Title: Charity is the Best Policy
By: cynevie
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: NC-17
Series: 1) No Ringtone is Good News
Summary: Greg cleans out his closet. For ngchallenge@lj.

***

Greg walked into the lab only to be greeted by Catherine, "Hey, Greg. You look much better."

"Thanks," he answered as he hauled a large black bin liner across the room. He noted the various brown bags left by field CSIs already piling up on his table. It was a mighty big pile of backlog and part of the reason why Grissom pulled him out of the field to help in the lab.

"So, you've got this thing sorted then... you know, between you and Nick?"

"Yeah."

"What's that?" Catherine asked, eyeing the plastic bag suspiciously.

"Clothes," he rooted around the corner and came out with a t-shirt. "Hah! Found it!"

"Your clothes?"

"Last time I checked," he opened the bag and threw the t-shirt in.

"You moved out of Nick's house?"

Greg looked up and stared at Catherine as if she'd grown an extra mouth, "No~. Of course not. Why would I do that? This is for Mrs Renshaw."

Catherine knitted her eyebrows. She heard that name somewhere but couldn't exactly place it, "Who?"

"Mrs Renshaw. From the Mission. She came into the office last week, asking for clothes donation," Greg said, filling up the blanks. "You've got stuff for me?"

"Yeah," she held out her brown paper bag.

"Well, join the queue," Greg pointed to the pile of backlog. "Unless it's very important. You know, like your life depended on it."

"Not, really. But, it'll be nice if I can get it before end of business."

"Sure," Greg nodded. He was the lab-personnel-extraordinaire anyway. "First, I need to pop this in the locker. I'll be back before you know it." He walked out, fully aware that Catherine was tagging casually behind him. What was it with these people nowadays? Don't they have crimes to direct their nosy noses at? Of course there were a lot of crime. The lab table was creaking under all the weight. Unfortunately, as Jacqui said some time ago, "There's always time for a juicy gossip."

Women! he wanted to say. Not out loud of course, and definitely not in the company of women CSIs. Greg was sure they were all well-versed in the art of hiding a body.

---

Nick was in the locker room chatting with Warrick when Greg walked in. He saw the black plastic bag in Greg's hands and winced. "You're still giving those clothes away?"

"Yeah."

Warrick was already by Greg's side, extricating the bag out of Greg's fingers, "Lots of clothes here."

"Didn't do much good to the wardrobe though. We still need to get a new wardrobe," Greg said, looking at Nick who had a pained look on his face. "We need to go cupboard shopping very soon."

"Your clothes aren't exactly clothes for the homeless, you know," Warrick said as he opened the bag and tipped the contents onto the floor.

"Now, that's just rude," Greg said.

"No, seriously. 'I drink, therefore I am'? Not exactly one t-shirt you would give to an an alcoholic on rehab. Not good for the image."

Catherine picked out a pair of ripped jeans, "Not exactly the jeans you'd give to a homeless guy. I'm sure they've already got plenty."

Warrick held out a black mesh shirt gingerly as if it was radioactive, shook his head and grimaced. Nick grimaced too, but for a markedly different reason than his colleague. "Greg! You're giving this away?" He snatched the mesh shirt from Warricks' fingers and brandished it in front of Greg's face, much to the amusement of Catherine and Warrick. "I happen to like this on you."

Greg winced. "It's old. I bought a new one," he smiled, taking the shirt off Nick and replacing it in the bag. "We need to schedule a day out, so I can wear it. Yeah, we'll go out for a new cupboard then go clubbing. That'll be a perfect day."

Catherine pointed at a pile of boxer briefs, "I can't imagine a homeless guy slipping into boxer briefs."

"I can't imagine it either. But then again, I've never seen a homeless guy stripteasing, so I wouldn't know," Greg said as he placed all the pieces of clothes back in the bag. Nick looked up at the mention of 'boxer briefs' and paled.

"Greg! They're mine!"

"And they're old," Greg said. "We'll go out and buy some more."

"I happen to like them. They're comfortable!"

"I know," Greg smiled. "I've been in them enough to tell. But that's not the point. They're old."

Nick wasn't quite listening, as he busied himself picking out his boxers from the midst of Greg's debris. "You're throwing most of them out! What am I supposed to wear until we can get new ones? I'm taking these."

Greg snatched them back, "No, they're going to a charitable cause! Nick, surely you're not depriving them of decent clothes!"

Warrick snorted and glanced at Catherine who mouthed, decent?

"But you're depriving me of my clothes!"

"Well, I happen to like you deprived. Of clothes that is." Greg winked.

"Oi!" Warrick cut in. "Audience, here..."

Greg and Nick turned sharply. Crap! Greg wanted to say. How stupid can he be? Warrick and Catherine knew, but anyone could have walked in. Anyone. Like Sofia, for example.

"Hey!" Sofia said, as she walked in and headed straight to her locker. "That's a lot of clothes..."

"Yeah, for Mrs Renshaw's clothes donation drive thing," said Greg.

"Oh yes. The woman from the Mission," Sofia said. "So, whose clothes are these?"

"Greg's," Warrick and Catherine answered simultaneously.

"Oh. Didn't peg Greg as a boxer briefs person."

Nick paled and Greg groaned, "Don't ask."

***

Filthy and tired, Greg walked aimlessly, heading towards the general direction of the showers. Grissom had one of those (very rare) mischievous moments and paired him off with Nick. Usually, he would jump in joy (in secret, of course), but Nick was very ticked off. The prospect of walking around commando brought a vicious revenge streak and Greg was at the receiving end. Dumpster diving, garden digging, wading in sewers, baiting very-scary-pet-dog-with-very-sharp-teeth (and probably rabies), and all the filthiest, scariest work there was for a CSI.

"Greg! Hey Greg! Sanders!" the receptionist shouted across the hall.

"What?!" he shouted back.

"There's a packet for you!" the receptionist shouted again.

"Hold on to it! I'll collect it before I leave!" Usually, he would not pass up a package, especially one that sounded like a surprise. But he was just tired, and he walked straight into Grissom.

"Go grab the packet," Grissom said, "and don't shout in the lobby. Not good for the lab's image. More working and less shouting, please."

Greg stood transfixed as he watched Grissom walked away with a body language that promised bad things to Greg.

"Fine!" Greg shouted at Grissom's direction. He knew it wasn't a very good thing to do, but he was just tired and he felt petty. Grissom on the other hand continued to walk down the hall, raising a cautionary index finger up and wagging it.

---

Fresh out of the shower, dressed, and rather subdued, Greg sat in a corner and ripped the brown wrapping off the package in his hand. A box and and envelope. He thought about Nick, and hoped that this would be a nice surprise from Nick, a present and an apology. Opening the envelope, he then thought about pranks and crazy criminals, and hoped that this wouldn't be a bomb or something horrible like that. Now, that would suck big time.

"Dear Mr Sanders," Greg read under his breath, "Thank you for your donation. We are unable to accept the underwears, however. And although we will have a hard time trying to distribute your clothes, I'm sure it will be an interesting experience for our staff."

Greg sighed and opened the box. He allowed for a smirk, feeling like he'd know what he might find in the box. He peeled the lid off and found a boxful of Nick boxer briefs and a notecard. It was written in a different hand from Mrs Renshaw's. "Dear Mr Sanders," he read again. "Mrs Renshaw wanted to bin these. Mrs Renshaw doesn't know this, but I think I'd better return it. It's not even yours is it? By the way, I think you're a very fun guy, if your clothes are anything to go by." There was a name and a phone number written on the bottom of the card, next to the words "call me!" and a scruffy heart.

What the fuck? Greg thought. An anonymous come-on? Okay, maybe not that anonymous, seeing that he had a number and a name. He looked at the box of boxer briefs in his hand and for the first time saw tiny black stitchings on the waistband that he'd never noticed before. He squinted and snorted.

"Greg? What are you doing there?" Nick who just came out of the showers smelling like... well... Nick, really. "Those are mine." Nick accused. "Do I even have any left at home?"

Greg was rather miffed that Nick would accuse him of taking more. Despite what popular urban myths said, he wasn't an underwear thief. "No... The Mission returned them. Which is good of them. Because they could've thrown it away."

"Well, bless 'em," Nick snatched the box away from Greg.

"Nick, who stitched their names on their underwears?" Greg lifted one up and pointed at the black stitching.

"I did, apparently. Put it back in," Nick said.

"It's not like anybody'd steal the damn things," Greg sighed, still holding it up.

"You did, apparently. Now, put it back in," Nick answered.

"Huh. So..." Greg drawled, putting the briefs back in the box and giving it a small pat. "Now that you've got your briefs back, are you even going to apologize for the shit you put me through this shift?"

"No..." Nick said, as he replaced the lid on the box.

"No?"

"No."

"Really?"

"Yep."

"Are you sure? 'Cause the one who returned 'em left his name and number. Apparently he thought that, and I quote, I'm a very fun guy, if my clothes are anything to go by. I think I'm going to call him." Greg said, brandishing the notecard in front of Nick's face.

"No you aren't going to call him," Nick growled.

"So, apologize already," Greg pushed.

"No. And you aren't going to call him, because you, Mr Greg Sanders, love me."

"I love you, but that wouldn't stop me calling him," Greg huffed.

"Well," Nick drawled, putting his jacket on, his leather jacket on (which Greg loved), and tucking the box underneath one arm, "nobody's stopping you from calling him. But I doubt you'll still call him when you know what I have in store for you at home." Nick didn't wait for Greg's answer, but walked out of the locker room, grinning.

---

He must be grinning too widely that Archie stopped him in the hallway. "Somebody's happy," he observed and noticed the box under Nick's arm. "It's not your birthday, is it?"

"No it's not," Nick said. And as he heard Greg's hurried footsteps he smiled even wider, "No. But it could well be."

***

The keys had barely landed in the little bowl by the door when Greg was slammed against the door with such force, he felt a bump growing at the back of his head. It took him a few seconds to realize who it was exactly that assaulted him, but his attempt to smile was swallowed by insistent lips. There were fingers brushing across his chest, frantically trying to unbutton his shirt. Like frantic, angry, tiny ants. Greg wanted to help, but the tongue in his mouth, Nick's tongue, was trying to perform tonsillectomy and Greg could only do one thing at a time.


He brushed the nape of Nick's neck and pulled Nick deeper; hooked a leg, thrusted his hips, and made guttural moans. If Nick's going to pull his vocal cords out with that talented tongue, Greg's going to let him do that too. He vaguely felt fabric slipping off his shoulders and the cold doorknob pressing into his kidney. He wanted to protest, but Nick's warm hands were all over his skin, feathery light against one nipple and Greg jerked violently, and Junior strained a little bit more in his jeans. Not so Junior now, eh?


Nick's fingers brushed against his back, and against skin that had never fully recovered from the blast. It was so sensitive, that a merest whisper, and Nick's fingers were some of the gentlest sent him over the edge and he wanted to bury himself in Nick's skin, in Nick's mouth, and Nick pressed him deeper into the door. And Greg could only find purchase by holding onto Nick's neck, dangling for dear life, because his feet refused to support him anymore. He could only take his deepest breath when Nick sucked insistently on his neck, because he thought he'd never breathe in again for a heck of a long time and this is the way to die, Greg thought.


He felt the release of a button, the zipper yielded away. Nick's eyebrow on the juncture of his throat rise and Greg could've said "what?!", if he wasn't far gone already (because Greg always thought that underwears only prohibit instant access). Nick's jeans against his bare skin felt like sin, and he reveled at the friction. He found himself rubbing, humping Nick's thighs, like it was the last thing he could do. And the jeans chafed against his skin and he couldn't do anything else but wished it would never stop, wished he'd stop thinking. Nick's tongue licked the base of his ear, Nick's finger against his nipples, and Greg felt guilty that he was beyond capable of returning the favor, not now. Not when he's having problems breathing because of Nick's thrusting. And Greg would chafe, every unspeakable part of him would be rubbed raw, but Greg couldn't bring himself care.


Greg clamored for grip, because his palms and feet were awash with sweat, and his knees turned into jello long before, and Nick was thrusting against him. Nick's fully clothed chest and little buttons brushing against bare skin; Nick's fingernails scraping the skin off Greg's shoulders; Nick's teeth nibbling Greg's lips. And Nick was humming. There was a flutter in the pit of his stomach and all Greg could do was grind even harder against Nick, and his world dissolved into one tiny spot, and he could only rub the frustration away, and Nick's mouth was so fulfilling.


And the phone just had to ring.


Greg could only groan in frustration when Nick had to release him to answer it. And Greg slid down the door and watched Nick clamber across towards the audacious phone. Greg had his hand on his dick, desperately trying to not lose it. Because Greg did not want to lose the feeling, like floating. He watched Nick growl into the phone, the front of his jeans stained -- Nick's and Greg's. And Greg caught Nick's hungry gaze and Greg could only thrust even more frantically into his hand.


Because Nick watched from across the hall, talking into the phone almost incoherently, and Greg was jacking off with his back flush against the door. Greg could see Nick silently imploring him to wait, but Greg's beyond caring as he rode the waves that crested and rolled and carried him away. And Greg had to bite his lips to keep himself from shouting the house down.


Greg smiled at Nick, who was squirming with his left hand curled so tight his knuckles turned white and his right hand gripped the phone like he was going to crush it. He let his head rest against the door and stroked his stomach softly, savoring the residual ride. But he stopped when Nick paled, when the doorbell rang, as the phone dropped from Nick's hand, and as he heard Nick's strangled "Fuck!", which Greg's hazy mind translated as: not very good.


Noises started to filter through the door and registered in Greg's brain. As he looked at Nick's rumpled clothes and he looked at his own naked body, Greg came to a mighty conclusion. Not very good. At all.

***