Title: Carol of the Bells
By: dothefandango
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Summary: Set before Greg's proficiency test. Nick and Greg try to enjoy a night of winter themed fun, but CSIs never have it easy, especially if they're sleeping together.
Warning: for attempted hate crimes
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to CSI.
Note: I decided that it was way too hot outside and that maybe people would enjoy some partially frozen Nick and Greg. There's also a good deal of damsel-ing by Greg, and a lot of white knight-ing by Nick, so if that irks you, I wouldn't really suggest you read this.

***

The air had gone from desert cold to ice cold in too many seconds too fast, and Greg had a feeling that he knew exactly where Nick was leading him. Christmas was fast approaching; both of them knew it, because even though they never had enough time to watch television to see the commercials spouting about it, Doc's number of bodies that had been dealt death by a single gun shot wound to the head had increased exponentially. It wasn't to say that there weren't any who chose pills or sharp razors, but it seemed that an unhappy person's favorite way to proclaim ‘Merry fucking Christmas' was with brain all over the wall.

They were tired, they were frustrated, and Greg had been one step short of threatening Nick with a knife so that he'd do something romantic to make it all go away. Usually, Greg wasn't that kind of guy, but something about being reminded nightly that people could be absolutely terrible to each other needed to be balanced out by the reminder that he, Gregory Sanders, was loved completely by Nick Stokes.

The night had started not so much how he'd expected. About halfway between his car and the door to the crime lab, five foot ten of muscular Texan had grabbed him and hustled him back to the car where he proceeded to kiss away any jitters he'd caused in the first place.

"Call in sick," Nick had whispered in his ear, before firmly planting kisses all across Greg's neck.

"Jesus, Nick, it's really busy…" Greg had tried to protest, because it was Christmas and there were all kind of unsavory murders and robberies and kidnappings. Not to mention a little something called his proficiency test was twinkling off in the distance, like some damned star of Bethlehem.

"Not," he disagreed shortly, reaching into Greg's pocket to find the keys to the car. Greg had attempted at a startled yelp, but Nick caught it with a kiss to the lips.

"We were overly efficient today, you guys are gonna have to wait around for a call, anyway," Nick explained, index finger wrapping around the metal hoop of the keychain attached to Greg's car keys, other fingers rubbing against the denim fabric and into Greg's thigh.

"If I'm fired, it's your fault," Greg had warned cheerfully as Nick opened the passenger door and ushered him inside.

"I'm driving. And close your eyes."

After Greg called in sick, that had been about all Greg had gotten out of Nick except for a few whispered ‘I love you's that made his insides squirm and tested his ability to keep his eyes closed.

And then they stopped and his eyes were halfway open when Nick had shouted at him playfully. Greg grinned openly as he realized Nick was going to lead him to somewhere in front of other people, he was going to actually display that dreaded public affection and the soon to be CSI couldn't have been more excited about it.

"Here we are, milady," Nick drawled as he opened the side door.

"I have a penis, Nick," Greg retorted, thrusting one arm out, palm down and fingers limp like a well to do lady from long ago would have, a grin on his face. Nick put his lips to the skin on the top of Greg's hand, before helping him out of the car.

"Don't I know it," Nick said in a deep, soft voice that made Greg shiver. As the spittle left by Nick's not so neat kiss evaporated into the desert's greedy, dehydrated air, the spot on his hand the same shape as Nick's lips grew colder than the rest of him. He rubbed his hand against his jeans, to make them warmer. Nick pulled Greg next to him with one arm, so that they were walking hip to hip, heads leaning against one another in a way that spoke of either conspiracy or love.

"Hey, check out the faggots!"

And Greg's eyes had flown open, Nick had released him, and he almost fell over the step up onto the sidewalk. A group of men were gathered around a bench, bags of some kind of sports equipment around their legs. Some didn't seem terribly interested, but it was more the one with big, watery blue eyes and a practiced sneer curling his lips that had Greg concerned.

"Fuck off," Nick snapped and Greg had almost stumbled again because when was the last time Nick cursed at someone so quickly?

"You and your girlfriend going on a date?" The man quipped and a few of them guffawed.

"It's none of your business, pal, and I'd suggest you learn some manners before you try having human contact next time," Nick had said none so calmly, yanking a wordless Greg back to his side and striding down the sidewalk with boyfriend in tow.

"Nick…"

"Close your eyes. Don't let them ruin it."

And there they were, at an ice-skating rink, Greg's eyes now open and focused entirely on Nick. He liked to think he could still see that protective fire in his eyes.

"Bit crowded," Greg commented casually, smiling, twining his fingers with Nick's.

"I guess I'm not the only one who thought it would be a good way to get someone to sleep with me," Nick agreed. Compared with the press of bodies pushing and shoving and shrieking around them, it was all a bit ironic and amusing and sweet, but the tension from just before hadn't quite worn off.

"You know, I used to skate," Greg commented as they got in the line for rentals.

"And tame wild horses and ride bulls," Nick added, laughing.

"Nah, that's more up your alley, cowboy. But there was this one time…"

"Shut up, Greg, and let's pretend you've never done anything remotely interesting so I have an excuse to take you out."

"Anything?" Greg asked with eyebrows raised, so that the implication could be read from ten feet away.

"Psh, I don't even have to pretend you've never done that stuff," Nick said, followed by an ‘ow' as Greg lovingly swung a tight fist at his partner's upper arm.

"Jerk," Greg said softly, leaning against him as the line moved forward. When Nick did not pull away despite actually looking like one half of a gay couple, Greg thought maybe David would have to come and take his liver temperature after his heart exploded.

"Thanks, Nick," he added, taking a step closer towards the front of the line.

"Someone had to stop you from bothering Sara, didn't they?" Nick asked, and Greg smiled against the side of Nick's face.

"Next," A girl with vivid pink hair called a bit too eagerly upon seeing her soon to be customers. They struggled through the process of trying to figure out what size ice skate they should wear, taking longer than most because Greg was content to just flirt and touch Nick in public and the girl behind the counter was more than content to just watch.

"I think she liked us," Greg said brightly as they laced up the generic black and white male skates.

"Yeah," Nick said softly, looking over his shoulder to see her eyes still grazing over them every so often. He frowned, pausing in the middle of the process of lacing his skates, thumb and index finger pressed tight to the tip of the thick white laces.

"You're okay with this, right?" Greg asked, looping the remaining length of his own laces around the ankle of the skate before drawing it into a tight bow.

"I made you lie to Grissom to get you here, didn't I?"

Greg, beaming, leaned over and kissed Nick briefly, the way he'd seen parent's kiss in children's movies.

"Just…" Nick started, looking over his shoulder once more.

"Not be so PDA about it?" Greg put in when the silence went on too long.

"You don't mind, do you?" Nick asked, tying off his own skates and looking up into Greg's eyes. And Greg wasn't technically a CSI yet, but he could still see the tension in Nick's shoulders, could notice the wary caution in his eyes, and knew that the confrontation outside had knocked down his determination level a peg or two.

"Nah, it's cool," he assured Nick, lips twitching upwards, "But, y'know, it's been a while since I've skated…you might have to hold me."

And when Nick smiled and laughed and didn't call him on his impromptu lie, Greg thought maybe Christmas could be perfect after all. Off they went, through the crowd of little girls in pink and silver and teenage boys jostling one another with hockey sticks and lovebirds stumbling awkwardly together on unfamiliar shoes. And then there was the ice rink itself, cold air making breath visible and adding a splash of red to cheeks.

"You know, I haven't skated since I was about twelve, either," Nick said casually as Greg stepped onto the ice. Greg turned, in a big looping half circle, and watched as Nick clung to the plastic siding and gingerly stepped down on the ice. The older man stumbled a bit, hands gradually releasing their tight grip on the plastic panels, and Greg fell into hysterics as Nick slid forward for about half a foot before losing his balance and falling firmly on his ass.

"Thanks, Greg," Nick growled as teenagers whizzed past them both.

"God, your face. That was fucking priceless. I so love you," Greg beamed, leaning over and helping Nick back to his feet.

Greg laughed and teased Nick as they made their first lap around, Nick clinging to his side and both of them taking awkward steps on the ice. Gradually, Nick started taking longer strides, and Greg figured he was finally adjusting to the unusual sensation that was ice skating. As a kid, Greg had loved it, had even taken some basic classes and tried hockey until a kid named Bobby Durain had knocked him over in practice and made him cry. Then he'd stopped, but he went back, almost every winter, and fell in love all over again each time.

"So, how about a game?" Greg asked, interrupting Nick as he went on about this game he and Warrick had been pumped up about for nearly two weeks.

"Huh?" Nick questioned, and Greg looked to see Nick staring at him in somewhat overexagerated and comical confusion. Then his right skate nicked the edge of an orange cone kids were practicing with on the ice, and he went sprawling. Greg, once more, could barely keep from falling himself as he laughed.

"Tag, I mean. Now that you can skate a bit, it's fun. Me and my friends did it when I was little," Greg explained as Nick stood himself back up on the ice.

"Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"You're still little," Nick said, jabbing him in the side, "And you're it."

Greg watched, bemused, as Nick made a hasty retreat into a throng of slow moving teens, going quickly, but teetering back and forth as if he could fall at any second. Greg smiled to himself, pushing off from the wall, and tore after him. The muscles in his legs tensed as he went around one of the curves of the rink, tilting his body into the center of the rink, his legs moved smoothly and quickly, going from behind to front, giving Greg an edge of speed.

He came out of the curve, straightening his body out, leaning forward, and going on at breakneck speed. One foot pushed into a powerful glide and he rested his weight on that side, and then when friction stopped working in his favor, he'd shift to the other leg and would glide forward on that one. He was so wrapped up in the sensation of it, of the illusion that maybe he was flying without having left the ground, that he completely missed seeing the man with the watery eyes stepping onto the rink just behind him.

"Gotcha," Greg cackled merrily, poking Nick lightly as he sped past, laughs trickling back to Nick's ears as he went around the curve of the rink again. He was caught up in the flow of people, but Nick had noticed the open circle in the middle where girls tried out fancy leaps and spins. And so he turned, completely without grace, and went as fast as he could through the center of their practice arena, arms flailing wildly.

"Hey Greggo!" He called, timing it just perfectly so that he took Greg with him as he went intersecting through the group of skaters, and they both hit the paneling with a thud. Greg shoved him, and Nick went sprawling backwards, landing with his ass on the ice and his back against an ad for a used car company.

"Cheater! You can't do that! It's cheating," Greg yelled at him cheerfully, waving his arms wildly around and nearly smacking an old man in the face. He laughed, breath coming out in steady puffs of silver mist, watching Nick's face with curiosity. The older man hadn't gotten up yet and was staring across the rink, face growing more serious by the second.

"Nick?"

"Shit," Nick muttered, and scrambled to his feet, nearly falling once more. Greg looked over his shoulder, heart rate steadily on the rise, firmly expecting to see a masked gunmen walking inside.

"What's wrong?" Greg asked, pulling away from Nick's hand as he reached for Greg's wrist.

"The guys from outside…come on," Nick said, breath still unsteady from their race earlier. And then Greg looked back once more, and he could see the guy with the watery eyes and a few of his friends, all dressed up in hockey gear.

"Shit," He agreed, as he locked eyes with the ringleader of the goons.

"Let's just…get out, they're gonna have the advantage in here," Nick muttered. Greg didn't bother hiding the disappointment that shone through his eyes, but with one more of Nick's heartfelt pleas, they were skating towards one of the open gates. Greg parted his lips and was about to tell Nick how one would stop properly with ice skates, but instead, the dark haired CSI just let the bump with the paneling bring him to a halt.

"That works," Greg muttered, coming to a sloppy stop himself, looking down to see the shavings of ice the sharp edge of his blade left behind.

"You're ending your date so fast?"

Greg looked up, grabbing for Nick's arm, but found that Nick was trying to get off the ice and past another man who looked extremely unpleasant.

"Hey, will you just leave me and my friend alone?" Nick demanded, moving to take a step onto the padded floor outside of the rink.

"I heard you were an ass to Ryan outside," retorted the guy, blocking the exit with his body and then gently slamming the door shut.

"He was making unnecessary comments, buddy, and you'd better believe we're going to report you," Nick growled, stomping off, as best one can stomp with ice skates, to the next gate. Greg stared at the guy, who had a mess of sandy blonde hair, over the plastic door, and silently debated just jumping over it.

"Your boyfriend won't have much luck reporting me," the guy said smugly. Greg vaguely thought he should ask why.

"Cause, you know, me being the one you'd report shit to. Too bad for you that faggots in need of help don't rank high on my list of problems."

And Greg was skating, floating, rushing, towards Nick with old memories chasing at his heels. It wasn't hard catching up or keeping pace, but he could barely make himself look Nick in the eyes. He was furious and hurt and there was the tiniest hint of tears, and it made Greg more nervous to see it.

"They keep getting in my way when I try getting out!"

"Yeah, Nick, and we kinda have a problem because they are the guards," Greg explained, looking over his shoulder to see the hockey players were only blocked by a thin group of mothers skating with kids.

"Well, they can't do much in this public of a place anyway," Nick tried to reason, not really looking at Greg. And Greg watched as Nick watched the other hockey players practice, banging one another up against the wall, pushing, shoving, and hated seeing how he became more nervous.

"Well, mister athlete, let's outskate them," Greg said cheerfully, pulling Nick along as he tore down the rink.

"Come on," Greg pleaded as Nick struggled with skating at higher levels of speed. Greg's heart was racing, and it wasn't just because they were moving so quickly. They went around a curve, partially using Nick's method, and cutting across part of the inner practice circle. There was an open gate barely two yards away, and the nearest guy was still at the last gate.

"Go!" Nick shouted, pulling himself out of Greg's grip, using the force to propel himself so that he could still match his boyfriend's speed. Greg floundered only slightly at the change of balance, and was all of two feet away when another body collided with his, sending him flying against the nearest panel.

"Sorry!" The guy who hit him managed to bite out between laughter, swiftly changing direction, gliding back to his other friends who went speeding past Nick with nothing but taunts.

Greg, breathless and a tad shaken up, was dimly aware of Nick hauling him towards the nearest exit. Leaping from the ice to padded ground, he turned and yanked the less experienced man off the ice, nearly making Nick fall on his way out.

The guard, standing next to the exit, paused, momentarily bothered by something, be it the sudden violence or the sudden impact of reality in that what he was doing was inherently wrong. Nick jostled Greg back towards the area to change their skates, glancing over his shoulder to see the guy mouth ‘sorry' with eyes wide open.

"Jesus, did you see that? What should we – should we report them? Christ, I thought people got over homophobia when they were fucking fifteen," Greg ranted. His shoulders hurt. His chest hurt. His calves hurt, but pleasantly, as a result from the racing as opposed to the violent slam into the wall.

"This is why we can't be out together," Nick said firmly, and it hurt Greg more to hear that than it did when the asshole knocked into him.

"Nick, maybe – just…it's not everyone," he said lamely as he speedily untied his skates. Although not quite finished, Nick yanked them off for Greg and shoved Greg's sneakers at him. Greg shakily laced the sneakers up, and stood, feeling as if the ground was made of clouds and marshmallow. It was usually a feeling he took a moment to appreciate, that feeling of walking normally again, but not when Nick was so upset, not when there were some guys two steps short of committing a hate crime.

"Hey! Lovebirds!" And there they were, pouring out of the hockey rooms, dressed as if they were on the ice, but with tennis shoes on their feet. Greg wanted to spit something back at them, something burning and witty and clever, but Nick was pulling him towards the doors, back to the desert.

"What-"

"My cell is in the car, I'm calling Brass," Nick said shortly, and Greg thought that was a very good idea indeed. They left the ice-rink at a brisk walk, Nick moving with determination towards the car. Except then there were footsteps behind them, a whole mob of footsteps, which were moving faster and faster.

Greg felt a hand graze against his shoulder, and broke into a run, Nick already two steps ahead. The heavy clothes of the hockey players slowed them down, and years of training gave Nick a natural advantage, leaving Greg feeling awfully unprotected in the middle. It was like being on a ghost tour, he thought wildly, where at any moment some mutilated spirit could breeze up next to you.

"Stop!" Greg yelled suddenly, turning and reaching into his pocket for some kind of identification. Something to make him look like a police officer. Something that would make them go away.

"I – Me and my friend here are officers of the law! So step down, or we'll have you arrested," He bluffed in an amazingly calm voice. The frantic patter of running feet stopped, and Nick already had the door to Greg's car opened.

"Hell you are. I've never heard of a faggot cop," The ringleader drawled.

"Naw, Ryan, you remember that guy – whats his name…?" One of the other guys interjected, only to have his voice covered by a series of loud insults. And Greg was backing up, gliding wordlessly towards Nick, who had the phone out.

"Fuck!" Nick nearly shouted, and conversation dwindled so everyone could look at him. Greg met his eyes and figured out the problem immediately. No reception. They could drive and get some, but starting up his car would give them a chance to stop it, and it was brand new and he couldn't afford it if they banged it up.

And they were running again, Greg after Nick, and the mob after them both. The slap of rubber soles against crumbling pavement didn't allow for as much philosophy as gliding across ice did, and in the dark, away from the strip, it was more than a bit scary.

"Nick!" Greg shouted, panicked, wanting Nick to wait for him to catch up. Behind him, the running was heavier, and there were shouts and curses and even a few calls to stop ("He said they're cops"), and he wanted to check and make sure they were at least so many feet away, but the grip on his shirt's collar said otherwise.

"Nick!" He screamed, and then he was whirled around in a dizzy circle, the grip only vanishing when he was in the heart of the mob.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Greg shouted then, not so much thinking, but just instinctively fighting the best way he knew how, with words and the occasional violent movement.

"Freaks like you," someone said, and it wasn't really much of an insult, but now he was just angry. Greg lashed out, going for the nearest guy, shoving him backwards and moving his leg to kick him somewhere dangerously close to his crotch. This was protested loudly and angrily, and soon there were bodies and hands slamming into him from all over, and Greg whirled around in a disoriented circle, pushing back against them and looking for his way out.

"Greg," A voice remarkably like Nick's shouted, and soon there was a hand around his wrist. He tried pulling away, but the grip was tight and yanked him towards whoever owned the hand, and then he was next to Nick, who looked like maybe he had been confident about the situation a few seconds ago.

Nick pulled Greg in a mad dash down the sidewalk, across the street, past places Greg thought he could maybe recognize if they weren't whirring past in a screaming wind and tears. The slapping sound of shoes hitting ground was always behind them, right behind them, angry curses ghosting across their necks, and Greg wished he had just gone to work.

Then someone was screaming, angry, and there was a deafening blast that made it stop. More screams, yells, and the running was slowing a little, a lot. More blasts and Nick screaming for Greg to go faster and god, his legs hurt, and then a bullet went overhead and went through a window and Greg hoped he wouldn't have to investigate that tomorrow. The lights of the strip were coming closer, and Nick was yelling about the place where the CSIs all got snacks at and Brass, and the mob wasn't so many now and wasn't so close, but there were more bullets, far left and far right, and then one so close he was terrified it'd go through him and Nick both.

"Greg!" Nick shouted, and Greg heard it, barely registered what it could mean, and then was pulled to the ground as another bullet when whizzing right where his head was. He looked up to see the red and blue lights, to hear the sirens, to feel Nick on top of him.

"Oh god, Nick?" He said all in one loud breath, but there were no bullets in Nick's body, and he could hear the shouting and screaming and shooting as Brass's guys took down the hockey guys. He clung to Nick, and remembered how to breathe, how to think, and cried very quietly against his boyfriend's chest.

***