Title: Don’t Come Back
Author: podga
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: CSI and its characters do not belong to me. I write and post for fun only.
Summary: Sequel to “archy”. Gil offers to return.

“This is nice.”

Nick drops his duffle bag right inside the door, puts his hands on his hips and looks around him.

“A bit smaller than your last place, though.”

I laugh. ‘A bit smaller’ is an understatement. The whole apartment would fit into the living room of my last place.

“A buck doesn’t go quite as far in New York as it does in Las Vegas. At least not where real estate is concerned.”

He nods. “Still. You’ve pretty much got what you need, right?”

“Right.”

I don’t, actually. After I found the apartment, I decided to get rid of a lot of my old junk, pare everything down to the essentials. Part of my new start. In retrospect, I should have just put everything into storage until I was in a more lucid frame of mind. Even half a year later, I find myself futilely looking for things that I need, and coming across other things that, for the life of me, I can’t figure out why I decided to keep or didn’t even know I had. This doesn’t feel like my home. I can see why it appeals to Nick though, he was always a lot neater than me, and without my stuff lying around the apartment is almost minimalist.

“So, where do I sleep?”

The question throws me. From the moment he lied to me about why he’s in New York, I’ve been assuming that he’s here to pick up from where we left off. I know it’s not that simple, of course I do, but for the last few hours I haven’t been thinking very clearly.

“Gil?”

I point towards the second bedroom, which I’ve converted into my office. “The sofa in there folds out. I’ll just make some space in the closet for your clothes.”

He picks up his duffle bag and waits for me to lead the way, so I do.

“Ah, the real Grissom reveals itself,” he says standing at the doorway.

I hastily pick up a stack of folders on the sofa and look around for someplace to set them down. There’s no room on the desk or the shelves, which is why the folders were on the sofa in the first place, so I set them on the floor, trying to wedge them against the wall so that they stay stacked. Which, of course, they don’t.

“You’re ruining your filing system,” he deadpans.

I straighten up and look at him. “At least you’re finally acknowledging that I have a system.”

He grins.

Before I left Vegas, I tried to find a picture of him. The best I could come up with was a printout of his ID photo from his personnel file. Nobody looks good in that type of photo, not even Nick, but it was all I had. Looking at him now, I realize that at some point I’d substituted this younger, serious, lifeless version of Nick for what he really looks like, and I wonder how I could have forgotten how animated and expressive his face is. Almost unconsciously I reach up and trace the curve of his lip. His mouth straightens under my fingers, but he doesn’t move away, and his eyes seem to grow darker.

“Gil.”

“I missed you, Nick.”

He wraps his fingers around mine, his thumb moving in a gentle caress, and lowers my hand.

“I know. I missed you too.”

He tightens his grip slightly, then lets go.

“I need to use the john.”

“Of course. It’s right through there.”

“Thanks.”

He smiles briefly and walks past me into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. I stand there for a few seconds, listening for him, but I don’t hear a sound. I shake my head slightly, trying to dispel the sudden, almost overpowering feeling of hopelessness and to focus on practicalities. I gather the rest of the files and books off the sofa and stack them on the floor.

He still hasn’t come out by the time I’ve cleared a little room in the closet for him and fetched some sheets and towels, so I move to the living room and turn on the TV, flicking through the channels until I find the news. Eventually he wanders into the living room and perches on the edge of an armchair.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

I get up and go to the small kitchen. “Beer?” I call out.

“Great, thanks.”

I pull two beers out of the fridge and bring them back into the living room. I hand him one, and he thanks me a third time. We sit silently for a while, watching the news.

“Do you ever see Brass?”

“A couple of times.”

“Yeah? How is he?”

“Good. He’s joined a bowling league. He said he’s averaging 110.”

“He can’t be practicing too hard.”

“I get the impression it’s not the bowling that’s the attraction.”

Nick laughs.

“How’s work?”

“OK.” He shrugs. “You know.”

While we were in the diner, the conversation seemed to flow naturally, but thinking back, I realize that we hadn’t spoken about anything personal. In fact, most of the time we spent talking about a couple of cold cases that had been resolved in the period after I left. Now it feels like we’ve got nothing to say to each other. Or maybe nothing we can say.

“Are you still thinking of leaving?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. It’s not like I have something else to fall back on. I’m either a cop or a CSI. I guess the crap will be the same no matter where I go, so I might as well stay put.” He’s slowly and painstakingly peeling the label off of his bottle, apparently trying to get it all off in one piece.

“What about you?” he suddenly asks. “Are you staying here for good?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.”

He nods, eyes still focused on his bottle. “Do you ever miss it?”

“No. I don’t.” That much I’m sure of.

“So I guess you won’t be coming back to Vegas, either.” His voice is flat, emotionless.

“Not for work. No.”

He looks up. “For what then?” he asks.

I take a deep breath. My heart is hammering just at the thought of saying what I’m about to say. “I’d come back for you,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “If you wanted me to.”

He stares at me for a long minute, then goes back to peeling the damn label again. Tell me you want me to come back, I plead silently. I won’t screw this up again. And I won’t let you send me away again either.

“Were we happy together?” he asks in a low voice.

I remember asking Sara the same question, when she returned to Vegas after Warrick was shot. I’d meant to make it as difficult for her as I possibly could, but until this minute I hadn’t realized just how much I’d succeeded. How do you answer something like that? How do you make yourself responsible for someone else’s happiness? What if you fail?

“Yes. When we gave it a chance, I think we were. But we didn’t give it much of a chance. At least I didn’t.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was too soon for me.”

“Maybe I didn’t trust you enough,” Nick says pensively. “Or you me.”

“Nick, I don’t want to have a post mortem here. What’s the point?”

He shrugs. He’s finally succeeded in pulling off the label, and now he’s smoothing it back on, using the condensation on the bottle to help it stick.

“I don’t want you to come back,” he says finally, and it feels like a blow to the solar plexus.

“I see,” I choke out. But I don’t. Why is he here then? For closure?

“Do you?”

I shake my head.

He leans forward to set the bottle on the coffee table, carefully centering it on a coaster.

“If we don’t figure out what went wrong, how do we know it’s not going to happen again? I don’t want you to come back if you’re going to leave again. The first time I managed to kid myself that it was all for the best, that I didn’t want anything permanent with you anyway. I can’t kid myself any more.”

“I’ve never believed in happily-ever-after. I’m too old to start believing in it now. If that’s what you want, I can’t promise you. I wish I could.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t understand. I don’t expect you to.”

I wait for him to continue, but he seems lost in thought.

“Nick. Talk to me.”

He just shakes his head again.

I’m suddenly impatient. Nick and I, we were never very good at talking. Mostly I blame myself, but over the years Nick has developed his own defense mechanisms as well, and they’re almost impregnable. He’s here. Right now he’s here, with me, and that’s all that counts. The rest we can figure out as we go along. I stand up.

“Nicky.”

He looks up at me, his eyes dark and somber.

“We don’t have to resolve anything tonight. You have three weeks off and you can stay here as long as you want. We have time.”

He stands up as well. “You’re right,” he says, although he still looks troubled.

“I invariably am,” I say lightly, and suddenly he smiles.

“You’re so full of shit.”

He shoves me hard enough to knock me off my feet and back onto the couch, but as I go down, I grab hold of him and pull him with me, so that he lands on top of me, knocking the breath out of me. He pins my arms over my head and his weight squeezes out what little air is left in my lungs.

“Are you OK?” he asks, still grinning.

“Yes,” I wheeze. “Fine.”

He looks into my eyes, and his smile slowly fades. He tightens his grip on my arms, and slides his body slightly lower, so that his legs are between mine and our heads are level. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he bends his head, so that I can feel his breath on my lips, but he’s not making contact. I push my head into the cushions in order to gain enough distance to see him better. His eyes are closed, his lips slightly parted, and it’s almost like he’s in a trance. Is he resisting or anticipating? It doesn’t matter either way, because I know that, despite all the other uncertainties, he is going to kiss me, so I close my eyes as well, and I wait. I can wait all night if I have to.