Title: Both Hands
By: Daniella
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Genres: angst
Rating: PG13
Warnings: none
Summary: A collection of short, slightly related stories all focused around our favourite pair, and an amazing song by Ani DiFranco.

I am walking
out in the rain
and I am listening to the low moan
of the dial tone again
and I am getting
nowhere with you
and I can't let it go
and I can't get through...

If Greg Sanders looked out his apartment window, the large one in the kitchen area, he would have a clear view of the parking lot below him. His apartment was near enough to the ground floor that he could make out details on the cars, yet he could have been miles and miles away and still recognize the truck that just pulled into the lot.

He frowned slightly, leaning forward even further to peer out into the rainy Sunday afternoon. The kitchen counter was digging into his thighs but he doesn't care because there's Nick, hopping out of the truck. The Texan pauses for a second, and as if he can sense Greg's eyes on him he looks upward towards Greg's window and he hides behind the counter. Logically, he knows that there's no way Nick can see him, but it seemed to be a good idea at the time.

Cautiously, he peeked out the window again, and Nick was still there, he was standing in the middle of the parking lot, getting soaking wet.

As if he changed his mind and decided to leave, he suddenly strode back to his truck and climbed in. Greg would deny it later but he held his breath then, not exhaling until Nick exited the car for the second time and kicked its side in frustration.

Nick reached into his pocket now, and Greg saw that he pulled out his cell phone. The younger man closed his eyes, waiting, willing his own phone to ring. But it didn't, and annoyed, Greg opened his eyes again to see Nick still standing there, dripping in the rain, and looking around the parking lot desperately as if the answer he was searching for was hidden behind an unsuspecting car.

And Greg couldn't take it anymore, he ran from his apartment, not even bothering to close his door and he practically fell down all the flights of stairs he was running so fast.

And he reached the parking lot but the rain had stopped and Nick's truck was nowhere to be seen.

The old woman behind the pink curtains
and the closed door
on the first floor
she's listening through the air shaft
to see how long our swan song can last...

Greg Sanders was a good boy; at least Dolores Green thought so. Sometimes he played his music a bit too loud from the apartment next door or he would do silly things with his hairstyle, but Dolores generally found him to be a good boy. He reminded her of her late husband Henry (God bless him), full of such life and energy, and he had quite the sense of humour. Not to mention he always had time to stop by for a nice chat and some cookies. (Her homemade shortbread was his favourite.)

And she felt for Greg, she really did. It must have been hard for him to make friends when he worked on the night shift of that police job of his. (Once he had explained it all to her, it involved science and crime scenes but she never fully grasped it.) And one of the reasons why they got along so well was that Dolores was something of a night owl herself, she liked staying up and watching infomercials and late night talk shows on television, and sometimes when Greg wasn't working and he couldn't sleep he would join her and she would tell him stories of her husband and the war.

And Greg Sanders was a handsome boy, or rather he would be if he learned to comb his hair properly and tuck in his shirt, and he had to be in his late twenties, (why, she and Henry were already married by then) but with his job it must have been difficult for him to find a nice girl to settle down with. And Dolores noticed (she had a keen eye and always picked up on such things) that he never had anyone over to visit, other than herself. From what she could gather, he stayed home alone most times when he wasn't working, and Dolores couldn't make sense of it because he was a very social boy, lively and talkative.

So when she heard and two sets of muffled laughter and two sets of feet walking towards Greg Sanders' apartment one evening, Dolores Green couldn't help but smile to herself as she moved to turn up the volume on her favourite jazz album, while she was curious she knew the boy needed his privacy.

----

"So, from the sounds of it, dear, you had company the other evening."
Greg, the poor dear, blushed to the tips of his hair, but he smiled at her, and Dolores Green could tell that it was the truth and that he was quite happy about it. "Yes I did, Dolores."
"Well, it's about time, honey, it's about time. Where did you meet her?"
Greg paused, his smile faltering a bit, evidently he didn't often talk about such things, but if Dolores was good at one thing it was weaseling information out of people. "Uhh... through work."
"Wonderful! Similar interests, I always say, are what keep a relationship going strong. Come in for a second, I made some of those cookies you like, and I'll give you an extra large batch so you can share them with your girlfriend."
Greg stared at her dumbly for a few seconds, and then broke into a smile that stretched from ear to ear and followed her inside.

And both hands
now use both hands
oh, no don't close your eyes
I am writing
graffiti on your body
I am drawing the story of
how hard we tried...

Nick hoped he hadn't sounded needy. The last thing he wanted was to sound needy, to see that sympathetic expression on Greg's face. He had seen it so often in the past few days, on all of his coworkers, on his parents and sisters, that expression was stalking him... like Nigel Crane had been... he stopped himself short. He couldn't help but feel a wave of frightened nausea wash over him when he thought of that man.

Ok, so maybe he was a bit needy, but he didn't want Greg to know that. Greg was always so cheery, nothing seemed to faze him, and Nick needed a bit of that right now. Somehow he figured that if he spent enough time one-on-one with the lab tech then some of his carefree energy would rub off on him.

Yeah. That's why he was inviting himself over to Greg's apartment. It had to be the only reason. Why else would he?

And great, he saw a flicker of sympathy in the younger man's face; no matter where he went he couldn't get away from that look. He must have scowled slightly for Greg quickly replaced it with a wide grin, the kind that got Nick smiling along with him every time, even when he didn't want to.

"Yeah, of course you can come over."Greg said, "I'll just have to call a few people, cancel that hot orgy I had planned with several supermodels."He added, punctuating his statement with that trademark Greg smirk. "Do you know where I live?"
Nick paused, and he realized that he didn't. Had he really never spent time with the younger man before?
"Right."Greg said, pulling a pen from his pocket and grabbing Nick by the wrist. He then proceeded to write out his address on the back of Nick's hand in a messy scrawl, and Nick's stomach did a somersault, but he couldn't figure out why. The guy was just touching him, yet it was an odd gesture nonetheless. It reminded Nick of picking up girls in bars, having phone numbers and suggestive messages written on paper napkins and body parts. It wasn't the normal method of one guy giving directions to a coworker, was it?

And it seemed like the moment was frozen in time, Greg's forehead was creased slightly in concentration, as if he could do DNA tests in his sleep but writing out his own address gave him difficulty. Both his hands were in contact with Nick's, he noted. The left was still holding onto his wrist gently while the right was doing the actual writing. Both of Greg Sanders' hands. They were long and slim and pale and bony, just like the rest of him. Nick wondered why he was noticing all this, why he was putting so much work into committing Greg's hands to memory.

And he must have stopped paying attention for Greg was done his job now, he had broken contact with Nick and he was standing back, admiring his work. And Nick looked down and found that Greg had drawn an elaborate map that extended up half his arm, complete with street names and arrows and even a few little trees.

"Just in case you get lost."Greg said, grinning sheepishly, and once again, Nick just can't help but smile back.

I am watching your chest rise and fall
like the tides of my life,
and the rest of it all
and your bones have been my bed frame
and your flesh has been my pillow
I am waiting for sleep
to offer up the deep
with both hands...

Greg had the loudest, most obnoxious snore Nick Stokes had ever heard, but he tried to ignore it, tried to get used to it, because the last thing he wanted to do was to move the younger CSI right now. He was fast asleep, half on, half off of Nick, his head nuzzled in the crook of Nick's neck so that the tips of his hair tickled the older man's cheek. His left hand was draped loosely along Nick, and their legs were entwined together, the position being made even more complicated by the sheets that were tangled with them. It wasn't a particularly attractive or graceful position from Nick's perspective, but it was perfect anyway, it spoke more truly about Greg than anything else Nick had seen, loud yet needy, obtrusive and sweet.

He coughed softly now, his whole body giving off a small shudder, and Nick snaked an arm around him, holding him close, caressing his back tenderly. He couldn't help but shiver too at the way Greg's breath skimmed across the top of his chest, and he wondered idly what the younger man was dreaming about.

Yawning to himself, Nick brought his right hand up to rest on his chest, letting his fingers run along Greg's hand, which was leaner and more delicate than his own. Yet something caught his eye, and frowning, Nick squinted at the faded markings on his arm before breaking out into a wide smile. Greg's makeshift map, from earlier on that day, and Nick took amusement in noting how inaccurate it was. Nevertheless, he would regret having to wash it off when he showered the following morning.

And as Nick drifted off to sleep, he thought to himself that Greg's snoring wasn't really that bad, that it was something he could get used to.

In each other's shadows we grew less and less tall
and eventually our theories couldn't explain it all
and I'm recording our history now on the bedroom wall
and eventually the landlord will come
and paint over it all...

Erica Stanford had only been in the apartment for a week or so when she found it. Well, she couldn't take all the credit herself, Tyler was being the inquisitive little five year old he was, exploring their new home and trying to find an adventure or two in the closet.

It was just a cardboard shoebox, made for a pair of Adidas sneakers, nothing that exciting. It was old and worn in, a sad little thing, lopsided and awkward from being shoved behind a pipe in the closet of the master bedroom.

"It's treasure."
"I don't think its treasure, sweetie."
"Mebbe a pirate put it there."

Erica didn't know much about the room's tenant before her, he had been a single guy, late twenties, he might have been a cop, the landlord said something about him working in law enforcement. Shame, really, Erica could have used more young single cops in her life, but she wasn't sure what to do with his box. Was it something important? Should she try to contact him?

And Tyler's curiosity obviously came from her side of the family because she found herself opening it a few hours later. The apartment was quiet, Tyler was playing at Freddie Chan's, the little boy that lived two floors below them, and Claire was asleep in her crib.

Letters. The shoebox was filled with letters. Not formal letters, but notes really, scrawled on anything that was within reach, Post-its and receipts and corners of newspapers and the like. There were dozens of them, some were long chains of conversation, spanning two or three pages of lined paper, and some were simply a few words.

G,
I appreciate the fact that Archie is teaching you Klingon, but that doesn't mean that I understand it too. So from now on, notes in English? Please? And, are you still coming over tonight?
-Nick.

To: Nicolas Stokes
From: Gregory Sanders
Re: Hot Sex.
Want you right now. Stop. Will fuck you in supply closet if necessary. Stop.

Greg, while I enjoy your... detailed messages, don't leave them around the lab. I can't take seeing that smug look on Sara's face again. It's embarrassing. –Nick
You know what's embarrassing, Nick? That caterpillar on your face.
We've been through this before! I like the mustache, I'm keeping the mustache.
I'm going to call a priest in. I think an exorcism is in order.
No more sex for you.

Nicky:
I know you had a shitty day. I love you. Feel better, OK? -Greg

And on and on they continued. Erica smiled to herself, so much for the mystery tenant being single. She dug deeper into the box, and near the bottom she found a photograph, well, pieces of a photograph really, it was all torn up. Evidently the relationship didn't end well, and she couldn't help but feel the smile vanish from her face.

And then, not really sure what was causing her to act the way she was, Erica moved into the kitchen to rummage around for some tape. She proceeded to piece the photo back together, moving slowly, carefully, fully absorbed in her task. Yet it still didn't take her long, and soon she was finished and she stood back to examine the picture in full.

Two guys, sitting in what looked like a bar; it was hard for Erica to tell. One was noticeably younger than the other, but it couldn't have been by much. The older one was grinning, obviously amused, and the skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled. He had short dark hair and was stockier compared to the lean guy he had his arm around. The second guy, his face was red and he was wearing a stupid expression, as if he was either in the middle of speaking or was trying to seduce the camera unsuccessfully. He looked like he was the victim of a bad dye job too; his spiky brown hair was covered with sporadic bleached bits, but he didn't seem to mind, maybe because he was obviously drunk.

And Erica was smiling again, despite the fact that the relationship hadn't lasted, they looked so happy together. It reminded her of back when she and Tom had been dating, back when they were carefree, back when she truly believed him to be a sweet guy. And sometimes, she even wished she could go back to those days, whoever said that ignorance was bliss was all too fucking right.

Yet here she was, a year later, the single mother of two in a new, roomier apartment, thanks to the raise at her secretarial job. Here she was, reading through the secret messages of two guys she has never met and staring at their faces in the repaired photo, loving and tipsy and happy. And she felt like she had known them all her life, Greg was hyper and impulsive while Nick was more reserved, more gentle.

Erica stood up, sadly putting the photo back into the box and she placed it back in its rightful home, wedged behind the pipe in the closet of the master bedroom. Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly depressed or lonely, she would pull it out again and explore its contents, always finishing with a knowing smile on her face. And every time, her heart went out to those two, hoping, even praying, that they worked it out, that one day she would go to her front door and see that bad dye job, saying he had come back for his forgotten letters.

But it never did happen, in the end.

And I am walking
out in the rain
and I am listening to the low moan of the dial tone again
and I am getting nowhere with you
and I can't let it go
and I can't get though...

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck fuck FUCK.

Nick Stokes wasn't sure how he managed to make it to Greg's apartment without killing himself, for he didn't remember the ride at all. It was pouring rain outside, a gray Sunday afternoon, and he pulled his truck into the parking lot.

He needed to talk to him, needed to apologize, God, why was Nick acting like such an ass all of a sudden?

He opened his car and climbed out into the rain, his boots splashing as they made contact with the pavement. He began striding across the parking lot, purposeful, determined. He was going to go talk to him. He couldn't take this anymore.

Nick knew which window was Greg's; he had it committed to memory. Fifth floor, third from the right. He stopped in the middle of the parking lot, and he was staring at it now. He wondered if Greg was inside, should he call first and see?

No. No, he should just leave. Yeah. That's what he'll do. Greg needs time to cool off, and so does he. Nick climbed back into his truck, and was about to turn it on when he cried out in frustration, leaning over the steering wheel to cradle his face in his palms.

Should he leave? No. No, he needs to talk to Greg. That's why he came. Nick was beginning to get restless; every sound and sensation around him was unpleasant and bothersome, the feel of his wet shirt clinging to his back, the sound of the raindrops falling on the roof of his car. Nick hated it all. He wanted to be inside, away from the rain, preferably with Greg, preferably taking his annoyingly wet shirt off.

That's why he needs to go talk to him, of course. So he climbed out of the truck again.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK.

Nick wasn't sure what kicking his tire would accomplish, but it did make him feel better for just a second. But the rain kept on pounding down and he knew that Greg had to be inside and if he only had the guts to go talk to him he was positive he could make things work out. He needed to make things work out.

He'll call. That's what Nick will do. Just to make sure Greg was inside, just to hear his voice, to give him the courage to continue on. He pulled out his cell phone and his thumb was about to move along the well-traveled path of the younger man's number, but he paused again. He looked up at Greg's window, sighing into the rainy air.

As he climbed into his truck and drove away, the rain stopped. Numbly, somewhere in the back of his brain Nick couldn't help but wonder if this was a good omen of some sort, if running away from the problem had been the right idea after all. But he found it hard to believe, no good omen could leave anyone feeling so shitty.

So now use both hands
please use both hands
oh, no don't close your eyes
I am writing graffiti on your body
I am drawing the story of how hard we tried
how hard we tried
how hard we tried...

Nick Stokes has three freckles on his right forearm, they are all approximately two inches apart from each other and if connected, they form a perfect equilateral triangle.

Greg felt obligated to remember this useless little detail, along with countless others, because if he forgot them he might forget it all.

But there are things that Greg has forgotten, such as why they had argued in the first place. And there are things that he just doesn't want to remember.

For instance, all the mistakes he made along the way. Greg had known for a while that he wasn't the best boyfriend material, he had plenty of breakups to attest to that, and he wondered now what Nick ever saw in him at all. Nick was so calming, so gentle, so sweet that it hardly made sense that he would want to be with someone like Greg, someone so loud, so all-over-the-place, so outright annoying at times.

He still wished sometimes that he could be more like Nick. And he wished everyday that he had worked harder to keep them together, if he had just held on a little more...

But it was too late for that; it was too far in the past. Nick had moved on, he was amazingly strong that way, he had experienced so much and he always made it through.

And Greg supposed that there was something to be learned from all of this, right? A moral to the story, there was always a moral, and it was pretty clear to Greg what it was this time. If he ever was lucky enough to have someone like Nick again, he needed to try harder, he needed to learn to be better. He needed to hold onto them with all his might.

He needed to hold on with both hands.