Title: Domestic Chores
By: jettblack0110
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: R
Summary: Brief glimpses into the home life of our favorite CSI's.

***

"Put it back, G," Nick said in an exasperated voice. This was definitely the last time he took Greg grocery shopping. At the moment, Greg was waving around a box of Twinkies, trying to slip it in the shopping cart that was under Nick's control.

"But, Nicky, I love Twinkies," Greg pouted. He unleashed his puppy eyes and stuck his lower lip out like a four-year-old.

"You may love them, but your body definitely does not." And Nick's body, for that matter. As with most sweet things, the Twinkies would inevitably find their way into bed with him and Greg; it was an eccentric Greg-ism that Nick had recently uncovered: the man loved to eat his dessert under the covers. And if Greg was eating Twinkies in bed, Nick would end up eating Twinkies in bed. While Greg's mile-a-minute metabolism would take care of the overload of sugar and fat in no time at all, Nick had to admit his own metabolism had slowed, making Twinkies a dangerous adversary.

"Nicky, please?" He even sniffled a bit, damn him.

"No." Nick had to remain adamant; otherwise Greg would proceed to throw whatever into their shopping cart.

"Fine," Greg huffed, placing the box on the wrong shelf. "It wouldn't kill you to be a little adventurous, you know."

"I don't define adventure as buying Twinkies." They were silent as Nick looked over his list. It had been nearly two months since they did real grocery shopping, something other than the quick dash for essentials. They were basically going down each and every aisle to ensure that they got everything that they needed.

Nick had planned on going by himself, he usually did anyway. He was decently surprised when Greg announced his intention to tag along; Greg once admitted to hating grocery shopping. They piled into the Denali, Nick a little happy that they were sharing a domestic chore like an actual couple. But then they reached the store, and Nick remembered why he did not take Greg shopping.

"We need these," Greg said before shoving an armful of Ramen noodle cups into the cart.

"G, we don't need them. You want them," said Nick with an obvious eye roll. "Don't you remember Warrick telling you that that stuff would kill you?"

"Well unless you're going to start making me lunches, Betty, I'm going to continue eating my noodles for lunch."

"Betty?" Nick raised his eyebrows.

"Betty Crocker." Greg smiled a wicked smile and disappeared into another aisle. Oh lord, the cookie aisle. Nick sped up, trying to catch his exuberant lover.

"G, put the Oreos down and back away slowly," Nick warned, catching Greg with three packages of the cookies.

"Awww, come on, Nicky. If you let me get Oreos, I'll let you get whipped cream...the kind in the spray can."

"We don't have anything to put whipped cream on, G," Nick said, distracted, as he tried to wrestle away at least two of the packages. Greg stopped struggling and threw one arm around Nick's neck, dragging his head forward until his ear was even with his mouth.

"We put it on each other, silly." And then he was gone again. Nick was rooted to the spot, mouth slightly ajar at what he had just heard. He liked to think of himself as a little eccentric, normally. Compared to the average person, that is. He loved his night shift job, enjoyed watching bird documentaries, and he had a boyfriend that was considerably younger than him. But Greg never ceased to surprise him with crazy ideas. If someone had told Nick earlier in his life that he would be slightly turned on while grocery shopping with his boyfriend, he would have laughed his ass off. But now, not so much.

He wheeled the cart around, searching for Greg. He passed aisle upon aisle with no sign of the bouncy junk food addict. He was about to flip out his cell phone when he reached the last aisle in the store and saw Greg crouched down. He seemed to be examining a box very carefully; Nick could not see what it was a box of, and that frightened him a little. He left the cart and sidled up next to the crouching form.

"Whatever it is, the answer is no, G." Instead of a reply, a hand shot up and latched onto Nick's collar, dragging him downward. Nick, who had been bending slightly at the waist, lost his balance and fell to his knees. He did not feel the pain of his kneecaps striking the tile, though, as Greg's lips smothered his own.

"I love it when you go all domestic," Greg said against his mouth before kissing him again. His hand still grasped Nick's collar, preventing any escape attempts. Nick tilted his head back, causing Greg's lips to slide down his chin and onto his neck.

"G, what are you doing? Not here!" He hissed. Greg merely grabbed Nick's chin, dragging him back down so their lips met again. Greg was smiling against Nick's lips, and Nick knew it was that naughty smirk, the one that he saw when Greg was slowly torturing him in the privacy of their own bedroom. Before he could say another word, Greg was standing and offering a hand to him. Reality came crashing back, along with the sharp pain in both Nick's knees. He grasped the warm hand gratefully and rose, wincing at the gravelly popping emanating from joints. Greg had heard it too.

"Whoa, there, Pops, don't hurt yourself," he said with a smirk. Nick pretended to laugh along and stood closer to Greg.

"When I get you home, you'll be bedridden for a week." He saw Greg's jaw drop and laughed to himself as he picked up a rogue box of Twinkies and threw them in the cart. This was definitely not the last time he would take Greg grocery shopping.

***

Nick stretched his aching back and yawned widely. His muscles groaned after having sat in the same position for nearly three hours as Nick filled out paperwork for his latest case. Absentmindedly scratching at the patch of hair on his upper lip, Nick glanced at his cell phone and then looked out the window of the office. No new calls and no new visits. The lab was relatively quiet for such a busy night; Nick knew for a fact that each nightshift CSI was working on a case. Perhaps none had returned yet.

Jumping slightly as the phone in his hand vibrated, Nick composed himself and answered.

"Stokes."

"Hi Nicky," sighed the voice of Greg.

"Hey, G, long case?"

"The longest. I'll tell you about it when we get back, we're leaving now."

"Yeah, okay. Hey, what do you want for breakfast?"

"Are you cooking?"

"Yeah, I thought I would."

"Oh." Greg's tone was strange to Nick. It sounded as if Greg was straining to hold some strong emotion back.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing, it's just...will you wear a hair net?"

"A hair net? G, I've cooked for you for almost two years and you just now want me to wear a hair net to cook for you?"

"Not on your head."

"Where then?"

"I don't—" Greg let out a choked sound before quickly saying, "I don't want moustache hairs in my eggs." He then hung up.

Nick was still clutching the phone, his mouth pursed in a defeated manner. This had been going on for almost a month now. Nick had been the butt of many of Greg's spur of the moment moustache jokes all because Greg did not like how the moustache felt when they kissed. Nick thought Greg was being ridiculous, Greg thought Nick was being stubborn, and both thought the other was being selfish.

Gazing at the screen of his computer, Nick raked his finger through the coarse hair on his lip. For him, the moustache was nostalgic. His father had a moustache, as did his brother. It was pretty much a sign of manhood back home in Texas, and Nick felt that at least once in his life he should be the proud owner of an authentic cowboy moustache. And it is not like he looked bad or anything. Maybe he did look a little older, but that is why he loved being with Greg. Even if he looked older, he still felt young being around the exuberant CSI. Nick scratched at the moustache again, enjoying the feel of the utterly masculine facial hair. Not only did it represent the fact that he was a man, it was also a little bit celebratory. Nick grew the moustache after surviving the whole kidnapping ordeal. It was sort of his rebellion against death; his I'm-alive-and-I'll-prove-it moustache. It was a symbol of the fact that he was not in a coffin but living and breathing and, yes, able to grow hair on his face.

When Greg first complained about the moustache, Nick did not mind so much. They had been making out and Greg kept scrunching up his nose mid-kiss. When Greg complained the second time, he whined about how the moustache would scratch the skin on his chest and belly as Nick worked his way slowly downward. But it was the last straw for Nick when Greg actually asked him to stop blowing him because the moustache was too weird. That had been almost two weeks ago.

A staccato of knocking jerked Nick out of his musings. He looked up, seeing Greg through the window of the office, signaling him to follow. Greg then dashed out of Nick's line of sight. Nick groaned and stood, gritting his teeth as his back muscles screamed in protest. He poked his head through the doorway in time to see a flash of spiky hair and an athletic shoe whipping around the corner, heading toward the locker rooms. A tiny thrill of excitement made its way through Nick's body as he followed. They had enjoyed several quickies at work before, and every time Nick became more addicted. He knew Greg wanted him to go to the locker room for a quick hand job or similar, and Nick could not help but quicken his step. Up ahead, the locker room door slammed shut after admitting the ex lab rat. Nick was practically running by now. He finally reached the door and crashed through it; he was not prepared for what happened next.

He heard Greg yell and then felt something hit his torso with the force of a truck. He looked up from his new position on the floor to see Warrick sitting on his shins, effectively pinning his legs. He tried to get up, but realized that something, someone, was pinning his arms. Throwing his head to either side, he saw that Catherine and Sara were in on the plan too. Nick was a little hesitant about what would happen next; it surely would not be sex with Greg, even Greg was not that kinky.

"What the hell is going on here?" Nick asked.

"Fixing something, Nick," Warrick said with laughter in his voice. Greg flashed into Nick's vision, and then Nick felt weight on his chest as Greg sat down. He was holding something behind his back.

"I got you something, Nick," Greg said through his smirk.

"Get off of me, G."

"Just trust me." With that, Greg planted his long fingers on Nick's forehead with surprising strength; Nick could barely move now that four CSIs were pinning him down. With his other hand, Greg pulled out whatever he was hiding. Nick felt his mouth gape open when he saw what was in Greg's hand.

Shaving cream and a razor.

Nick was cowed by the manic glint in Greg's eye as he spread some of the white foam on Nick's helpless face. Nick tried to struggle, tried to throw of Greg's grip of his head.

"Nick, you look like the star of a bad 80's porno. I have to do this. You'll thank me for this later." And then with four quick swipes, the lip was bare and Nick was looking daggers at his lover, who was now getting up as quickly as possible. Nick struggled against the laughing figures that were still pinning him to the floor.

"Just you wait, G. You'll pay for this."

"What could you possibly do?"

"You want me clean shaven?"

"It would appear so, now wouldn't it?"

"Good. Then I'll just tell my barber to shave my head next time."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Just you wait...."

***

Greg wandered through the store aimlessly and silently, clutching a shopping basket to his chest. He hated the grocery story; there really was nothing more to it. He hated looking for the items he needed, hated standing in line, and hated unloading the groceries at home. But Nick was sick and did not want to get anyone else sick. Greg grudgingly agreed to go to the store only after Super Stokes had run out of tissues and was threatening to use Greg's t-shirts instead. So here he was, in the one place he hated most, looking at brands of tissues for his bedridden lover. Tissues came with lotion on them? Greg suppressed a little snort, thinking of an instance where his tissues were covered in lotion. Nick had been on his mind all day that day. Pulling himself back to reality, Greg resumed his perusal of the seemingly thousands of boxes of tissues. There were kinds that killed bacteria, kinds with aloe vera, kinds with triple layers, and kinds with comfort weaves. The boxes ranged from Disney patterns to solid colors, with everything in between.

Who had all the time to think of so many varieties of tissues? Greg's mouth was hanging open with indecision as his eyes darted back and forth from one box to another. Finally, he picked a box. A blue box with normal, double layer, no lotion, no aloe, no antiviral tissues. Good-old plain tissues. Nick's style of tissues. With a triumphant smile, Greg continued on to the next lane to grab some cold medicine—the extra strength kind. Greg was getting a little antsy with Nick laid up for a few days. He wanted some energy in his lover tonight. Upon arriving in the medicine aisle, Greg was surprised to see that there was an even larger selection of cold medicines than there was tissues. He issued a frustrated groan, merely wanting to get out of the store and take care of Nick. Scrunching his eyes shut, he thrust a hand out and grabbed the first bottle he could, throwing it in his basket along with the treasured tissues.

Greg crashed into the bedroom, making as much noise as possible. He wanted to make sure Nick knew how annoyed he was. After he had gotten the medicine, Greg had to stand in an impossibly long line just to be scoffed at by some snotty teenage girl running the cash register. He violently threw the tissues at his lover's prostrate form, which promptly twitched and groaned.

"This is how much I love you, Nick," Greg said, "I went to the grocery store for you."

Nick raised a skeptical eyebrow before tearing open the tissue box. "As I've said before, G, you never cease to amaze me." He ended his thought with a loud honk in the first tissue of the box.

"Not even a thank you?" Greg said, "Sexy." Nick honked again in the tissue.

"Hey, I wouldn't be sick if it weren't for you, so shut it." The man did have a point. Greg had been sick the week before. And if there's anything worse than Greg being antsy when Nick is sick, it is Greg being antsy when Greg is sick. He would not call it rape, because of course Nicky always wanted it, but perhaps he could say Nick was not thrilled with the idea of screwing his mucous faucet of a boyfriend. Needless to say, Greg won and now Nick was sick.

"Be that as it may, you still liked it." Nick threw his used tissue at Greg. Greg dodged out of the way of the tissue before tossing the medicine bottle at Nick in return. He then launched himself on the bed, bouncing as high as he could.

"G, stop..." Nick whined, "My head hurts." Greg stopped bouncing and lay next his lover. He was wearing his goofy smile as he planted a big, sloppy kiss on Nick's forehead.

"Better?"

"No."

"You're really crabby when you're sick."

"Like I said before, I wouldn't be sick if it weren't for you."

"But, Nicky, I went to the store and everything. I think that's a good enough apology."

"I could think of some better things."

"That's what the medicine is for."

"If we keep this up, this cold is just going to be passed between us forever."

"I love you, Nick Stokes." He placed a kiss on Nick's reddened nose.

"What was that for?"

"What?"

"You know what."

"What, a man can't love his man? You're adorable when you're sick. Crabby, but adorable."

"I'm not adorable."

"You are. Your nose is red, you curl up under the blankets, and, my favorite, you wear your glasses. I love when you wear your glasses, you know that, Nicky." Nick only grunted in return. He rolled over, his back facing Greg. Greg sighed and shuffled across the bed until his chest was flush against Nick's back. He threw his arm over Nick and hugged him close, placing a kiss right under his ear. "I love you even when you are sick and crabby and when you make me go to the grocery store."

"I love you too, G."

***

It was just a sock, he did not know why he was so angry about a sock. But there he was stomping and huffing around the house, angry that he had found a stray sock in the laundry. Nick had risen earlier than normal to throw his and Greg's clothes in the washing machine—both were running low on clean trousers and shirts, having not done laundry for nearly three weeks. Their schedules had been hectic lately, it must have been the summer heat or something, but people seemed to be killing each other more often. In fact, both he and Greg were sleeping off a triple homicide they had worked, which resulted in double shifts for the both of them. Instead of coming home and screwing like they usually did, both fell into bed and slept for nearly twelve hours. Well, Greg was still asleep. But Nick never was much of a sluggish person, unlike his sinusoidal lover who could be the epitome of energy or the embodiment of sloth. Nick had woken due to the oppressive heat that had built up in their room during the late afternoon.

The heat intensified the stuffiness of their small apartment, and Nick had inhaled the smell of dirty laundry. When he gagged, he knew it was time to do laundry, a chore he had always abhorred. He rolled out of bed, selecting a clean t-shirt to throw on with his boxers, and set about gathering the discarded clothing that littered their bedroom floor. After throwing the dirty clothes in the general vicinity of the washer and dryer, he gave their bedroom a once-over, making sure he had not missed a single article of clothing. He checked under the bed and in the closet, under the dresser and in their bathroom. Finally satisfied, he placed a chaste kiss on Greg's brow before closing the bedroom door. Starting with the whites, he sorted through the rest of the laundry before throwing it into the washer. As the whites were stewing, Nick made a bowl of cereal and turned the television on. Due to their busy week, he had missed several documentaries he had been meaning to watch. So he selected the first one and watched contentedly, ears sensitive to the resounding bing of the finished load of laundry.

He threw the whites into the dryer, pausing to laugh at a pair of white boxers patterned with little red crabs—Greg's crabby boxers. Nick loved Greg's boxer choices, most all of his others were also patterned with silly images. Opening Greg's pants was always an adventure, a game, to see which boxers he had selected for the day. Nick tossed the boxers in the dryer with the rest of the whites, started a new load in the wash, and then went and pressed his ear to the bedroom door. Everything was completely silent. He allowed himself an indulgent chuckle as he contemplated Greg's ability to sleep for so long. Still smiling to himself, Nick resumed his documentary. But he did not really watch. Instead, he affectionately thought about his current situation with Greg. In his past relationships, Nick had never really been domestic with his partners. They had lived together, but they always took care of their own necessities. Nick never had to do his partners' laundry or dishes or take care of them when they were sick. But then Nick found Greg, and he wanted to do those domestic nothings. Greg had been sick recently, and Nick thrived in his position of caretaker. He loved comforting his sniffling lover. Nick even liked to do dishes for Greg as Greg dried. Enjoyed the silent understanding and companionship and affection that coursed through the kitchen. And although he loathed doing laundry in any case, he did not mind having to do Greg's extra loads. Just the smell of Nick's laundry detergent on his lover's skin was enough to bring out the possessive animal in him.

Nick's musings were interrupted by the buzz of the dryer. He shuffled over and opened the door, folding the clothes and placing them on top of the dryer. As he neared the bottom, something caught his eye. A lone sock. It had a black band around the toe, a distinguishing mark that matched none of the other socks in the pile. Nick's eyebrows drew together as he contemplated the rebellious garment. How could there be a stray sock? He had checked everywhere to make sure he had left nothing behind. But there it was. A low growl rumbled in Nick's throat as he picked up the sock and physically held it next to all the others. It was for sure a stray. He was not sure why he was so annoyed with the common laundry issue, but he chocked it up to the fact that he was probably still tired from working and the fact that Greg was still asleep while he was doing household chores. He stalked into the bedroom, huffing and growling as he rifled through both sock drawers to make sure it was not a clean one he had mistakenly washed again. No such luck. He was then on his hands and knees, just like he would be on a case, searching for that elusive piece of evidence with his flashlight. But cranky and without a flashlight, Nick stood back up. Looking at the bed, his eyes met two sleepy-looking brown ones.

"Morning, sleepy head," Nick growled.

"'S'matter, Nicky?" Greg slurred.

"Doing laundry."

Greg hummed as he rolled to his side, staring at Nick. He patted the bed invitingly, and of course, Nick could not resist. They got situated, Greg's back flush against Nick's chest, Nick's arm draped over Greg's waist. Nick was a little excited, pressed up against his lover. Greg always slept nude, and his current condition was no change. Nick pressed a little firmer into his lover's body, littering the pale neck with feather-light kisses.

Needless to say, things got a little heated, even more than the smothering heat of the Vegas afternoon. Light kisses turned hard, along with other things. As Nick nipped his way down Greg's body, Greg bent his knees, planting his feet flat on the mattress and incidentally right next to Nick's hands. Nick wrapped his hands around Greg's ankles as he kissed lower on the abdomen in front of him. But then he stopped dead as his hand travelled over an unfamiliar texture. Rough cotton. He ceased his ministrations and looked at the foot in his hand. It was covered by a white sock with a black band around the toe.

"Why'd you stop?" Greg gasped, his chest heaving in his excitement.

"You have a sock on."

"So fucking take it off, Nick."

"I had a stray sock in the wash."

"You are so not delaying sex because of a sock!" Greg ripped his foot violently out of Nick's grasp and tore the offending garment off, throwing it at Nick. The sock hit him lightly on the chest before landing on Greg's stomach. Nick snapped out of his domestic hen mode as he watched the sock move up and down with Greg's hitching breaths.

"You're right. Fucking now, laundry later." He crawled back on top of Greg, kissing him hard. He had not removed the sock.

***

"I'm not fit-shaced, Nicky," slurred a very drunk Greg as he stumbled up the stairs, leaning heavily in Nick's warm embrace.

"Oh really? So I'm just carrying up the stairs because you're my new bride?" Nick replied, have far less margaritas than his enthusiastic lover.

"Gotta get your wurrghout someow," Greg said, falling to his knee on the top step. It was Warrick's birthday; Nick and Greg had treated him to a night at the bar playing pool. It just happened to be Two Dollar Margarita Night, and Greg was never one to say no to tequila. Nick felt the smile crawl across his lips as he watched Greg struggle to stand back up. "Fuck you, Nicky. Helb me up." At least Greg had managed to enunciate the words that counted.

Nick hauled Greg up by his armpits but gave a slight cry of distress as the inebriated man jumped slightly and wrapped his lean legs around Nick's waist.

"G, what are you doing?"

"I thought yuwer carryin me." He nuzzled his face into Nick's shoulder. Nick turned his head to the side avoiding the stench of cheap alcohol.

"We're two feet from the door. Can't you walk?"

"Nope. Stop spinning, will you?

"I'm not spinning, G, that would be the alcohol." With much difficulty, Nick extracted his house key from his front pocket and slid it in the doorknob. As he turned the key, a wet mouth clamped itself over Nick's. Greg tasted like lime and tequila and salt, and the kiss was increasingly sloppy. Nick pulled his face back with a disgusting squelch. "What are you doing?"

"Makin out with m'sexy boyfriend."

"Greg, you taste more like a margarita than the margaritas did. Can't you wait until tomorrow?"

"Yuwer th'won gropin me jusdaminnut ago."

"I wasn't groping you, I was getting the key out of my pocket." But Greg was not listening. He had attached his mouth to Nick's neck, leaving a sticky, lime-flavored trail of saliva. It was not that Nick did not want to screw Greg—he was always up for sex with Greg—but right now it would be like taking advantage of the drunk girls at the frat parties. If Greg was not going to remember it, why bother?

When his knees started to quiver, Nick realized he was still cradling a full-grown drunk man in his arms as if he were a little kid that had fallen asleep in the backseat. He snaked a hand back down to the doorknob and gave it a twist. Tripping over the threshold he deposited Greg unceremoniously on the couch.

"Hey, I was busy," whined Greg, not moving from his current position. Nick had kicked his shoes off and was now examining his toes which were aching from his run in with the threshold.

"Yeah, yeah," Nick muttered. "Baby, you really need to get to bed."

"Not tired."

"It's not your sleep I'm worried about. You are gonna have one hell of a hangover tomorrow. Remember the last time you drank too much tequila? You had to call in sick for work."

"S'ok. Hadn't taken a sick day n'long time. Nowun knew."

"I told Griss. He said it was a good thing it was a slow day." He tucked his head back down to finish his examination for broken bones—his toes throbbed painfully—when he felt a breeze of cool air pass over his head. He snapped his eyes to his impaired lover, noticing he was now missing a shoe and glaring.

"You told Griz?" Greg fumbled with the other shoe, abandoning the shoelaces and just ripping it off.

"Yeah. I can't lie to him, G, you know that." Nick ducked this time as the other shoe made its way toward his head.

"Yur n'trouble now, Stoges." He lurched off the couch and tackled Nick. Seeing as Nick was already sitting on the floor, it was not much of a feat, but nonetheless, Nick now had a very drunk CSI sitting on his chest.

"Baby, you're crushing me," Nick choked as Greg gave a few bounces.

"Nicky, you told m'secret to Grizzom. You need t'be punished." He then finished what he had started earlier, placing open-mouthed smacks on Nick's face and neck. Nick was not sure whether he was aroused or disgusted. On one hand, he never turned down foreplay with Greg, just as he did not turn down sex with Greg. On the other hand, Greg smelled like a brewery and apparently got more slobbery with more alcohol. Greg very obviously was aroused. When Greg unbuttoned Nick's shirt and assaulted a nipple, Nick abandoned whatever qualms he had just had. He rolled them over, stood them up, and dragged Greg to the bedroom, lime-flavored saliva and all.

Nick awoke to the sound of bare feet on the floor, the bathroom door being thrown open, and the toilet lid slamming. He did not have to hear what came next to know that Greg was tasting those margaritas again. He smiled to himself smugly before rolling out of the heavenly warmth of their bed and stumbling to the kitchen. When he eventually ambled into the bathroom, he found Greg curled in the fetal position around the toilet. Grimacing at the creak his knees gave, Nick threw a small blanket over the slightly shivering form and set a glass of Sprite down by Greg's head. He rubbed soothing circles on the pebbled back, and Greg exhaled a cross between a sigh and a moan.

"Don't ever let me drink tequila again," Greg said, his voice gravelly with sleep and bile.

"That's what you said last time, remember? You threatened me with no sex last night if I didn't let you have a margarita," Nick said as he raised his other hand to stroke Greg's forehead. "Drink the Sprite."

"Mmmff, too tired."

"And what happens when you have nothing left to throw up? Dry heaves are painful, G."

"Fine," Greg moaned before lifting his head up a fraction of an inch and tilting the glass to meet his lips. Nick took pity on his sick lover.

"Here, baby," he said tenderly, "Put your head here in my lap." Greg blinked slowly before rolling his head onto Nick's knees. Nick threaded his fingers through the sleep-disheveled hair before kissing the soft temple of the sleeping man.

Somewhere in the confines of the house, Nick heard his cell phone ringing. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and groaned at the crick in his neck. He had fallen asleep sitting against the wall with Greg's head in his lap.

The trill of the phone ceased, and Nick knew it was probably Grissom calling him in. At this moment, however, Nick did not care. Greg was snoring softly, his breath tickling the hairs on Nick's leg. After throwing up four more times, Greg's body finally finished the first round of punishment. But Nick knew the worst was yet to come. He eased Greg's head onto a folded towel, taking great care not to wake him. Tiptoeing out of the bathroom, he went in search of the elusive, annoying cell phone. It was most likely that the phone was in his pants, wherever those were. Nick battled his own hang over headache, trying to remember where his pants had gone. Greg had jumped into his arms...they argued about something...there may have been flying shoes...then...Greg tackled him. Nick shuffled to the bedroom and found his pants awkwardly hanging from one of the bedposts. He shoved his hand in the pocket and extracted the phone. One Missed Call. No shit. Yep, it was Grissom. He listened to the message before shutting the phone off completely. No he would not get the message in time. No he would not be able to cover for one of Ecklie's day grunts. No he did not think Greg could either.

Nick started a pot of Greg's coffee, now a complete coffee connoisseur because of Greg. As the coffee brewed, he fished in the cabinet for Ibuprofen, and, finding a bottle, walked back to the bathroom. He found Greg groaning and massaging his temples.

"Oh, what did I do to deserve this?" Greg growled.

"You drank eight margaritas, hot shot." Greg only moaned in reply. Nick took his share of pain reliever before tossing the bottle on Greg's chest. "I've got coffee brewing."

"Did I puke?"

"G, you're in the bathroom. What do you think?" Greg blinked slowly and stupidly, realizing for the first time where he was.

"Is that all?"

"Well...you threw shoes at me. And then you slobbered on me. We fucked," Nick maintained a casual tone.

"You fucked me when I was impaired?"

"Well, actually..." Nick trailed off. Greg's eyes grew wide with comprehension.

"I should get drunk more often."

"No! No. I like you sober, G."

"Sober? Brother-Greg-would-you-like-to-say-grace sober?"

"No, not chaste. Just...let's not repeat last night, ok?"

"You liked it."

"The sex, yes. The vomiting, not so much."

"Oh. Right. Did you sleep in the bathroom?" Nick nodded. "I love you."

"Yeah yeah. You owe me big time, pal." Greg pretended not to hear.

"So, about that coffee..." Nick cuffed him on the chin before hauling into his arms and planting a kiss on his forehead.

"I love you too, Greg."

***

"There...right there."

"Right here."

"Oh yeah, that's the spot."

"You like it here, G?"

"It's perfect. So good."

"Good, then hand me the hammer." Nick looked down on his young lover from his perch on the step ladder. A bead of sweat seeped out his hairline and rolled down his temple, hovering on the curve of his cheek. It was another hot day, in true Vegas style. Greg thought about how attractive his boyfriend was, even when he had sweat stains on his shirt and was missing a toenail. His eyes falling on the bandaged toe, Greg felt his cheeks redden as he thought about the circumstances under which Nick's toenail was sacrificed.

"A hammer?" Greg asked, not meeting Nick's eyes.

"Yeah, I don't think a thumbtack will hold this," Nick said, shaking a black-cloaked ghoul decoration he was currently hanging near their front door. Halloween was in a week, and Greg had gone all out with decorating the house for its first official holiday. The ghoul was just a fraction of the decorations Greg had spent his paycheck on; he had severed hands, severed heads, fake cobwebs, rubber spiders, a scarecrow, a fog machine, eerie music, and something that topped even those: Greg had had Doc Robbins get in touch with the funeral home which got him in touch with the cemetery mason who gave him a decent deal on several damaged headstones. Yes. Greg had gotten his hands on some bona fide gravestones, and they were now staking a claim in the StokesSanders front yard. They had also claimed Nick's toenail.

When they were unloading the headstones, a loose chip of stone embedded itself in Greg's palm. He instinctively let go the corner of the headstone he was holding, and that same corner saw it fit to land directly on Nick's bare foot, tearing the toenail clean off.

"Quit looking at it, G," Nick growled, "It's not getting any better from your stare alone." Greg started and realized he was staring at the toe in question. Nick had finished hanging their ghoul and was now carefully stepping off the ladder.

"I'm sorry again about, you know..." he trailed off, gesturing toward Nick's foot.

"It's okay," Nick said, "You owe me, though."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I can think of a few things." Nick's eyebrows drew slightly together as he smiled slyly and looked at Greg with hooded eyes. Greg could not help but let the smile run rampant across his face.

"Are you using me for sex, Stokes?" He tried to sound angry or surprised. Anything but gleeful.

"That's for me to know, and you to find out."

"Let's find out now." Greg tugged on Nick's t-shirt and pressed their lips together. He heard a loud clunk, signifying the hammer hitting the ground after Nick dropped it. Then Nick's hand slid down Greg's back, cupping his backside protectively. As if he would run. Greg had his arms wrapped around Nick's neck as they lazily kissed on their front porch. It was oddly liberating, even more so than coming out to the team. The fact that they could make out in front of the world was akin to a head rush for Greg. It made him giddy. That and the fact that Nick was now kneading where he had placed his hand earlier. Greg sighed despite the fact that his lips were still against Nick's. He slid his hand down Nick's chest and stomach, snaking it under the hem of the damp shirt. He went back upwards until his fingers found their goal. With a little caress and tweak, he had Nick panting.

"Baby, not now. Cath's party is in half an hour." Leave it to the damn team to ruin their fun. Greg pulled his hand from under Nick's shirt and pulled his lips away.

"We could be fashionably late," he said as he walked inside.

"If I know you, Greg, what would make us fashionably late would most likely leave you too exhausted to do anything."

"Just because I like to sleep after you fuck me doesn't mean I couldn't go to a party."

"G, you slept through the fire alarm that one time when you still lived in your apartment. I had to carry you out." Nick was hit between the eyes with a candy bar. "You did not just throw our Halloween candy at me." Another one landed square on his chest before bouncing to the floor. "I can't believe you're throwing candy at me." He lifted the step ladder to shield himself as four or five candy bars came hurtling in his direction; every one found its way through the ladder's gaps and hit Nick. "Oh that's it, you're dead, Sanders." Greg took off running.

Nick flew after him, picking up a pillow off the couch as he passed. He heard a resound thump in front of him as Greg slammed into a wall as he rounded a corner. His stockinged feet had little traction on the hardwood floors of their house. Nick's bare toes, minus the one, gripped the floor admirably and he gained on Greg with every step. They had made it to their bedroom when Nick launched himself, tackling Greg onto the bed. After a few minutes of tickling and rough housing, they ended up kissing, Nick lying atop Greg.

"Get off of me, you oaf. I can't breathe."

"Good. That'll teach you to throw our candy." Our. The word sounded so good to Nick. Tasted so good. "We should get ready for Cath's party."

"What are you going as?"

"Going as?"

"Uh...yeah. It's a costume party, Nicky." Nick's open mouth revealed just how much he knew about Catherine's get-together. "It's okay, Nicky, I got a costume for you anyway."

"Oh no. What exactly did you get? I could just wear my hat and my boots and—"

"No! No, you aren't going as a cowboy. What are you, the king of clichés? You just wait here, and I'll go put my costume on and bring you yours." Nick rolled off Greg and laid on the bed, petrified of what Greg had gotten for him. He heard much rustling in the bathroom. A squeak betrayed the rusty hinge of the door as it opened. Nick looked at Greg and once again his mouth was open.

Greg was wearing jeans that hugged his body, even down to the ankles. Black skinny jeans with chains hanging every which way. He had shredded what looked like one of Nick's black t-shirts so it looked like he had been attacked by a bear instead of wearing a shirt. He had spray-painted his hair black and swept it into his eyes, which were outlined with so much black liner that he could rival Marilyn Manson.

"I'm a goth, see?" He waggled forearms with drawn on tattoos and spiked bracelets before attaching spiked collar to his neck. "Here's your costume, Nicky." From behind his back came the most ridiculous pair of plaid trousers he had ever seen, paired with some pretty vintage penny loafers. "I thought you could wear these with your white polo and glasses. We would be the opposites that attract."

"Greg, you're lucky I love you and that you look really good with eyeliner."

***

Nick's jaw cracked ominously as he stretched under the covers. The room was dark thanks to the thick curtains drawn at the window, not to mention the moonless October night. He rolled over and drew his arm around the warm form next to him, slightly snoring as he slept. Greg usually did not snore unless he was exhausted. And he very well should be, they had worked a triple homicide fashioned after a slasher flick just about twelve hours ago, and Greg had performed admirably. Greg had gotten home after Nick had fallen asleep; he had fallen into bed, snoring before he hit the mattress. Nick let a smile drift across his mouth in pride. His younger lover had shown up the senior CSI's by finding the one clue that led them to the perpetrator; he deserved to snore. Nick wiggled closer and hugged Greg closer to his body, eliciting a slight moany groan from the sleeping man.

He tipped his head forward and pressed a soft kiss to the back of Greg's neck, relishing the feeling of the baby soft hair growing there.

"Hey," Greg's voice said, thick with sleep.

"Sorry, G. Go back to sleep," Nick said, kissing Greg's neck again. Greg turned over so that they were facing one another. He slipped his arm under Nick's, grabbing his waist and pulling them close.

"What's up?" Greg asked softly. His eyelids still drooped, but they held the ever bright glint that always hinted at something a little more.

"Nothin'. I just...you were just there...and..." Nick felt the blush creeping into his cheeks and was embarrassed, even though he knew Greg could not possibly see it in the dark.

"Nick Stokes, are you trying to be romantic?"

"So what if I am?"

"Couldn't you wait until I'm awake, at least? I can't enjoy your attentions in the REM cycle." Nick did not say anything in return; he pulled Greg flush up against him, pressing his lips firmly to Greg's. Their kisses tonight held not the impatient, dominating passion they usually had. No, tonight they were slow and simmering, betraying the deepest feelings felt by both. There was not the usual frenzied clash of teeth and tongues; it was all soft lips and nibbles, fingers through hair, stroking cheeks, necks, backs. Their breaths were coming in short pants as the kisses became more demanding. Nick toyed with the hem of Greg's shirt, pushing it up past his belly button. Just before he pulled the shirt off, however, a large crash cut through the silence of the room.

"What the hell?" Nick sat straight up, listening hard.

"What was it?" Greg asked, staring up at Nick.

"You didn't hear that crash?"

"No. It was probably just a cat outside or something. Come back down here." Greg patted the bed.

Nick frowned, still listening. "No, I think it came from our office." As if on cue, another muffled crash resounded through the house. Nick threw off the blankets and crossed quickly to his gun sitting on the dresser.

"Nicky, come on. You can't shoot everything that goes bump in the night. I think I left the window open in the office. The wind is probably blowing stuff around." Greg was sitting up now, his hair sticking out in all directions. Nick was sorely tempted to drop his weapon and leap on the sleepy man, but he heard a new sound, a sort of scratching and moaning.

"G, don't tell me you can't hear that!" And then he was gone through the door of their bedroom. Greg sighed and crawled out of bed, wincing at the feeling of the cold wood on his bare feet. He caught up to the Texan at the end of the hall, around the corner from the office. Nick was completely silent, holding his breath to listen, but no sound was coming from the room. Greg squeezed Nick's shoulder.

"Come back to bed," he mouthed, only to be met with a furtive shake of Nick's head. He pointed to his ear and then to the office as the scratching sound began anew. He held three fingers in the air, and counted down slowly. Three. Two. One.

Nick rounded the corner and rushed through the office door, gun drawn at the ready.

"LVPD!" he bellowed, screeching to a halt in the middle of the room. The room was an utter disaster. Papers were strewn all about the floor, some ripped, others soggy. A chair was overturned, and the rug disturbed. A potted plant had been tipped over, and the soil had been tracked all over. Books lay open, their pages flapping in the slight breeze from an open window. Nick's antique fountain pen set was on the floor, the bottle of black ink dripping slowly into a puddle, which the perpetrator had tracked through. Nick's eyes followed the black trail of prints and landed on a huddled brown figure in the corner of the room.

Greg pushed past him and lifted up the huddled form. It picked its head up, and Nick found himself staring into the brown eyes of a Labrador puppy. Nick opened his mouth to say something, but his throat was tight with emotion and no sound came out. His old dog had passed just before Greg and he got together, and Nick missed him sorely. It was clear that Greg had gotten him a new puppy. Nick lifted a tremulous hand and scratched the pup behind the ears, dodging the sharp, playful teeth.

"Greg, I..." he managed to choke out. He was stopped by Greg's lips on his own, their proximity pressing the warm furry head into Nick's chest.

"Happy Halloween, Nicky."

***

"Thank you so much, Greg, you're a lifesaver," Mandy gasped, pushing a backpack into Greg's hands. The backpack looked like it had been red once, but the layer of dirt and grime that clung to it now gave it a rusty brown color, almost the color of dried blood. Greg shouldered the backpack and replied.

"No problem, Mandy. Me and...uh..."

"Lily."

"Me and Lily will have a fun time, isn't that right?" The last part was directed to a tiny figure hidden behind Mandy's knees. Mandy's sister had to rush to Prague, no Amsterdam—somewhere in Europe—for some business thing, leaving Mandy to babysit her niece for the past two weeks. Tonight she had been called in for an emergency at the crime lab, and she had no sitter. Before he knew what he was doing, Greg had volunteered, much to his surprise as well as Nick's. "Your Aunt Mandy says you like to watch movies, is that so?" Greg chuckled inwardly at the way his voice rose an octave when he talked to the little blonde creature that was peering around her aunt's leg. She nodded shyly before looking up at Mandy.

"Aunt Mandy, do I really have to stay here?"

"It'll only be for a little while. Besides, Greg is fun to watch movies with, sometimes he cries." This earned a little tinkly giggle from the little girl, much to Greg's indignation. So he let a little tear out during Brokeback Mountain. He had a pretty strong connection to that movie, thank you very much. "Greg, really, thank you so much. I should be done by about seven tomorrow morning. Maybe we can go out to breakfast or something."

"Yeah, that sounds great."

Mandy turned slightly and crouched down to the little girl's level. "I'm gonna go, now, okay? Here's your kitty," Mandy cooed, handing the girl an orange stuffed cat, "Just call me if you need anything, I'll leave my cell on." With that, Mandy was out the door, leaving behind her a deafening silence. The two figures left in the front room of the house stared at one another, sizing up the opponent. Greg took in the sight of the little girl. Her white-blonde hair was slightly wavy and almost past her shoulder blades. Her eyes were light brown, the same color as the freckles on her nose. At full height, her head hit the middle of Greg's thigh, and Greg bet he could easily pick her up with one hand. Yeah, completely harmless.

Except Greg was terrified. He had no experience whatsoever in babysitting. He never had any younger siblings to take care of, and he never had a babysitting job. The most anyone ever let him care for was a plant when his roommate in college went home for the weekend. Oh, God, what had he gotten himself into? That was no little girl standing across from him—no, it was the looming monster of potential failure and great damage.

"So, um, do you want to watch a movie?" Greg asked stupidly. The little girl looked as though she were trying to appear as small as possible, but she gave a tiny shrug. "Let's see what's on." Greg launched himself onto the couch, receiving a little smile from the tiny girl. He grabbed the remote and stabbed the buttons nervously. The PayPerView menu offered several children's movies, and Greg picked one at random. "What about this one?"

She shook her head quickly and wandered over to the television. Very slowly, she pointed her finger to a movie title on the screen. Greg was astounded.

"How old are you, Lily?" She held up four fingers. "And you can read?" She nodded her head, eyes wide and innocent. "Wow," Greg marveled. He had learned to read when he was six, like most kindergarteners of his day. This little girl was obviously gifted to be able to read and not even be in school. He selected the movie she had chosen and the opening credits began. "Do you want to sit on the couch? It's more comfortable than standing." He patted the cushion next to him.

She eyed him like he was dangerous, but she eventually crawled onto the couch, sitting against the arm furthest from Greg. He shrugged and sat back in the couch, desperately aching for a beer.

-- - - - --

Nick locked the door and hung his keys on the hook by the door. The house was dark and quiet; the two troublemakers must be asleep. He went first to the kitchen to get himself some water and almost fainted when he turned the light on. The kitchen was a disaster area, it looked as though a bomb had gone off. The counters were covered with flour and eggshells, chocolate chips and sugar. The sink was full of dirty dishes and the floor was sticky. On the only space of the counter that Nick guessed was clean sat a tray of chocolate chip cookies, half of which were gone. Nick grabbed a cookie and bit into it with a smile. At least Greg had entertained their guest. He left the filthy kitchen until the morning and made his way through the house.

The blue glow of the television drew him toward the living room. The room was littered with old board games, playing cards, and, to Nick's horror, some alarmingly graphic forensic journals with their gory pages open. As he neared the couch, Nick stopped in his tracks. The culprits lay blissfully asleep, the smaller one curled up against the larger. Greg had his arm protectively around the little girl, and she clutched his shirt tightly in her sleep. Nick could not help but beam at the adorable sight before him, even if its components were responsible for the destruction in their house. Sighing indulgently to himself, Nick shut off the television and grabbed Greg's big toe which was propped on the coffee table. His eyes opened lazily and he smiled when he recognized Nick.

"Bed?" Nick mumbled. Greg nodded and pointed to the grubby red backpack sitting on the coffee table. Nick grabbed the backpack as Greg gathered up the sleeping child. Together they managed to get the girl in her pajamas and tucked warmly into the guest bed. They made up a fairytale story to get her back to sleep, even though she did not believe one word of it. Finally they shut the light off and closed the door, heading toward their own bed. "How'd it go?" Nick asked.

"It was a little weird at first, we had to get used to each other. But then she found the forensics books and we bonded," Greg said, slightly muffled by the tshirt he was pulling off. Nick watched the play of shadows on Greg's abdomen rather than listening. "She's pretty funny, sort of surly like Hodges but she's got Catherine's sense of humor. We made cookies—"

"Oh is that what it was? I thought that a bomb went off."

Greg looked a little sheepish. "I'll clean it up tomorrow. She's really smart, Nick. If we ever have kids, they had better be smart. I—what?" Nick was looking at him intriguingly.

"Kids?" One word.

"Maybe." That was that.

Before Greg knew it, he was on the bed without pants.

-- - - - --

It was a few days later in the Las Vegas Crime Lab. Nick and Greg were working a case together, a simple run-of-the-mill robbery. They ambled into Mandy's lab to pick up their fingerprint results. They got their man and started chatting amiably with the fingerprint analyst.

"So did you guys have fun the other night? Lily won't stop talking about you two," Mandy said.

"I had a great time. Anytime you need us to watch her, just call," Greg replied.

"Believe me, I will."

"Did she tell you about the kitchen?" Nick groaned.

"She said something about cookies and 'frensicks' journals. Oh, yeah. She wants to know if you fixed the hole in your wall."

"What hole?" Greg asked. Mandy smiled mischievously.

"She said that she woke up during the night and that she heard banging on the wall. She said that you, Greg, kept saying ‘harder, Nick'. So tell me, boys, did you fix the hole in the wall?"

Looking back at Mandy were two very red, open-mouthed lovers.

***