Title: Things I Can't Say
Author: Emily
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: R
Summary: Nick and Greg thinking some things over. ANGST GALORE!

***

I'd be lying if I said I didn't want you back. I'd be kidding myself if I said I wasn't jealous. And the thing I hate, the thing that drives me crazy, is that I could've had you. That I did have you.

The problem was that you scared me, and nobody had ever done that before. Because back when it was just sly glances and light touches, back then I could pretend that I was in control. I could pretend that I was calling the shots, and in my fantasies you'd be on your hands and knees, begging me. I could fuck your brains out, and in the morning you'd wake up alone and cry.

And God, you *did* look beautiful like that, staring up at me with those charcoal eyes, that soft, perfect mouth. I've met guys that could fuck like you, but never anyone with lips like yours.

And I'd like to pretend that that's all I miss about you - the blow jobs. It would make my life so much easier. But I never knew where we stood, or where you stood, and I had tried to be honest with you. I should've explained that I'm not the kind of guy who can take care of you... but, Jesus Christ, Nick... I never thought you'd need anyone to do that. I thought we were on the same page.

It was exhilarating, when I first saw you. When you stood before me naked and blushing, and I always did love that colour on you. I loved the way you trembled when I touched you. I lost my breath when those gentle, tentative touches of yours turned to a rough, inescapable grip. And when you pinned me to the bed, my adrenaline started gushing, because I couldn't move. And when I you saw how I panicked, you let me take control. But I knew it was a false control. I knew the only power I had was the power you gave me. I don't like being helpless. I like to know what I'm doing. And with you... with you I started babbling, started saying things I couldn't rein in.

God, I wish you'd just fucked me. I wish you would've laughed in my face when I asked to be on top, wish you'd had your way with me. That would've made me yours forever. But that was just one time. And goddamn, I wish I could stop thinking about it. Because it's over. Because I ended it.

I thought you were going to cry. I saw tears shimmering in those intense eyes, eyes that make mine seem dead. I would rather you had just hit me, because then I would have had an excuse. But you just looked at me with confusion and betrayal, and I knew I'd made a horrible mistake. You hadn't understood. You weren't the same way. You wanted more than I wanted to give you.

I wanted to be able to love you without any pain. And that was what scared the Hell out of me. The way I wanted to give my everything to you. I was close to just dropping to my knees and pressing my face into your jeans, and apologizing. You don't know it, but I haven't apologized in so long that it sounds like a foreign language.

And I thought I'd be okay, you know? I thought, "No big deal". I thought, "It was a nice fuck, and now it's over". And I guess that's the truth. I can't even count how many guys I've screwed since that night, and I know that the sex isn't what I miss.

What I miss is the way you used to look at me, the way you'd stare with obvious desire, and the way you'd look down and your cheeks would turn rosy when I caught you. I miss the feel of your breath on the back of my neck. I miss knowing that you were absolutely terrified of how you felt about me. I miss feeling like God.

I loved teasing you. Oh, that was really my favourite thing, making you sweat, making you hard, and then walking away like it was nothing. Because when that was the dynamic, I was in charge.

Now you avoid me. You barely look at me, only speak to me when you need something, and every time I try to flirt with you, you just shoot it down. You're all business. I told you once, after a few drinks, that I didn't want to hurt you. I meant it. I would never ever try to hurt you. I just thought you knew the game.

And nowadays, I can't get you alone, because you're always with Warrick. You and he have more history than you and I can ever have, and that's painful. Sometimes I wonder about you and Warrick. I see your hand on his shoulder, and suddenly mine itches by proxy. Do you even notice that you're doing this to me?

I wonder casually about the two of you. I wonder if you're lovers, and I wonder what that would be like. I can't decide whether it's more pleasurable or more agonizing to picture you, wrapped in strong, dark arms, taking your comfort there. You're both so strong, inside and out, always fighting for control. And Jesus, it's a beautiful image, and it makes me feel so inadequate, makes me feel loathsome and weak... and jealous.

I hate recognizing it for what it is. I'm not used to being jealous. I'm not used to wanting something someone else has because, well, I always get what I want, one way or the other. And now I want you.

I'm trying so hard to impress you, because whatever happened between us, I want you to think I'm good at my job. I really do. I've come close, several times, to asking you to go for coffee with me after shift, to asking if we could talk things out, because it's getting harder and harder to pretend that I don't want a second chance.

Usually, I look forward to going home on weeknights and taking a long, hot shower. I stand there against the shower door, fucking myself and thinking about whatever I've been thinking about lately. Then I go to bed, spent and happy, because I give damn fine hand-jobs. Even you can't deny it. But when suddenly it's you behind my eyelids, my hand slows, and I can't finish. I see you looking at me that way, I feel disgusting, and I can't pretend anymore that you belong to me.

* * *

I miss you. I hate it, but it's the truth. I'd like to tell myself I'm stronger than that. I don't let myself get hurt by anybody, but I'd let you stab me in the chest if you promised to lick the wound.

I wish you knew how you made me feel. You made me your age again. You made me come harder than I thought was possible. When I was with you, I honestly believed I was going to die of a heart attack. You kissed me like nobody else existed, and you made me forget about how wrong the whole thing was. You whispered in my ear that I was perfect, that I was yours. Since that night, I haven't been with anyone else. I can't, because he'll never measure up to you. And what I really hate is that you *know* that. You know good and well what an incredible lover you are, and you discovered that you had me wrapped around your finger. I'm ashamed, but I can't say that I didn't love every minute of your torture, that I didn't try desperately to obey every rule you made up along the way, replacing every rule of mine that you had just broken. Because I had never imagined you'd be like that. Because before, you were just little Greg Sanders.

You had me pressed up against the wall in my living room, your chest heaving against mine.

"Beg me, Nick. I won't do it until you beg."

I didn't even hesitate.

"Fuck me..."

"What's my *name*, Nicky?" you rasped against my neck.

"Fuck me, Greg... please..." My own submission never sounded so good.

And the first time you hit me, it hurt. You knew that if I chose to, I could strangle you off, maybe even with one hand. But when I saw that fear in your eyes as I first held you down to the sheets, I had to promise to let you take over. And I liked it. I liked the sting of your palm across my cheek, I adored the burn of your nails down my stomach, the agony of your teeth beneath my jaw. I drank in the way you acted like I was nothing and everything at the same time. It had been such a long, depressing shift that night. You were what I needed.

"I love you," you said, as I rubbed my face in surprise and pain.

And I believed you.

The next day, I woke up alone, and I tried not to take it personally. When I saw you at work, I waited until we were by ourselves, and I asked you if you meant it. You just shrugged and told me in a hushed voice that you say a lot of things during sex.

Since then, you won't even talk about that night with me. You watched me coolly as I staggered to explain to Grissom the bruises on my face, looking self-satisfied and smiling that damned devious, sexy smile. You knew I wanted more.

That morning when I confronted you about it in the locker room, you were so blasé I could hardly stand it. It was *you* who pressed *me* up against my locker, your lips brushing over my ear as you hissed, "You're breaking the rules, Nick."

"Fuck the rules," I said breathlessly.

"Nicky," you chided, gently tracing my jawline with your tongue, "We can't do this."

"What do you mean?"

You ran your hands over my chest. "Nick... we work together, and I... I just made CSI 1.

I can't mess this up. I can't mess things up for either of us. You understand."

I felt like someone had taken a chisel to my sternum. "But... but..."

"It was just one night," you said, pulling me into a kiss. "I thought you understood." And you tugged on my hair with one hand, pressed against my crotch with the other. I couldn't help but moan, and you broke away from me, devilish smile on lopsided lips, and as you turned to leave the room, you added, "You'll get over it, Nick. I promise."

That was a low blow, making it about work, because you know I'd never risk my job for anything.

I can't even look at you now. I know that when I do, I'll forget what you did to me, and I'll ask you to come back. I don't want to be hurt again, and I know you'd do it in a heartbeat. And you're different now. I miss your haystack hairdo, and your Dawn of the Dead T-shirt, and the way I used to cringe whenever I walked into your lab and had to plug my ears to keep out Rob Zombie or Marilyn Manson or whatever it is you listened to. I miss the you that I thought you were, and I miss being able to lean over your shoulder without feeling like I'm going to throw up.

Now you're wearing a suit jacket and a baby-blue shirt that looks like something you would've given me shit about way back when. The you that I adored is gone. Because where everybody else still sees innocent flirty Greg, I see my own failure and your cruelty. Nobody could be as perfect as you seemed to me.

But I want to know why. I want to know where all the loud music and louder shirts went. On the occasions that I do look at you, I can see something there that tells me you want me. Wants to devour me until there's nothing left. And I'm close. I'm close to laying a hand on your neck the way I used to. I can tell that's what you want. You want us to go back to the way we used to be.

But we can't.

I wonder if you know that you still own me.

***

A/N:I am aware that there is a tense shift in this part. It is intentional.

It's the end of my shift and there's no one else I want to talk to. I'm exhausted, numb from the waist down, but I shouldn't complain, because you've just pulled another double, and you've got those shadows under your eyes that make you look so much older than you are. Sometimes I wonder how you manage it. I wonder why you became a CSI, I wonder what you think about in those moments just before you fall asleep, and part of me hopes that I'm somewhere in there. I know that when you think about me, you're probably thinking about what an asshole I am, you're probably thinking about how I hurt you, or how you'd like to hurt me. And if that's the case, then I'm just glad you're thinking of me.

I'm really worried about whether I can cut it in this job. I'm worried that I've made a mistake, that I should've left well-enough alone. I don't know how you do it. You let it all in, all the blood and the suffering and the injustice, and you hold it so close to your heart. Who made you believe it was your job to carry all the pain in the world? I can't decide... are you weak because you let every sorrow nest in your soul, or are you strong for withstanding them? God, you're amazing.

Weak or strong, you're my Achilles' heel, and I have a feeling that it goes both ways. Because however angry you are, you still ask me how I am, how my training is going. You still care about me. You know you do.

I'm dying here. You haven't noticed me yet, because you're still toweling your hair dry, gorgeous the way your shoulder blades draw together... I can almost see how your wings would move. I follow a drop of water down your back, past the dimples on the small of your back, and that should belong to me.

I wonder what you'd think of my body if the situation were reversed. Would you think I'm too skinny? You don't know how much weight I've lost since I started my CSI training. I'm well-hidden beneath my suitcoats, and you can't see that my ribs are starting to show through my skin in places, or that I'm losing my tan. Would you cringe at my scars? Last time, you asked me if you could see them, and I said no. Because I'm not as beautiful as I used to be. Because I was afraid you'd stop touching me. But now I know that you wouldn't have.

I want to pin you to your locker and yank down your towel and fuck you right here... no, better yet, in my lab. God, that would be incredible. Because the whole time you'd be telling me to stop (I love when you tell me to stop), and the whole damned night shift would just watch us through the glass.

You have no clue how hard it's been for me to bite my tongue about us for the past few months. You don't even understand what a trophy you are. You don't get that if I told everyone that *I* had fucked Nick Stokes until he absolutely *screamed* (and you did, you know... You got all embarrassed afterwards)... If I told them that, I just know they'd never treat me the same way.

And I couldn't have handled it if you'd let that towel slip two inches lower on your waist. But you catch it and you turn, and now there's this very awkward, very tense moment, and I feel like I should say something, but all that comes out is, "Hey."

"Hey," you reply, looking down at the puddle that's accumulating around your feet. You always look so sexy when you feel violated.

"Rough shift?" I ask, and I'm wincing at the very idea of small talking with you. I hate it. Can't we just get to the point? Can't we just go to my apartment?

You nod, wring the moisture from the hair on the back of your neck. "Yeah."

Oh come *on*! I deserve more than a "yeah".

You preempt my next question when you say, "I don't want to talk about it." Good. Because I really don't want to hear about it. I'm getting my daily dose of horror on my own now. Honestly, my evening hasn't been so peachy keen; girl in a dumpster, raped, neck snapped, you know... the usual. Right now, I don't want to think about it. Right now, I want you to fuck me until I forget about her, until I can't see her face anymore, until you forget about whatever's on your mind, and maybe for just a minute the world can seem like a beautiful place again.

Yeah right.

Your shirt's not even buttoned all the way when you're heading out the door, and I can tell by the way you're walking that all you want is to get away from me. And I can feel my eyes burning, because damnit, Nick, I'm not supposed to be doing this.

*You're* supposed to be the one running after *me*. You're supposed to be the one who wants *me* back. That's how it's always been.

"Nick!"

You were never rude enough to outright ignore anyone, so you whirl around, still fumbling with your shirt collar, and ask me heavily, "What, Greg?"

I shiver when you say my name. It feels like forever since you've said my name. And if anyone deserves to say my name, it's you. You're the only one who says it right. I'd like to tattoo my name on you, maybe across one of your breasts, or on the side of your hip. I'd like to kiss my own name, inked into that perfect skin.

You raise your right eyebrow at me; that's the one you raise when you're irritated.

"I was, um, I was going for some coffee after shift and I was thinking..."

"Don't bullshit me, Greg," you interrupt. And you called that one. You know I don't go "out" for coffee. But you're not being fair, because I *need* you, and you have no right to deny what I need.

You're stalking down the corridor, throwing on your jacket. I follow you, and I really wish you wouldn't walk so fast. I can feel people watching, but since when did I care about making a scene?

Once outside, you stop suddenly, gazing up at the sky. I haven't really taken the time to look at the sky for a while. It's early in the morning, maybe two, and the moon is high, lining the clouds with a smoky silver filigree that plays reflections in your eyes, and I wish just once you'd look at me like that. And I love the way you breathe through your nose, your nostrils flaring as you close your eyes for a few seconds. You're thinking.

Goddamn you, Nick. I wrap my hand around your wrist, and you twist violently away from me, scorn illuminating your face, as you say, "Damnit, Greg, you wanna talk? Fine, talk away, because I've got nothing to say to you!"

You're biting your lip, hard. And I can hear that pitch in your voice, the little rise that tells me you're trying not to cry. But I want you to cry for me, Nick. You look so beautiful when you cry.

"Nick, please..." and I *hate* saying that word, more than you will ever know, but I've closed the distance between us, and your back is to your pick-up, your head against sleek, shimmering metal, my hands pressed on either side of you.

Or your truck. We could do it in your truck. That would be kinda rustic.

You're still looking at the sky, refusing to make any kind of eye contact with me, so I lean in and Jesus Christ you taste good. Your neck is so soft still from your shower, and I feel you shudder when I bite down as gently as I can bear at the place where your neck joins your ear.

"Greg, stop..." You don't sound like you mean it, especially the way you trail off into a moan. I've always been one of those "no means yes" guys. I know this is what you want. Admit it. Admit that you want me. Tell me I'm the only one you've ever wanted.

"If you won't... go out... for coffee... then at least... come have some... at my place..." I say it between kisses, none of which are you returning, but that doesn't really matter. I hear you swallow, feel your throat tensing beneath my lips, a strangled, "Oh God," escapes from your clenched teeth. You've got both arms rigid at your sides, palms pressed against your truck, but your fingers are trembling, and there's no way in Hell you're stopping me from getting what I want. And that's you, Nicky.

Finally, you resign yourself to me, and let me kiss those lovely cock-sucking lips of yours. We both fall back a little as you release the death grip on your truck, and I feel your hands, one in my hair, one gripping the back of my collar.

"I can't..." you whisper.

I place one hand on your stomach, feeling the knots of muscle there, use the other to pull your face closer, and I whisper back...

"Why not, Nicky?"

Before you can give me one of the myriad of legitimate reasons you have, I press the heel of my palm against your crotch, and you have to catch yourself from sliding down the sideboard. You hiss, and I can feel an obscenity alighting on your lips.

"I know I hurt you," I say, my mouth brushing against your ear, my hand still kneading at your fly. Your eyes are closed, your breathing shallow. "I promise I won't this time." I bite your earlobe, waiting until you wince before I kiss your hairline and say, "I love you, Nick."

A scoff curls in your throat, and you pull back, face creased into a scowl. "Don't fucking lie to me," you say forcefully, but the way you say "lie", it sounds like "la" and you don't know what that fucking does to me.

And that stings. Because I really thought I was a good liar. But you saw right through that one. You know, you should be flattered that I even bothered to lie to you. But if it makes you feel any better, I've never felt less confident about any lie I've ever told. Someday, Nick, someday I'll make you say that you love me, and then you'll be mine forever.

* * *

It was the end of my shift, and you were the last person I wanted to see. I just wanted to shower up, go home, and fall asleep on the couch in front of the TV. Because that's what I do most nights.

The majority of my time at work is spent trying not to think about you, or how you used to be. I've almost convinced myself that you never really knew me anyways. It's easier to believe that you couldn't hurt the real Nick because you never knew the real Nick... and there are a lot of things that I've kept in the dark.

But you know all too well how to manipulate me, how to cut me to the bone in under a second, and I guess that's the same thing as knowing who I am.

I'd had a bad night... normal, compared to any other night. I was working a double, and wondering exactly how much longer I could kid myself into thinking I could handle it. I can feel this job wearing on me, slowly, grating away at my appetite and my sleep and my sanity. So that's why it feels so wonderful to take a hot shower after hours of decaying flesh and dried blood and lies.

I love to stand there until the water begins to turn cold, and the only things I hear are the hissing of the water and my own heartbeat. I scour away all the filth of the past sixteen hours, then hold my breath and step out into a world that's just been waiting for me with its mouth open. For a minute there, I feel perfect, but as soon as the soles of my feet hit the gritty concrete of the locker room floor, I feel contaminated again. And it's no use climbing back into the shower stall, because I can't stay in there forever. And then I think of you, the old you, and I think that sometimes it's worth being miserable, because you're a part of that misery, and wouldn't lose you for anything.

It's funny; I can't stand to talk to you, I can hardly bear to look at you, but I want to know where you are. I worry about you all the time, now that you're out in the field, because before you were sweet Greg that stayed in his lab and didn't have to think about getting shot at or abducted. I look at you, and then I look away, because when I see you, I think of all the things that used to be so pure, and I feel ashamed for believing they could stay that way. Just as I was wondering where you were, I heard your breathing behind me and I almost lost my towel. I can recognize your breathing anywhere. Low, kind of raspy, very wet. It was a confrontational moment, and I closed my eyes, hoping that when I opened them you'd be gone, but no, you were still standing there, eyeing me in that way that I used to think was only in my imagination.

And for just a second, it was like it used to be, because you weren't hiding behind that damned smirk that seems perpetually on your lips these days. You were watching me, and neither of us knew what to say. I miss that; the awkward silences.

I barely managed to suppress a smile, because your mouth was open more than a little ways, and those muddy eyes were sparkling like mad. A growing part of me hoped that you'd move closer, that you'd press me up against the nearest vertical surface and kiss me... I hate that. I hate admitting to myself that I still want that, even though I know where it will lead. And all those promises I made to myself, about never wanting you again, about never even thinking of just giving up and doing anything you want, suddenly I'm breaking every one of them.

It scares the shit out of me, but I think I'm starting to understand why you are the way you are. This world... my world... is new to you, and it's a dark and frightening place, isn't it? And who am I to hold it against you if you want to find sanctuary anywhere and any way you can?

You had finally composed yourself, and there was the smirk, and then you were asking me out to coffee, which was pretext, because you only drink that expensive stuff of yours, and you'd never dream of drinking the "swill" they serve at Starbucks.

There was only one thing in my mind as I fled from the locker room and down the hall. I needed to get out of there before I did something regrettable... again.

Do I regret what you did to me? I can't say that I do. More like I regret allowing myself to be drawn into you the way I was. But if I had to take that night back, would I? No. Because it wasn't that night that hurt me. It was every day afterwards. I would never give up the memory of you telling me you loved me, even if it was bullshit. That's the thing... that's the *only* thing from that night that belongs completely and solely to me. Everything else is yours, but that is my one tiny prize. Because however much control you have over me the rest of the time, you lost control of yourself long enough to let that fall out from between your lips. And it's mine. You actually followed me out to the parking lot. I couldn't believe you had the nerve.

Just when I was starting to think I'd get over it, like you promised I would. I could hear your footsteps, light, hurrying to catch up with me.

When you pressed me against my truck, I felt my heart fluttering in my ears. And I can't tell you how angry I was when you kissed me. How dare you. How dare you give me that one thing I've been longing for.

But there's something different in this kiss. You were leaned into me, whimpering against my lips, and your elbows were shaking. I couldn't help but grin when I understood that you *needed* this... you needed *me*.

You're probably the last thing I need right now. But I wanted you. And when you told me you loved me, it hurt that you thought I was that stupid. That you thought I'd fall for it. But it's still nice to hear, even if it's not true. I'll take what I can get with you, because I tried getting you out of my system, and the withdrawals have been killing me.

And dear God, I could feel that last piece of my anger, the last of my will being sucked away by masterful lips, and you knew that I belonged to you by now. I could see it in your eyes, carnivorous eyes that threatened to devour me alive.

"God I've missed you," you growled into my neck.

And that wasn't quite what I'd been expecting. I know that it's not really me you've missed, it's fucking me. I don't see why. You can fuck anyone you want, and you generally do. And then you promised not to hurt me, and that's another lie, but I felt like believing you. Besides, this time I understand how you work.

"I... I, uh..."

"You don't need to say anything, Nicky. Please don't say anything."

And why are you always calling me "Nicky"? I'm older than you, you know.

"Nothing?"

"Well..." You ran your tongue over parched and swollen lips. "You can tell me I'm pretty."

I couldn't help but laugh at that, and when I laughed, you smiled, and it was a real smile; an honest-to-God Greg Sanders' patented toothy grin, and you already know you're pretty. When you were standing there looking at me that way, kind of lopsided, your hands playing with the hem of your shirt, blushing faintly, that the you I miss.

Your hair felt good in my hand, soft and thick as I pulled you to me, a flash of pain across your eyes as I tugged on your hair, and I loosened my grip. You managed to sneak your arms around me, to untuck the back of my shirt, and then I felt burning palms resting on my waist. Stop, I pleaded to myself. You know where this goes.

You told me to hurt you. You laced your fingers with mine and drew my nails down your chest, over your nipples, all the way to the crook of your thighs. And you're still gorgeous as ever, but I could see that you had dropped a few pounds, that you were losing that glow you used to have. You told me that it was okay to be rough, and you kind of scared me, because I knew how you liked to be in control.

I don't like causing you pain. The only reason I went along with the finger nails was because you made the most wonderful noises, deep sighs, gentle profanities.

"God, you're beautiful," you told me.

I reached out and you took my hand, placed it firmly around your throat, and with hazy eyes told me to squeeze. But I couldn't, and you knew it, so instead I ran my fingers along your neck, and your eyelashes fluttered.

You braced yourself, both arms above you, knuckles white as you held onto the headboard. It wasn't loud, like it was the other time, when we were both angry and frustrated. That time, you screamed so loud I was sure my neighbors would call the cops... but then, so did I scream.

"Oh Jesus, Nick... fucking look at me." You had grabbed my jaw that night, had held it so that I couldn't turn my head away. You can be strong, when you want to. "I want you to be looking at me when you come."

But this night, this night it was quiet. All I could hear was the whir of the window fan, the faint rush of traffic below, the creaking of the bed, your breathing, my breathing, your pulse, my pulse, all blended together into a sort of humming. You never broke eye contact with me, except when your eyes rolled back, and you almost looked like you were asleep.

God, this had to be Heaven. Your legs draped over my shoulders, your hands woven loosely into my hair. I had forgotten how many freckles you have, my favorite being the one right above your left nipple. I wished I knew what was going on in your head. I could tell it hurt you more than a little, because you were biting your lip.

"Do you want me to stop?" I asked.

"No," you mumbled, your head rocking from side to side. "No, please don't..."

"Greg?" I asked tentatively.

"Huh...?" you swallowed, arched your hips slightly. Your eyebrows were twitching, and your lip was bleeding, and your breath was catching in your chest.

I forgot what I was going to ask. When you came, your eyes drifted closed, and you said my name so softly I almost missed it. And that's a Greg I never knew existed.

That was last night. I've just woken up, and I can feel sunlight warm across my naked body, and now's the part where I open my eyes to see if you're still here...

***