Title: Broken
Author: podga
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: CSI and its characters do not belong to me. I write and post for fun only.
Summary: Gil and Nick realize something about each other.

“I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.”

Gil idly wonders if they still sell T-shirts with that logo. He hasn’t noticed one in a long time, but then again, he doesn’t get around that much except for work, and during work there are other things he needs to pay attention to. In any case, the world is a different place these days. Years ago, when he was in university, the worst trouble a student could get into was having a little or a lot too much to drink at a fraternity party. Or maybe he was just too naive then, unaware of what was really going on around him. Now he’s aware of too much, and the awareness has warped him. He no longer expects people to be good, and when he finds goodness, he no longer accepts it unconditionally. Over the past years, he’s seen no end to the permutations of how evil triumphs, both in small acts of everyday life that almost go unnoticed and in large acts of unthinkable violence that continue to reverberate long after they were committed. Sometimes it’s as sudden as it is mundane, just two bullets in a dark alley. He wonders how much longer he’ll be able to stand it.

He sits on the couch, trying to resist the urge to get up and pour himself a drink. The bottles lined up on the bar are almost all gifts; some of them probably date back to when he first came to Vegas and threw himself a housewarming party. He’s always been more of a social drinker, and it rarely occurs to him to even have a beer with dinner if he’s alone. Lately, though, he finds himself almost desperate for a drink. Just one. Only he’s afraid that if he starts, he won’t stop. He should throw the bottles out, but he doesn’t like what that would be saying about him. Alcohol shouldn’t be such a temptation that he needs to get rid of it.

He turns on the TV, zapping through the channels, but nothing manages to hold his attention. He hears people at work talking enthusiastically about this or that show, and a couple of times he tried to watch, to get into the same things that others around him are into, to somehow start feeling connected again. He found most of the sitcoms inane, and the crime shows that seem to inundate TV even more so. Everything tidily wrapped up in forty-five minutes, and the characters achieving catharsis in about five seconds. If only life were that simple.

The bottles seem to be whispering at him, tempting him. He decides to go to bed. He hopes tonight he’ll manage to get some sleep. And that he won’t remember his dreams when he wakes up.

“Grissom messed it up. Just a simple sequence that he must have run hundreds of times before, and he messed it up.”

Nick is in the break room, eating a sandwich and leafing through the sports pages. He’s only half-listening to Hodges' and Wendy’s conversation, but he hears the last part and he looks up.

“No way,” Wendy breathes.

Hodges starts to respond, then seems to notice Nick looking at them, and he just shakes his head at her. A couple of minutes later they’re talking about somebody Nick doesn’t know, and he turns his attention to the scores again. Thank God he didn’t bet on the Cowboys. Warrick’s always teasing him about betting with his heart, not with his head. Then he remembers that he’ll never lose a bet to Warrick again.

He always expected grief to be acute, a pain that he can somehow identify, address and then start to get over. But it’s not. It’s just a dull, shapeless, sense-numbing ache that he can neither touch nor ignore, no matter how hard he tries. Just another layer on top of all the other layers that started building up when he was nine, isolating him from everything and everyone. He has no choice but to live with them all, to keep on going. If he pretends long enough that he’s fine and normal, maybe some day he will be.

He wonders if deep down he’s an optimist or just a damn fool.

Gil has taken to running a constant roll-call of his team in his head. Catherine is in the video lab with Archie. Greg and Riley just picked up a case and are on their way to Summerlin. Nick…

His thoughts freeze in sudden panic as he realizes that he has no idea where Nick is, and he orders himself to calm down and think. Nick was in the break room a couple of hours ago. Gil saw him when he went in to get a cup of coffee. He scans the board, but Nick’s name isn’t on it, so he’s not out on a case. He must be somewhere in the lab. Safe.

All the same, Gil has an overwhelming need to check and make sure. He picks up a file in order to look like he has some purpose for wandering around the lab. He gets waylaid by just about everybody, and he tries to concentrate on what they’re telling him, but the worry, which had receded somewhat, is growing stronger with every passing minute, with every room he checks. Where the hell is Nick?

Gil finally decides to call Nick, even though he has nothing other to say than to ask where he is. Feeling slightly ridiculous, he reaches for his cell phone and is about to hit speed dial, when a final inspiration hits him as he notices the back fire door propped open. It’s supposed to be closed at all times, but somebody disengaged the alarm long ago, and the staff often sneak out for a short break or a smoke.

It takes a couple of seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dark, then he scans the small fenced area. He almost misses the figure leaning against the wall in the darkest spot of the yard.

“Nick?”

“Yeah.”

Gil breathes a quiet sigh of relief. “What are you doing out here?”

“Nothing. Taking a break.”

Nick’s voice sounds subdued, but otherwise normal. Gil hesitates at the doorway, wanting to join Nick out here in the dark quiet, but not wanting to intrude in what seems like a private moment. He suddenly pictures the cocky, almost playful young man Brass introduced to him all those years ago. Somewhere along the way the cockiness transformed itself into a quiet confidence. Year after year, Nick grew stronger, even as Gil grew weaker. He likes who Nick is now, even though they’re not close, but sometimes he wishes for the Nick of ten years ago, the one he had something to offer to, even if it was only advice on how to be patient in order to become a better CSI.

Gil is about to turn back into the building, when Nick’s voice stops him.

“Griss? Did you need me for something?”

“No.” He pauses for a second. “I just wondered where you are.”

“I’ll be in in a minute,” Nick says, and Gil hears a resentful undertone in his voice and knows that Nick has misinterpreted his words as a reprimand. He doesn’t know how to respond in a way that won’t aggravate the situation, so he just nods and walks back into the building.

Despite his promise to Grissom, Nick doesn’t make a move to follow him. He remains leaning against the wall, head tipped back, eyes closed. There’s nothing urgent he needs to do, and he likes it here. Even though it’s been dark for hours and the air has cooled, the wall still retains the heat of the previous day, and the sounds of the city are muted. Every now and then a slight breeze carries a sweet scent that reminds Nick of home and the flowers his mom used to plant in their garden. Evening primrose.

Why was Grissom wondering where he is? Over the years he’s become used to Grissom basically ignoring him. Not in a bad way; more as if he’s finally decided to trust that Nick knows what he's doing. It was a welcome relief after the seemingly constant nagging he’d been subjected to the first three or four years. After he’d been abducted and found, Grissom had kept him closer to his side for a short period, though he no longer lectured him quite as much. Nick grew to like the idea that Grissom was keeping an eye on him. Then things went back to normal.

After a while, his curiosity gets the better of him. He finds Grissom in his office, reading through a file. He stands at the door waiting for Grissom to look up, but Grissom seems completely unaware of him. After a while, Nick realizes that Grissom may be looking at the file, but he’s not really reading it.

“Grissom?”

He waits a couple of seconds, but there’s no reaction.

“Griss!”

Grissom slowly looks up, but he doesn’t seem to really register Nick.

“Griss, was there something you needed?”

Grissom shakes his head. “No.”

“Okay, then. Listen, do you mind if I knock off a little early today?”

At that, Grissom’s look sharpens.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Just feeling a bit tired. Too many double shifts in the last days.” Grissom’s stare is starting to make him uncomfortable.

“I know the feeling,” Grissom finally says. He closes the file and lays it on the desk. “Would you like to go for a drink?”

“What, now?”

“Yes.”

“Uh, sure. Okay.”

Gil almost smiles at Nick’s flabbergasted look. He doesn’t really know why he suggested going for a drink. Except that he’s been wanting one for the last few weeks, and he knows that if he goes home like this, he won’t be able to resist the lined-up bottles again. Far better to go out with Nick. Simple and uncomplicated. Just two guys hanging out for a while, keeping each other company.

The whiskey burns a path down his throat, radiating warmth, easing the tension that’s been building in him. Across from him, Nick is lounging in his armchair, almost horizontal, one hand wrapped around the mug on the table. He looks like he’s ready to fall asleep, and Gil feels guilty for dragging him out.

“How’s Sara?” Nick asks suddenly. So much for simple and uncomplicated.

“Okay,” Gil responds, not wanting to say that he doesn’t know where she is, or how relieved he feels that she’s gone again. When she first showed up, he almost got dragged back in again, forgetting everything that was wrong between them. Until she asked him to go away with her and couldn’t seem to understand why he wouldn’t. He wonders now if she ever really saw him, and not the Gil Grissom she’d invented in her mind, the Gil Grissom that could solve all her problems.

“She at home?”

“No.” The tension starts to build in him again, and he takes another drink.

Nick remains silent for a long while and Gil thinks that he’s dropped the subject.

“Did she leave?” Nick asks. He sounds irritated, almost aggressive.

Gil shrugs and Nick mutters something under his breath.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

“She’s a real piece of work,” Nick repeats deliberately and Gil gapes at him. He always thought Nick liked Sara.

“Sorry. None of my business.”

“No, it’s not.”

When Nick first heard that Grissom and Sara were in a relationship, he hadn’t really been surprised. More than anything, he’d been disappointed in Grissom. Not so much because he was involved with a subordinate, as because he hadn’t done anything to change the fact that she was reporting to him. It went against everything Nick believed in, had thought Grissom believed in.

Later he got to wondering what he would have done under similar circumstances, and he realized that maybe he wouldn’t have behaved so differently. After a certain age, you stop believing that love is everything, even though you might wish you still did. And Grissom struck him as a guy who’d chosen his path a long time ago, and who would trust his feelings less than most. Maybe it’s why he was with Sara in the first place. She would have probably implied that he didn’t need to change anything for her, that she’d simply be there for him. Nobody wants to go through life alone.

And yet, she walked away from him. Twice. Perhaps the first time she was doing what she had to do, but in that case she should have never come back. It was obvious to anybody with eyes that Grissom wasn’t himself after Warrick’s death, that he needed someone next to him. How could she have left him again?

“Griss, are you OK?” he asks, even though he knows Grissom won’t tell him that he isn’t.

Grissom is staring down at his drink and he doesn’t answer.

“No. I’m not,” he says finally, and he looks up at Nick. It’s his eyes that make Nick’s breath catch. They don’t look sad. They look dead.

“Do you want another drink?” Grissom asks in a harder voice, and Nick shakes his head.

“Then I guess we should be going.”

“Are you okay driving?”

Gil might have lost it for a second, but he’s quickly gathering up the pieces again. “Of course,” he says, feigning surprise at the question.

Nick looked worried.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

Nick doesn’t seem convinced and he stands there, blocking Gil’s access to his car. Although it’s already light outside, the sky is overcast, and everything except for Nick looks gray and tired. Exactly like Gil feels. He focuses on Nick, trying to draw on his vibrancy.

“I’ll be okay,” he says firmly. “Don’t worry about me.” Once the words are out of his mouth, they sound presumptuous. Why should Nick worry about him?

It’s suddenly obvious to Nick what he needs to do, and he wonders why he didn’t realize it a long time ago. He may be broken, but he now knows that Grissom is too. Maybe in a different way, but in a way that Nick thinks he knows how to fix. And maybe, just maybe, by fixing Grissom he’ll also fix himself.

“You know what they say,” he says.

“What?”

“If you save somebody’s life, you belong to them.”

Grissom looks puzzled and shakes his head.

“You saved mine. So you belong to me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You belong to me,” Nick repeats, feeling a deeper certainty with every passing moment that this is right, hoping that Grissom will somehow understand, because he doesn’t have other words to explain it. “For the last three years. And I’m not going to let you go.”

“We’re not even friends,” Grissom says baldly, and it’s true, they’re not. They’re never been really close, and over the years they’ve probably let each other down a million times. But right here, right now, Nick doesn’t care, because he can also remember the many times they connected without trying, without even realizing.

“Nevertheless.”

Grissom laughs shortly. “I’m not in the mood for riddles. I need to go home.”

Nick nods. “Okay. I’ll see you tonight.”

He steps out of Grissom’s way and watches him climb into his car and drive away. He knows Grissom doesn’t see it yet. But he will. He has to. For both their sakes.

Gil drives home, his mind a deliberate and careful blank. He mechanically goes through the motions of preparing for bed, showering, brushing his teeth. For the first time in months, he falls into a deep and dreamless sleep.

He wakes up to the sound of rolling thunder, aware that something in him has changed. It takes him a while to figure it out; sometimes you get so used to something, you take it so much for granted, that you almost forget the time when it wasn’t there, that it stops feeling like a separate and definable part of you. You only recognize it when it’s gone.

He’s felt alone for longer than he can remember. Now he doesn’t.

He lies in bed replaying the scene with Nick, his words, the look in his eyes when he said them. In that moment, despite their past history or lack thereof, Gil knew that Nick finally saw him for what he was, and that instead of running away from it, he accepted it. It takes somebody who knows the futility of fighting alone against demons to have done that. Yet Nick hadn’t asked for anything. All he did was offer, leaving it up to Gil to decide if he was going to accept or not.

There are moments in life when one has to make a decision without knowing the implications or the consequences. One just has to dive in and trust that it will all turn out okay. It’s never been Gil’s way to do that. But lying here, not asleep but not quite awake either, he knows that this time he will. He must. Because Nick got it partly wrong: when you save someone’s life you don’t only belong to them. They belong to you, as well.

Nick never makes it into the lab until half-way through a double shift, the back of his truck full of evidence bags. He hates garbage dumps. A couple of uniforms come out to help him unload, and he tries to ignore how they’re both breathing through their mouths. He must stink to high heaven.

He’s reaching far into the back of truck, when some kind of sixth sense makes him look up and through the windshield. Grissom is standing a couple of feet in front of the truck, his hands in his pockets, a clipboard under one arm. They stare somberly at each other for a couple of seconds. Grissom suddenly smiles broadly at him, then turns away to make his way to his own truck.

Nick straightens up out of the trunk and stands there, his arms full of bags, staring at the spot where Gil’s truck was parked. He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until one of the uniforms asks him what he’s grinning at.

“Hope, man. Hope,” Nick says and laughs at the guy's baffled look, and at the way he’s still trying not to breathe through his nose.