Title: Black Hours
By: Carol Trendall
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: PG-13
Note: This is a story that was started and never completed for a challenge two years ago. The challenge was to include an overheard conversation and the line "nce again I was going down on the up elevator of life'.
Summary: Nick overhears a conversation and jumps to a conclusion.

***

What hours, O what black hours we have spent
This night! What sights you, saw; ways you went! ... Gerard Manley Hopkins


One thing Nick Stokes has learned, to his immense delight, is that Gil Grissom is possessed of a voracious and imaginative sex drive. And it isn't average sex; this is life changing, sell your soul to the devil kind of sex. The kind of sex that Nick thought existed only in his imagination. The kind of sex that if he'd have known Gil Grissom was capable of he would've wrestled the man to the ground a long time before it actually happened.

And it's not just the sex, although that alone is enough to guarantee Nick's devotion to the man. Turns out that the seemingly cold and emotionless Gil Grissom is a downright romantic at heart. A midnight picnic kind of romantic. A candlelight bath for two kind of romantic. A sexy note tucked in the pocket kind of romantic.

The note Nick found tucked in his pocket as he hunted for change for the candy machine gave him the idea that maybe he would stop by Gil's office when there was a lull in the evening. And it explained why Gil had sent the rest of the team out to a motor vehicle accident, but assigned Nick to lab work.

So far, in the nineteen days since Nick and Gil started seeing each other, they've had sex at work four times. The first time was in the parking lot in what was supposed to be a meal break; the second time in the janitor's closet before going out to a crime scene; the third time in the garage right beside a car Nick had just dusted; the fourth time, to Nick's extreme shock and pleasure, a hand job in the lab with Greg on the other side of the glass wall not twenty feet away.

Tonight Nick hoped for the Holy Grail – Gil's office. He re-read the note he'd found in his pocket earlier and grinned, a rush of heat making his cheeks burn and his pants tight. His plan was perfect; slip into Gil's office, close the blinds, lock the door ... let nature take its course.

A quick check down the corridor confirmed that the rest of the team was still out at the crash scene and the lab technicians were all head down in their microscopes and computers. No one saw Nick as he walked from the lab to Grissom's office, which was probably a good thing because the shit-eating grin on his face would've aroused the suspicions of the lowliest rookie CSI.

The sound of voices in Gil's office pulled him up short as soon as he rounded the corner. Okay, so his plan wasn't perfect, he hadn't counted on Gil actually doing some work. Nick swallowed his disappointment and tried to calm the rabid animal in his pants while he edged closer to the door to see if he could figure out just who was in there ruining his plans and if they were coming out anytime soon.

Even without hearing words, Nick could pick Gil's voice anywhere; he'd grown familiar with its cadence and timbre. The low pitch of the second voice told him its owner, too, was male, but he couldn't tell who it was. What he could tell, though, was that Gil was upset and he didn't like that. He inched closer until his ear was pressed up against door, doubly grateful there was no-one around to see him eavesdropping outside Grissom's office like some sort of stalker.

As if on cue, Gil's voice rang out clearly, like he'd walked towards the door, maybe even sensing Nick's presence.

"I'd had a drink or two," Nick heard his lover say, sounding less than happy. "I should've known better. It was a mistake, a great big mistake."

The owner of the second voice revealed himself. It was Jim Brass and he sounded smug.

"Yeah, well, you should've thought about that before you fucked him."

Nick went cold with shock. They were talking about him; they had to be, unless Gil was fucking someone else, but as they'd spent every one of the last nineteen days together he couldn't see how the man had time, much less energy. So they were talking about him, they had to be! He was a mistake; he'd heard Gil say it, nothing wrong with his ears. Numb with pain and a little shocky, Nick spun around and got as far away from Gil Grissom's office as he possibly could.



Jim Brass knew something was up. He'd known Gil Grissom for a long time, more years than he really wanted to count, but never in all that time had he seen the man so ... agitated. He'd seen him serious, focussed, angry, amused, even drunk and more recently, in love. But he'd never seen this before, this state of shocked restlessness.

"C'mon, Gil, you said you wanted to talk to me ... so talk. Stop this goddamn pacing and sit down and tell me what's on your mind."

Grissom huffed out a breath and dropped into his chair. "Sorry, Jim. I just don't know where to start."

"OK, let me try. Is this about Nick?"

If Gil looked uncomfortable before, he looked downright desperate now. "Well, not exactly, but sort of."

"Not exactly but sort of? Yeah, that makes sense."

Gil avoided the other man's eyes and adjusted a folder on the corner of his desk, moving it a few inches to the right, then picking it up and moving it to the opposite corner. Then he took a breath and moved it back to its original position. He rolled his eyes when Jim's hand gesture suggested he get on with it.

"It's about Greg."

Jim's eyebrows shot up. "Greg? What do you mean it's about Greg?"

"I slept with him," Gil spat out, then shot out of his chair and started rearranging jars on a shelf.

Jim's eyebrows shot up another inch. "What do you mean you 'slept with him'?"

"Jesus, Jim," Gil spun to face the other man, "do you need me to draw you a diagram? And keep your voice down."

Jim shook his head. "Christ, Gil, what were you thinking?"

Gil paced, stopping briefly on the other side of the room to shoot a wry glance at his friend. "You really want me to answer that?"

"But ... he's half your age." It was Jim's turn to jump out of his chair and pace across the room.

Grissom cocked an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. "Oh, I love the direction this conversation is taking."

"OK, OK," Brass placated, "so half is an exaggeration." He dropped back into his chair and looked up at his friend, a twisted grin on his face. "But you got to admit he's a lot younger than you."

"You know, I noticed that right off."

"Despite you what think, Gil, sarcasm doesn't suit you."

"Are you going to help me or am I wasting my breath?"

Brass held up his hands in surrender. "OK, sorry. Sorry. But what do you want to do? Transfer him out?"

"I don't want to transfer the guy, he's one of my best. And I like him."

"So what, then?"

Gil's shoulders dropped. "I don't know, Jim. This is a mess."

"So why did you do it?"

"He came on to me." Striding back across floor, he pulled a chair close to Brass and dropped into it, leaning forward conspiratorially. "You're a guy, Jim. Are uou telling me that if Sara made a pass at you, you'd turn her down?"

The Detective huffed out a laugh. "Well you should know."

A smile played around the corners of Gil's mouth. "OK, bad example."

"So why?"

He groaned and shot out of his seat again. Turning his back on Jim he lurched across the room and leaned against the wall, hands at head height. "I'd had a drink or two. I should've known better. It was a mistake, a great big mistake."

Brass raised one eyebrow and smirked at the tense form in front of him. "Yeah, well you should've thought about that before you fucked him."

Gil turned and regarded the detective, his expression unreadable. If Jim Brass hadn't known Gil Grissom as long as he had, he might have been unnerved by the stony look now focussed so intently on him.

"You know, you're really not helping any."

Rising, Jim rested his hands on his hips, his own version of a stony expression on his face. "C'mon, Gil, what do you expect me to say? Only last week you're telling me about this great thing you got going on with Nick and now ... this ... now you're sleeping with Greg. I don't get it."

The look that appeared on Gil's face was one Jim Brass had never seen before; a mix of shock, disgust and amusement all combined.

"My god, Jim, what sort of person do you think I am? I told you how it is with Nick and I. Do you think I'd risk that? Have you ever known me to sleep around? You know me better than that. I haven't even looked at another man ... or woman for that matter, since Nick and I ... "

"Wait up ... " Brass held up a hand. "You're telling me you slept with Greg before you and Nick got it together?"

Gil straightened visibly, wearing a look of indignation and irritation. "Well I sure as hell haven't slept with him since."

Brass stared for a second, clearly struggling to hold his mirth. Throwing back his head he let out a bark of laughter that went on long enough to piss Gil off.

"You done now?" he asked when the laughter subsided. "I'm glad you find my life amusing, but I was rather hoping you'd be a little more supportive."

"You kill me. You really worried about Nick finding out you slept with someone before him? You think he thought you were a virgin? Step into the twenty first century and give the guy some credit. He's an adult, he's been around the block a time or two. He might surprise you."

"But this is Greg I'm talking about. Nick works with him every day."

"OK, let me put it this way ..." Jim shuffled his feet and stepped up close. "When the sane Gil Grissom comes back tell him I said that if he's that worried about Nick finding out, he should just tell him ... before someone else does."

"So that's it? That's your advice?

The detective nodded. "That's it."

"Just tell him?"

Jim nodded.

Gil stared at him for a second, pondering the suggestion, rolling it over in his mind and seemingly coming to some conclusion. He raised a finger, mouth open as if about to say something then stopped, apparently thinking better of it. Backing away suddenly, he mumbled his thanks, wrenched the door open and charged down the hall in the direction of Nick's lab, leaving a bewildered Jim Brass behind.



Working the night shift might not have much to recommend it, but at least it meant the corridors and offices weren't full of people to witness Nick's anguished lurch from Grissom's office to the last cubicle of the staff bathroom.

He sagged against the hastily closed door, pressing a fist to his mouth to stifle a sob that wanted out. What the fuck was going on? Had he heard right? Did Gil really believe their relationship was a mistake? Tears leaked past eyes squeezed shut and his legs threatened to fold under him. Nick dropped onto the closed toilet seat, cradling his head in his hands. How had he misread the situation? How had he got it so monumentally wrong?


Less than eight hours earlier you were in Gil's bed, holding him as he came, shuddering hard through an orgasm that seemed to go on forever.

"Nicky," he said against your mouth, "sweet Jesus ... I ... you ..."

You grinned and kissed him, swallowing the words he didn't say, maybe never would say, but didn't need to, because you knew he loved you.

You've felt the warmth of his love every one of the past nineteen days. It's in his eyes, his voice, every goddamn memo he hands you. You've never been this loved, this cherished. You can't help but know it.

You probably always knew it.

Even before that first time when he glanced at you over the rim of his coffee cup in the underlit diner where he'd taken you for breakfast and said simply,

"Come home with me?"

He kissed you for the first time in the parking lot that warm Saturday morning and the weariness you felt after a fourteen hour shift just disappeared. You laughed like a teenager and knew you'd fall in love with him, fast and hard.

At his house, when he was inside you for the first time, you nearly cried. When he came and you saw his eyes bright and wet, you did cry. That's when you knew for certain Gil Grissom loved you ... was in love with you.


Nick wasn't in his lab. He wasn't in the break room, either. Gil didn't find him in any of the other labs, offices or locker room. He hoped Greg might be able to shed some light on his whereabouts.

Even with his less than perfect hearing, Grissom could have navigated his way to the DNA lab purely by sound. He identified the music of a band with the dubious name System of a Down, Greg's current favourite, from around the corner. When he pushed the door open, the sheer volume almost drove him back into the corridor.

Greg looked up and hit the mute button. "Sorry, boss."

Gil tilted his head. "You should take care of your hearing, Greg."

"What?" He cupped a hand to his ear in feigned deafness.

"There'll be a time in your dotage when that won't be funny."

"Like the man said, 'hope I die before I get old'."

"The man who said that was Pete Townshend and you'll be interested to know he's a lot older than me."

Greg greeted that piece of information with a blank expression. "So I guess he didn't die before he got old."

A smile played about the corner of Gil's mouth. "I'll try and forget that remark before your next evaluation."

The young scientist just grinned, safe in the knowledge that Gil wouldn't stay angry with him for too long.

Grissom rolled his eyes. "I'm looking for Nick."

"Oh," Greg quirked an eyebrow suggestively, "Nick."

He blatantly ignored the innuendo. In the interest of full disclosure and just in case the younger man harboured any hopes of furthering their relationship, he'd told Greg about Nick after the first night. Greg greeted the news with his usual candour and said he was happy for them. Gil remained fond of the young scientist and another time he might be of a mind to play this game. But not now. Right now he needed to talk to Nick, ironically about the man in front of him.

"Yes. Nick. I can't find him. Do you know where he is?"

Greg shrugged. "Did you try his cell?"

Grissom's eyes widened. Why hadn't he thought of that? He stepped back into the corridor, letting the door swing shut on Greg and his youth as he reached into his pocket for his cellphone. It rang before he could flip it open and start dialling.

It was Catherine.

"Where the hell is Nick? We're up to our ears in evidence and if you don't want to blow your overtime budget you'll get me some help out here."

"OK, Catherine, I'll send him out right away."

"What about you?"

"It's budget time. I got reports to write. Believe me, Catherine, I'd much rather be out there."

"Whatever. I gotta go."

He stared at the phone in his hand and sighed. His talk with Nick would have to wait. He hit the speed dial marked N and waited.





The cellphone chirped way too cheerfully in Nick's pocket, echoing harshly against the washroom tiles. He fumbled and it took a few goes before he could get the phone out. His voice was thick when he answered.

"Stokes."

"It's me," Gil said sounding just like the boss, no trace of the desperation Nick had heard in his voice fifteen minutes earlier. "Where are you? I've been looking for you for the last ten minutes."

Nick's stomach did a slow roll and he bit down on the weird feeling that took a while to reveal itself as panic. He wasn't going to flip out. Not now. Not at work.

"B .. bathroom. S ..sorry. Not feeling so good." he stammered, annoyed that he couldn't manage to sound aloof and cool.

The change in Gil's voice was immediate. "You sick? What's wrong? You need to go home?"

"No, I'm fine. I just ... too much cheese today. You know how I am with dairy. I'm alright now."

"You OK to work?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. You were looking for me? What's up?"

He knew what was coming. 'Come on up to my office, Nick, I need to talk to you. Need to tell you how stupid I've been, what a mistake I made getting involved with you.'

But Gil didn't say that, nothing remotely like it.

"Sorry, but it looks like Catherine needs you at the crash scene. It's bigger than we thought."

"Ah ... OK," He let out the breath he didn't realise he'd been holding, absurdly grateful for the stay of execution, even if it did mean climbing over wreckage at a crash scene in the middle of a cold night.

"I'm sorry, Nicky. I was hoping we could ... I really want to talk to you ...' Gil's voice trailed off. "Maybe after work?"

Nick heard himself say how he'd like that and how he looked forward to it, although he *wasn't* looking forward it. Right now he'd take working a triple shift over hearing what Gil Grissom had to say. The time would come when he would have to hear it, but for now, the longer he could put it off, the better.

He let Gil extract from him a promise to call at the end of the shift, mumbled something about hurrying to get his equipment and not keeping Catherine waiting, then ended the call. He was about to tuck the phone back into his pocket when it trilled again.

"Nick, it's Catherine. You on your way yet?"

"Not yet. Almost."

"Good. Stop by DNA. Greg's got a report I need to see before tomorrow and it doesn't look like I'll be back there anytime soon."

"Sure, Cath."

This time, he managed to get the phone back into his pocket. Straightening, he sucked in a long breath and let it out slowly, willing his mind back onto work. Right now he had a job to do and, be damned, he was going to do it well. He might be a mistake in Gil Grissom's personal life, but he wasn't going to be a mistake in his professional one.

After Nigel Crane, Nick had learned some meditation techniques from a teacher recommended by Gil. It had helped him through the first rough weeks, taking the edge off panic attacks and helping him sleep at night. He hadn't needed it much lately, but Nick was grateful for it now. Three minutes of deep breathing and creative visualisation meant he could leave the staff bathroom wearing a confident smile that was only half faked.


Nick's sense of well being was short lived.

"Grissom catch up with you?" Greg asked when Nick appeared in the DNA lab doorway.

He swallowed, hard. "Yeah."

Wheeling his chair around the corner of his desk, Greg gave him a smug look that a week ago, hell, an hour ago, would have made him laugh and make some off colour joke. Now it made him feel sick.

"He wants me to go help Catherine at the crash scene." Nick's words came out a little more defensively than he intended.

"Spoiled your plans, huh?"

The all-too-knowing grin on Greg's face pissed him off a little and raised a flutter of panic. "Plans?"

"C'mon, Nick, you think no-one knows?"

The carefully banked panic in Nick's belly flared up all over again and his eyes widened. What did Greg know?

"What the hell you talking about, Greg?"

"The lab."

Greg's cocked eyebrow reminded him of Gil and that caused a whole other set of feelings Nick really didn't want to be dealing with right now.

"The lab?" Nick felt his face heat up. Had they been that obvious? He'd tried to stop Gil that night, he really had. Even now, the memory sent a shiver up his spine and blood to his groin.


"Stop it." It shocked you, but it turned you on at the same time and you laughed, breathy and hoarse. "Oh, man, I can't believe you."

"You really want me to stop, Nicky? Because I will ... if you want." Gil's voice was soft and teasing, not one you've ever heard him use at work before.

Gil looked at you with that intense gaze and you could see fire in the eyes you had once thought were cold. Gil's hand kept moving and you fought the urge to look down, because if you did, if you saw what he was doing to you here in the lab under the hard light of a fluorescent tube, it would be all over in a second.

"But ... Greg ..."

"It's OK ... relax ... he can't see you."

You came so hard you thought you'd pass out. When your eyes could focus properly Gil was washing his hands at the sink wearing his serious scientist expression and looking so far removed from the man who had just stroked you to completion that you had to laugh.

Greg did look this time, turning his head and frowning at you over his shoulder. With Gil on the other side of the room, you weren't worried. It all looked perfectly innocent.


"I could tell by the look on your face."

That startled him back to the moment. "Jesus ..."

"Hey, I think it's cute. You two look good together." Greg ducked his head and looked up at Nick through lowered lashes. "I'm jealous."

Nick stared for a moment, stopping short of asking which one of them Greg was jealous of.

"Just give me Catherine's reports, willya. I don't have time for this."

Greg handed the reports over, looking chastened. "Sorry, man. I didn't mean to offend you, or anything."

"S'OK, Greg. It's just not the right time. I gotta go."



The crash scene was visible for miles and it didn't take a genius to figure out why Catherine was in desperate need of assistance. The remains of a semi-trailer, a station wagon and an unidentifiable sports car were twisted together on one side of the road while further up, on the other side of the road, a minibus lay on its side. Debris was spread from one side of the road to the other and the sheer number of medics still on the scene hours after the actual crash attested to a very serious incident. Nick's heart kicked into double time. Scenes like this had a buzz of their own and this one started to take a hold of him before he was even out of his vehicle.

It took a while to pick the CSI team members out amongst the throng of uniformed police, rescue team and remaining medics buzzing around the ruined vehicles. Warrick stood a head taller than most people so Nick found him first, taking down notes whilst talking to a man on the shoulder of the road. He spotted Sara when she emerged from the other side of the crumpled station wagon, camera in hand and a smudge of dirt on her face. Catherine he finally located hunkered down on the road, looking up at the spot where semi met station wagon.

"Hey, Cath," he greeted.

"Nick." She gave a weary smile and rose to greet him. "Boy, am I glad to see you." She pushed her hair back from her face and looked at him, smile dimming when she got close. "You OK? You look pale."

"Uh ... I'm fine." Scratching his head, he pulled his gaze away and looked around the scene. "Where do you want me?"

She stared for a second and Nick could feel her concern for him warring with the desire to get the scene wrapped up as soon as humanly possible. The scene won.

"OK. No one's had time to deal with the mini bus yet. Medics and rescue are finished with it, so I need you to get started on the pictures. Soon as we've got the scene to ourselves, we can regroup and walk our theories through. You handle that?"

He nodded briskly and headed off to his assigned task. He didn't need to turn around to know that Catherine was still looking at him, maternal concern evident in the set of her frown.


The black hours of the night had turned to day by the time Catherine called it quits. They'd walked through the scene, each of them offering opinions and observations and quickly reached consensus on the possible turn of events, but with several car loads of photographs and samples already waiting back at the lab it would be days, even weeks, before they had the full picture.

"Go home and get some sleep." Squinting in the early morning sun, Catherine looked around at the weary faces of her team. "God knows we'll be back at it soon enough."

"Don't have to tell me twice." Warrick pushed off the car he leaned against. "See you guys tonight." Fishing his keys from his pocket, he was gone before anyone could say goodbye.

"I got ... stuff to do ... " Sara shuffled away. "See you tonight."

Catherine swung around and raised her eyebrows at Nick. "I usually have to tell Sara to go home at least three times."

Nick folded his arms and leaned back against Catherine's car, grinning. "My guess? She's got a date."

"Well that goes someway to explaining her unusually perky mood tonight." She cast him a pointed look. "What about you?"

The grin stayed on his face but the good mood behind it was gone. "What about me?"

"You and Gil got plans or you actually planning on going home and sleeping on your time off?" The look on Nick's face stopped her in her tracks and she held her hands up. "You know what? That's none of my business."

Shrugging, he reached around her and starting loading cases into the back of her car.

"OK. Not the reaction I'd expected," she said, aware of the tight curve of his back and how he avoided her eyes as he worked. "I'm sorry, Nick. I really am. You've never been so sensitive about this before,"

He said nothing. There was nothing to say. Very soon he'd go home. Gil would probably come around. In that painfully considerate way he had, he would tell Nick it was all over, that he'd made a mistake.

"Is everything OK?" Catherine asked. "You looked pretty strung out when you got here last night, but now ... you seem ...."

Nick froze, bent over a case full of sample bottles. "I'm OK."

Something in his voice, his stance, the tilt of his head – Catherine couldn't say for sure what it was, but something told her Nick was definitely not OK. Her seniority, both as his colleague and in age added to the relationship they'd developed over the years made her push him in a way she would not have pushed anyone else.

She touched a tender hand to the small of his back. "No, you're not."

Straightening, he stared at her in the early morning light. "It's been a long night, Catherine. Don't make it any worse."

"Worse? Don't make what worse? What's going on?"

The note of concern that rose in Catherine's voice grabbed Nick and made his eyes fill.

"Ah, crap ..." He sat down on the tailgate of the Tahoe and let out a sigh.

"Talk to me, dammit. What happened?"

"Grissom's going to dump me." He met her concerned eyes. "It's over, Cath. He's gonna dump me."

"Why? What happened? I thought you two had a good thing going on."

He chuffed out a cynical laugh. "It's like this; once again I was going down on the up elevator of life."

"That's bullshit, Nick. I've seen you two together."

"I heard Grissom tell Brass he made a mistake."

"Mistake? What mistake?"

"Me, Catherine. I'm the mistake."

"So what happened?"

"I told you; he 'made a mistake'."

"Wait a minute. You heard Gil tell Brass he made a mistake. He didn't talk to you directly?"

"He didn't have to. I'm not stupid."

"And you jumped to this conclusion all on your own?"

"I heard him. With my own ears."

"So tell me what you heard ... exactly what you heard."

"Last night, just before I came out here, I stopped by Gil's office. The door was closed. Someone was in there. Turns out it was Brass. I heard Gil say 'it was a mistake, a big mistake' then Brass says all smart ass, 'you should've thought of that before you fucked him'."

"OK," Catherine said slowly, a memory from a month ago appearing suddenly in her mind.

There'd been a party at Warrick's house, a housewarming. Catherine had spent a lot of time deep in conversation with Anita, Warrick's new girlfriend. It was about 10 o'clock when Grissom came to say goodnight to her, she remembered because she checked her watch, thinking it was unusually early even for him. She sent him off with a joke about old age and then returned to her conversation with Anita.

She would have forgotten all about it except that five minutes later Greg appeared, thanking Anita for inviting him and saying he had to be somewhere. That had surprised her, because all week she'd been hearing Greg talk about the karaoke machine he'd talked Warrick into hiring for the party and how he couldn't wait to try it out.

She'd watched Greg leave, noting how he moved speedily, but tried to look cool, like he wasn't in a hurry. At the time she'd assumed something was going on between Gil and Greg but then, a week later, Gil told her about him and Nick and she'd figured she'd been mistaken. Now she wondered if she had been right the first time.

And if she had been right, then she had a hunch she knew what the conversation Nick had overheard was all about.

"Did you actually hear him say your name?"

Nick looked at the ground. "I didn't have to."

She persisted. "Did he say your name?"

"OK." He took a breath and let it out quickly. "No."

"So," Catherine grinned at him, "he might have been talking about someone else?"

He pushed off the car. "So now you're saying he's been sleeping with someone else?"

"I don't know, Nick, maybe."

He turned away, a pained sound falling from his lips. "Jesus."

"Well ... he could have been. But it might not be what you think. There might be another explanation."

"Another explanation?" He spun around to face her. "What?"

"I don't know. You'll have to ask Gil. I'm just trying to help."

Nick rolled his eyes.

"You won't know till you talk to him, Nick."

He stared at her for a few seconds, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He threw his hands up in the air. "OK, Catherine. I'll make a call."


This is a new feeling for Gil, the jittery anticipation he thought he was too far down the slippery slide to old age to feel. He's like a teenager all over again, despite the silver at his temples and the thickness around his middle. He's never felt so alive, so full of energy. He never thought he'd have this chance again, never thought anyone would ever touch his life the way Nick Stokes has. Never, ever thought he'd have a relationship this good.

He only hoped that after he talked to Nick, he'd still have a relationship.

It wasn't that he regretted sleeping with Greg. In fact, he'd rather enjoyed it. He liked Greg; thought he was funny and clever and just cute enough to be interesting. He'd never have made a move himself, but at Warrick's party, after a long and vigourous discussion about the relative merits or otherwise of the human genome project Greg had made the offer and, as he'd enjoyed their conversation so much, it had seemed churlish to turn him down.

The next day, his reasoning had felt a little lame. A week later, after he and Nick started seeing each other, it seemed a trifle ridiculous. And now, a month later, it seemed downright foolish. The stupid thing was that he'd always meant to tell Nick about Greg, but somehow whenever they were together rational thought, and sometimes even simple conversation, went out the window. But today he had to tell him. If he and Nick were to have the future he hoped, he had no choice.

With his official finish time having come and gone, Gil could do nothing but wait. Catherine had already called him to say she was sending the team home and he'd seen at least two truck loads of boxes from the scene come back to the lab, so it was about time to hear from Nick.

Why hadn't Nick called? He glanced quickly at his cellphone, sitting innocently on the desk beside the bag of Kenyan dark roasted coffee beans he'd gone out especially to buy in his dinner break. It was Nick's favourite; one of the many things he'd come to know about the man he'd fallen in love with. With a frustrated sigh, he scooped up the phone to check it was still switched on, but just as quickly dropped it again. He wasn't going to be paranoid. That wasn't his style.

But, then again, how could he tell these days? He'd done and felt a whole lot of things in the past few weeks that he would never have thought were 'his style'. He'd already taken more risks, broken more rules than a man in his position should.


You called Nick from the back seat of your car, thankful that you'd let the salesman talk you into shelling out the extra for tinted windows. You didn't tell him where you were, but you hoped he trusted you enough to follow your instructions. You talked him out of his lab and into the elevator, kept him on the line, guiding him, until you saw him come through the door and turn towards the parking lot. You saw his cheeky grin when he drew level with your car and when you opened the door, you saw that grin turn into something else. He climbed into the back seat and into your arms without hesitation.

It was over quickly that time. Looking into his clear, honest eyes you never stood a chance. He rode out your orgasm and you did your best, rocking up into him until he came silently. He closed his eyes for just a moment, breaking the connection, but when he looked at you again, it was there in his eyes, what he felt for you.

It was still there when you saw him later that night, sitting in the break room where you'd gathered everyone for a debrief of the evenings work. You wondered how your hotshot team of crime scene investigators didn't see it, didn't know what you'd done in your dinner break.

It didn't stop you from doing it again.

Four days later, midway through one of the busiest nights you've ever had in Vegas, you hustled Nick into the janitor's closet and locked the door behind you. The look on his face made you laugh, a mix of horror and desire all at once. He'd tried to stop you at first, muttering about how you had to get to the crime scene and how the evidence wouldn't wait, but his protests died on his lips when your hand was in his pants. Then he was an active participant, fumbling with your zip and grinning like a cheshire cat when you whimpered, pressing harder into his hand.

He came first that time, a small shocked sound falling from his lips right before you kissed him. Then his focus was on you, watching your face as he stroked you, then leaning close and whispering endearments when he knew you were close. He pressed his mouth to yours, swallowing your sounds, the words you very nearly said.


His cell phone rang, jangling loudly on the hard surface of his desk and it made him jump. He snatched it up and did his best to sound cool when he answered.

"It's me." Nick's Texan accent was always more prominent when he was tired. "You still want to get together?"

"Yes. Yes, of course. Unless ..."

"I'm OK. I'm leaving the scene now." He really did sound tired. "I want ... I ,,, meet at my house in about 40 minutes?"

Gil couldn't keep the smile out of his voice. "It's a date. I'll pick up some breakfast."

Nick's voice brightened. "Croissants?"

"Sure." Gil grinned in his empty office, "I'll get them from that place on Oxford Street."

Nick's voice brightened even further. "Blue Frog? My favourite, man."

And that made Gil unaccountably pleased.



Pulling into his driveway, Nick thought that it seemed just like any other day; talking to Gil on the phone, making plans for breakfast. Except it wasn't like any other day. Today there wouldn't be any of what usually came after breakfast. Today he'd be going to bed alone. At least he'd have the satisfaction of asking Gil to leave his house.

Gil got there first. Nick noted, with some satisfaction, that he'd let himself in with the key he hadn't wanted to accept initially. The aroma of fresh ground coffee beans hit him as soon as he came through the door.

"Hey," Gil greeted, eyes lighting up as he came around the bench to pull Nick into a hug.

On the drive home Nick had worked out his strategy: keep his distance, stay cool and aloof, demand to know what was going on, but when Gil's arms went around him his plan went right out the window. It was just too easy to sink against that now familiar chest, breathe that familiar scent and forget all about what he'd heard all those black hours earlier. He tucked his face into Gil's neck, snaked his arms around his waist and didn't even try to stop the sigh of contentment that slipped out of him. Gil laughed and Nick felt it all through his body, the contact bringing a frisson of arousal.

He stroked one hand up Nick's back, coming to rest on the nape of his neck. "Rough night?"

Nick shivered. "Yeah ... crap everywhere ... there's a ton of stuff to process."

"I know. I saw the boxes come back to the lab. And just when I was hoping for a quiet night ... "

Nick lifted his head and grinned. "You can make it up some other way. Is that coffee I smell?"

Gil's answering smile was brilliant. "Kenyan, to be precise. And we've got croissants to go with it."

Nick's last thought as they sat down to eat was how it seemed just like any other morning.




"Man, that coffee's good."

Smiling, Gil drained his cup and set it down. "Glad you like it. Another cup?"

"Two's enough. I'd like to sleep sometime today."

Gil cocked an eyebrow suggestively. "Oh I can think of many things to do with excess energy."

Nick laughed and shook his head. "No one would believe me if I told them what a horn dog you are."

"Is that what you think?"

The smile was still there on Gil's face, but something in his tone brought Nick up short. The overheard conversation of the night before came back with frightening clarity.

Shit, here it comes. This is how you get dumped: on a bright sunny morning over buttery croissants and the best coffee you've ever tasted.

Gil wasn't waiting for his answer. He drew himself up and Nick could see the change in him, see the words forming in his mind.

"Actually, Nick ... there's something I want to talk to you about."

"Wh ... what is it?" He forced out a laugh, trying to sound light. "Should I be worried? Knew there was a reason you got my favourite coffee."

Gil's expression was unreadable. "Remember Warrick's party last month?"

It was the last thing Nick expected to hear and he let out a nervous laugh. "Warrick's party? Sure I remember it ... well, parts of it. You left early and I ended up singing bad 80's karaoke with Catherine. Worst hangover I've had since college."

"There's a reason I left early."

He shrugged, confused now. "So?"

"Greg left early, too."

"Greg?"

"C'mon, Nick, don't make me say it. This is hard enough as it is."

"Wha ???"

"I went to Greg's apartment. We ... we ..."

Realisation dawned. "You and Greg?"

Misreading the look on Nick's face, Gil backpedalled. "It was a mistake, Nick. It shouldn't have happened. If I'd had any idea that a week later you and I ... it wouldn't have happened. It was a mistake. A big mistake."

Nick fell silent, taking in what he'd been told. He'd heard the same words from the same man the night before. It all made sense now, just like the response from Jim Brass, 'you should've thought of that before you fucked him'. Replaying the detective's words now he could hear the humour in his reply and it was suddenly very, very funny. He threw back his head and laughed.

Gil raised one eyebrow. "That's now quite how I thought you'd react. You think it's funny that I slept with Greg?"

"Oh, man. I thought you were going to dump me."

"Dump you? I've spent the last three weeks terrified you'd find out and dump me."

"For sleeping with Greg?" Nick shook his head, still chuckling. "Greg sleeps with lots of people."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

"I didn't mean it like that. I just mean that it's no big deal."

"It's not?"

"After what I went through last night? This doesn't even rate."

"What do you mean? What happened last night?"

Nick came out of his seat and rounded the table, reaching for Gil. "It doesn't matter. It really doesn't."


It's late by the time he falls asleep in your arms, well into the afternoon. You know that about halfway through the shift tonight he'll be suffering from lack of sleep, you've seen it before. You'll bring him chocolate from the stash in your locker, the special Belgian brand he likes and you drove all over town to find. It makes you smile that you know these things about him and you wonder how many people know that Gil Grissom is really a hedonist. You'll be tired later, too, but you won't need coffee or chocolate, you'll have this memory to get you see you through those black hours.

***