh.” Nick looks down, then takes a deep breath, holding it for a second, before expelling it through his nose. “Sorry,” he says more quietly, not looking up.

Gil gets up and walks around his desk to face Nick.

“Why aren’t you going home?” he asks softly.

“I’m just not in the mood. If I go there, I’ll have to pretend like everything’s okay.”

“And it’s not.”

Nick finally looks up at Gil, his brown eyes troubled.

“No. And I don’t know how...” Nick’s voice peters out.

“Maybe by doing normal things? Like going home, seeing your family? I’m sure they don’t expect you to pretend.”

Nick shakes his head. “It doesn’t work that way. We all have roles,” he says vaguely.

“Roles?”

“Yeah. I’m… well, I’m the baby. I’m the happy-go-lucky one. I’m the one bad things don’t stick to.”

“Nick—”

“Drop it, Griss, okay? You don’t know what you’re talking about, so just drop it.” Nick sounds tired, beaten, and Gil has the urge to take him in his arms, and the sudden crazy thought that Nick wouldn’t mind if he did. He contents himself with briefly squeezing Nick’s shoulder.

“Okay. Sorry.”

“Yeah. Thanks. I’d better get back to work.”

“Nick. What did you want?”

Nick pauses.

“When?”

“When you stopped by. What did you want?”

Nick flushes darkly. “Nothing. I just wanted…” He hesitates, laughs, a short, embarrassed sound, and then squares his shoulders. “I was wondering if you wanted to have breakfast after shift’s over.”

“Sure. I think everybody’s going to the local greasy spoon, they’ve promised to serve Christmas dinner. Well, breakfast. Whatever.”

“No. I meant just us.”

“Us?”

“Yeah. You know, something not Christmassy.”

“Ah. Breakfast with the Grinch.”

“I don’t know. You’re not green.”

Gil smiles. “No.”

“Same little round belly, though.”

“Okay, that’s enough.”

Nick grins. “So?”

“Okay. I’ll pick the place.”

 

“This is kind of dreary,” Nick frowns, looking around.

“Is it? It looks pretty normal to me,” Gil responds blithely.

“They’re not even pretending it’s Christmas. I mean, even the Indian place down the street has Christmas lights up.”

“I thought not doing Christmas was the point. Where do you want to sit?”

“Huh? Anywhere, man, what does it matter? It’s not like this place has a good spot.”

No, it doesn’t, and Gil is particularly proud of his find. He couldn’t care less about himself, but it strikes him as inordinately sad that Nick would want to forego Christmas. Maybe shock tactics will work where reason doesn’t.

“I’ll have a double grilled cheese sandwich and coffee, please,” Gil tells the waitress, wondering if he’s overdoing the pathos, but happy to see Nick’s frown deepen.

“What about you, hon?” the waitress asks Nick, awarding him with a full question and a wide smile, when all Gil got was a questioning grunt.

“Uhmm. Turkey sandwich, I guess. Mustard, no mayo. On brown bread.”

The waitress glares at Gil, as if blaming him for Nick roughing it, then walks away.

Nick leans forward. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“It’s kinda personal.”

“Okay.”

“Why don’t you like Christmas?”

Gil hesitates. He doesn’t want the conversation to revolve around him. “It’s not that I dislike it. I just don’t see anything that special about it.”

“I thought you were Catholic.”

“I was.”

“Not any more? Why?”

“That is personal,” Gil says and Nick sits back.

“Of course. Sorry.”

Gil watches Nick fiddle with his fork and regrets his previous response. “Holidays… I don’t think you can appreciate them in quite the same way if there’s nobody special to share them with,” he says finally, trying to form his thoughts as he’s expressing them, mildly surprised at the urgent need he feels to tell Nick something about himself. “They’re just like any other day. Worse, because at least all the other days people let you be.”

“You’re expected to appear happier, even if you’re really not,” Nick says quietly.

“Yes.”

As Nick looks at Gil, his eyes soft with some feeling that Gil can’t quite interpret, it seems to Gil like the silence between them is more than an absence of words. It’s like a current, buzzing with unreleased energy, even as it seems to suck all the oxygen out of the air. He’s grateful when the waitress comes over with their orders, and he spends the rest of the meal talking about work.

 

“Griss, do you want to come over to my place for a drink?”

Gil pauses in the act of reaching into his pocket for his car key. “Now?”

Nick smiles tentatively. “It’s Christmas. I thought it wouldn’t matter, that I’d be better off alone this year, but…” He pauses for a second, then continues. “What you said? About having someone to share the holiday with? I guess I need that.”

“I didn’t mean just anyone,” Gil says. “Warrick said he’ll come in to work if he needs to and Sara’s back tomorrow night. Go home, Nick. It’s not too late.”

“You’re not just anyone. And I don’t want to go to Dallas.”

“Nick?”

“I just figured it out,” Nick says slowly.

“Figured what out?”

Nick ignores the question. “After all this time,” he mutters, as if speaking to himself. “Come over for a drink,” he repeats, more firmly this time.

Gil stares at him, trying to understand what’s happening. “Okay,” he says uncertainly.

 

He’s been in Nick’s house before. He feels at home here, and as he looks around, he realizes that Nick’s home is a much tidier version of his own.

“Scotch?” Nick asks.

“Yes. Thanks.” He still doesn’t know what he’s doing here, or rather, why Nick invited him over. On the drive here, following the taillights of Nick’s truck, he kept his mind a careful blank, because he doesn’t want to later remember this as being the Christmas he made an absolute fool of himself.

“Ice?”

“No. Straight.”

Nick brings him the drink and sits next to him on the couch, turning sideways towards him.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, smiling at Gil.

“Merry Christmas,” Gil responds, taking too hasty a swallow and nearly choking.

“You picked that dump on purpose, didn’t you?” Nick asks. “Trying to prove to me that I don’t know what I want.” He sounds amused, rather than challenging or defensive; in fact, he sounds a little like the old Nick.

“Not exactly. I was just trying to show you what you’re about to trade in for.”

“Come off it. You don’t really ever eat there, do you?”

Gil hesitates. “Well, no.”

“And I’ll bet anything that this was the first time you’ve eaten a grilled cheese sandwich since you were a kid.”

“You’d lose. I’m not much of a cook.”

Nick reaches forward and sets his tumbler on the table. “So what do you do on Christmas, when you’re not at work?”

“Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“Go to a nice restaurant.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah.” Something in Nick’s eyes makes Gil feel too vulnerable. “I like baked ham,” he says lightly, “and it’s hard to find any other season.”

“And you’re not much of cook.”

“Right.”

“I can cook,” Nick says. “In fact, I’m a pretty good cook.”

“Are you?”

“We can go shopping right now.”

“Why?”

“Or we could go to a nice restaurant.”

“Nick…”

Nick leans closer. “Let’s spend Christmas together, Griss. You and me.”

“Back in the parking lot, you said you’d figured it out,” Gil blurts. “What? What did you figure out?”

“Why I didn’t want to go home. Who I needed to spend this holiday with.” Nick looks at him searchingly. “Do you mind?”

“Mind? No.” Gil wishes he could say more, tell Nick that his Christmases had become somehow even darker and lonelier since he met Nick, who always left for Texas on December 23rd and didn’t come back until the 27th, but two words are all he can manage.

Nick stands up and smiles down at Gil. “Let’s go shopping then,” he says. “If there aren’t any hams left, I’m sure they’ll have cheese. I can make you another grilled cheese sandwich.”

“If there aren’t any hams left, I’ll take you out to dinner,” Gil promises, and allows himself to be pulled to his feet.

 

And later, trailing after Nick up and down the supermarket aisles, he finds himself humming along with the Christmas muzak. Which, he knows for a fact, is something Mr. Potter would never do.