Title: The Exorcists
Author: Korbjaeger
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Pairing: Warrick/Nick
Rating: Hard PG or mild R
Genre: Humor, a bit of Angst and a delicate dash of homoeroticism
Spoilers: None - minor GD reference if that counts
Warnings: None
Summary: Nick and Warrick tie one on after a rough case...and Nick sees a side of Warrick he's not sure he wanted to see...
Disclaimer: Characters not mine, it's all about CBS/Alliance-Atlantis, et cetera, et cetera, ad whateverium.
A/N: May be a little "fluffy" - okay, okay, pink fur bunny with a lace bow fluffy - for the more hardcore slash-oriented, but I'm working on my erotica. One of these days I'll post a real pants-down-knees-up barn-burner on here...til I get that side of my writing more honed, though, hope you enjoy the comic relief and schmoozy bonding...
I'm brand new to LJ so I hope this works...forgive me if I flobe the coding...

THE EXORCISTS

"You've had enough, bro. It's officially last call."

Warrick laughed again. He'd been doing a lot of that tonight. "Oh, and you're sober as a friggin' judge, right."

Nick gave him a patient look. He'd been pacing his drinking a little better. And he'd seen Warrick tipsy, flirtatious, even downright goofy after having "a few"...but never this far over the top.

"Hey, I know my limits. I also know there's no way I'm gonna be able to drive home tonight. I say we get a room, sleep it off and commiserate in the morning. Deal?"

"Yeah, yeah..."

Warrick was well past "tipsy". Nick had expected it. After a case like the one they'd just worked, Grissom had all but ordered them to take a couple days off to psychologically decompress. And, to Nick's surprise, Warrick had needed it more than he had. They'd agreed not to discuss the case during their free time, but that they'd spend as much of that free time together as they could. Wounded together, heal together; that was Nick's perspective.

They crossed the parking lot of the Tangiers, when Warrick spotted a trio of provocatively clad women of dubious legal age at the curb, scanning the slowly passing Strip traffic.

"Hey! Let's do like the Boy Scouts and help those poor ladies across the street..."

"Rick, those 'poor ladies' don't need your help, they're concentrating on their jobs right now. Besides, what would you do if you got ahold of 'em anyway, pay 'em fifty bucks a pop to pass out in front of them? No go, bro, it's beddy-bye time."

"Spoilsport..."

"Besides, I think you'd scare 'em off with that…whatever you wanna call it holding your pants up…"

"Hey! I've seen some of your belt buckles! That Texas-state-shaped one scares small children."

"No, it doesn't. Besides, that one you're wearing scares adults. Come on!"

They entered the blessedly air-conditioned casino and walked to the other side, where the registration desk was. Nick noted gratefully that Warrick walked past the blackjack tables without even turning his head. Then again, he thought, if he's too drunk to notice those…

There was no line at the desk. A middle-aged, balding fellow in a neat suit greeted Nick.

"Oh, my, Nick Stokes. I trust by your ritzy attire that you're not here on business?"

"You'd figure correct, sir," Nick replied. "Just been out having a little too good a time to be driving. Got a room?"

The man checked his room manifest.

"One. Just cleaned up after an early checkout." He glanced over at Warrick. "You want two beds, I assume, though…this is just one. If you want, I can…"

"Hey, I can live with one," Nick sighed. "I don't know how long a wait we should consider, and I daresay we'll both be counting sheep before we even realize we're violating each other's critical space."

The clerk laughed. He gave Warrick another sideways glance. "I think your buddy's already got a flock in his sights."

************************************************************

Why Nick had opted for a cold shower was a question even he didn't find a satisfactory answer for. It felt good after a hot day and evening, certainly, and it just plain felt good after a few too many beers. But it wouldn't be conducive to immediate sleep, not like a warmer shower would have been. He thought it over, decided maybe he ought to stay awake in case Warrick could stay on his feet long enough to take a shower as well. It'd probably do him good. Warrick had had…how many double-151-and-cokes? He scolded himself for not keeping track.

But then, that was the point of the whole night. Tie one on, forget the most recent case, the bloody scene, the dead toddlers, the emotionally detached perp, the despondent father and near-suicidal mother. Forget that the entire evil act had resulted from a case of mistaken identity, juxtaposed street numbers on an order sheet for revenge, or that the murderer had coolly referred to the slaughtered innocents as "collateral damage". Forget that he had broken down in tears in the SUV on the way back to the lab, and that Warrick had done so shortly later in the locker room.

Just forget all that. Be just irresponsible enough to exorcise that demon, and just responsible enough not to tempt any others.

Neither of them could afford an out-of-town getaway and still be able to bankroll the vacations they hoped to go on in a few months, so they'd opted to dress to the nines, hit some of the nicer places, ogle a few showgirls, hit the roller coaster at New York New York, go to the Star Trek exhibit for a few childhood memories and a good laugh…and hopefully drink themselves into a peaceful slumber, taking their second free day to sleep it off.

It had taken a lot of alcohol to chase away the case they couldn't talk about. Nick stayed comfortable with beer, his beloved Texas Shiner Bock where they had it and Bud where they didn't. But Warrick seemed to have been on a mission. Pedal-to-the-metal, balls-to-the-walls. He couldn't tell, by one point, whether it was a memory-erasing binge or a suicide attempt. Warrick imbibed, but rarely to excess and never like this. This clingy, impulsive, near-helpless, miles-from-"cool" drunk was not the real Warrick Brown. It couldn't be. He half wondered if it was some demon temporarily possessing him.

Refreshed, Nick toweled off, pulled his boxers and t-shirt back on, and opened the bathroom door.

He stopped cold, staring in disbelief.

"Warrick Brown, what in the Sam Hill are you doing?!?!"

A logical question, considering Warrick seemed to be in the process of stuffing the bunched-up mattress of the bed out their now-open window. The lights were off, the room illuminated only by the lights from outside.

"I'm throwing the bed out the window," Warrick replied with utter calm. "Wanna help me?"

"Wha…NO, I do NOT freakin' want to help…give me that!!!" Nick elbowed his way between Warrick and the disheveled mattress and pulled it back out of the window frame. He pulled the window closed again, then turned sharply toward Warrick. "Are you outta your goddamn mind?"

Warrick looked at the mattress, then at the window, then at Nick, and shrugged.

Exasperated, Nick huffed, "Siddown, Warrick."

"But I don't…"

"SIT DOWN!!" Nick shoved Warrick just enough to send him onto his seat on the mattress, and that had not been much of a shove.

Warrick looked up at him, his expression all innocence. "Did I do something wrong?"

Nick knelt in front of him, grabbed him by the shoulders, and said, "Excuse me, whoever you are in there, we'd like to talk to Warrick Brown…"

"I'm not possessed!" Warrick's tone was more pouting than angry. "I just thought…I should do something…useful."

"And you thought shoving a queen-sized mattress out a sixth floor window was just the ticket."

Warrick shrugged. "Yeah."

With a sigh of resignation, Nick flopped down on his back beside Warrick. "Rick, have you ever been this drunk before?"

Warrick appeared to give the question serious thought. "Well…no."

"Don't ever do it again."

"Okay."

His wholly unresisting compliance was getting irritating. Nick was beginning to miss the sometimes stubborn Warrick he knew and loved. He pulled him down beside him.

"You know, bro, you're gonna be hatin' life in the morning."

"I'll worry about that in the morning."

"Fine. Well just don't throw up on me, okay?"

"Promise."

"Good. And I promise to kick your ass."

"I'm sorry…you mad at me?" Warrick again gave him a woebegone look.

Nick scowled. "You should be sorry! You really mistreated yourself tonight, buddy, I hope you learn something from it."

Warrick sighed. "Nick, don't be mad. I was just trying to…"

"Trying to what? To forget or to kill yourself?"

Warrick blinked. "Damn, man, I don't know." He looked over at Nick and his expression turned from guilt to fear. "Oh, damn. I really don't know."

Nick closed his eyes, trying to sort out the tangled anger, worry, love and fear into some semblance of a neat braid to wrap around his wayward friend.

"Don't…you…ever do this again. I swear to God, Warrick. EVER."

"I won't."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

"Make me believe you."

Warrick suddenly looked genuinely, tremendously sad, and Nick felt guilty. They'd done all this to try to chase the sadness away. It kept finding them.

"I promise," Warrick repeated, wriggling closer to Nick and wrapping his arms around his waist. "Please, Nicky, I promise."

With a hard sigh, Nick pulled Warrick closer and rubbed his upper back. "Dumbass," he muttered, although in an unconvincingly soft tone.

"I know," Warrick sighed.

"God, are you gonna be a hurtin' turtle in the morning…"

But Warrick was already unconscious. Just like that.

Nick looked at him, studied his expressionless face, checked him to be sure his breathing was normal, then pulled him closer again, cuddling him, nestling his cheek against the soft mass of locks.

"Dumbass…"

********************************************************************

Nick blinked, and looked at the clock. Six a.m. He'd only slept for two, maybe three hours. Although he didn't feel as hung over as he was afraid he'd be, he felt he could use a few more hours. The mattress beside him was empty.

The sounds coming from the bathroom told him why.

Nick rolled his eyes. He shouted, "You okay in there?"

After a few more seconds of retching, he heard a strangled, "I'm fine…" followed by a flush, and the sound of water running in the sink for about thirty seconds.

"I knew it," Nick grumbled. He waited for Warrick to come back to bed. Several minutes passed. No Warrick.

With a groan of mixed impatience and effort, Nick got up and walked to the bathroom. The light was still on. Warrick lay curled up on his side on the floor, without a stitch of clothing on, his clothes all lying in the bathtub, belt draped over the shower curtain rod. Feeling a sting of panic, Nick knelt beside him and checked his breathing.

"Hey, bro…"

"Told you I was fine," Warrick mumbled, barely enunciating well enough to be understood.

"Then why are you lying on the floor naked, pray tell?"

"Because I feel like crap."

"Then you're not fine. Come on, I'll help you."

Nick slung Warrick's limp right arm over his shoulders and helped him to his feet. Warrick moved with all the wobble of a newborn colt, and Nick had to keep a tight grasp on him until they got to the mattress, where he carefully let him down, turning him onto his side in case he had to vomit again.

"I'm gonna get you something to drink, okay?"

"'kay."

Nick had been given the key to the refrigerated mini-bar, and he opened it hoping to find a good remedy. Cola. That hit the "unholy trinity" of hangovers - dehydration, low blood sugar, need for caffeine. He pulled out a can, closed the mini-fridge and returned to the mattress. He knelt beside Warrick, opened the can with what seemed like an abnormally loud pop and fizz, and held the can down to him.

"Can you lean up and take this okay?"

Warrlck tried to prop himself up on one elbow, but simply didn't feel well enough. He reached up and took the can. After a couple of hard swigs, Nick grabbed his wrist.

"Hey, hey. Easy. Your stomach's been through enough. Sips, not gulps."

Warrick took the can, rubbed it across his forehead. The cold metal felt good against his hot, aching head.

"Thanks, Nick."

"Hey…you never did tell me why you tried to throw the bed out the window last night."

Warrick shrugged, his expression one of utter bemusement. "It seemed like a good idea at the time…"

Chuckling, Nick lay beside him, leaning on one elbow as Warrick had tried to do. "And you never did tell me why you took all your clothes off either, Nature Boy."

"I, um…I think I threw up on 'em or something."

"Well, you gotta wear something home, they're gonna need washing, at least your shirt and pants."

"I know. You help me with that…"

"Whoa, am I wearing a uniform that says 'Stokes Laundry'? You can wash your own barf outta your own clothes, thank you very much."

"I was kidding."

Nick sighed in relief. "You must be feeling a little better if you can make a joke."

Warrick took another swig of the cola and tried to set it up on the nearby table. Nick, fearing a spill, helped him. For a long moment, they lay on the mattress, not talking, just resting, just enjoying being together, no need to fill every space with words. "Just being," as Warrick would have said.

Finally, Warrick did recover his inclination to talk. "Still mad?"

"I dunno. Worried is more like it."

"Worried about me?"

"You have no idea."

"Yes I do."

And Warrick's answer hit Nick hard. Yes, he did have a very good, graphic, crushing idea. After his underground ordeal, after a night of urgent treatment and assessment and medicated rest, he remembered eventually floating back into relaxed consciousness, and seeing Warrick sitting in a chair next to his bed, watching him, eyes swollen from crying and red from sleeplessness, managing a weak smile and a weary "Hey…" And he remembered hearing from Catherine about the anguish that had preceded it. He pulled Warrick close again, cuddling him much as he had the night before, though this time wrapping himself around him as if trying to protect him, from the sick, dysfunctional world in which they were brothers in arms, from his guilt and addictions and self-destructive compulsiveness, from himself. He had to admit to himself how good it felt to hold this man close and feel his simple, human, physical warmth, enjoy the feel and texture of his skin, ache for his vulnerability, enjoy the peace with which Warrick accepted Nick's almost unconscious nuzzling, hair-stroking and brushes of the lips across his shoulder, cheek and nose that were, if Nick had been able to admit it, only the most timid form of kisses.

And then, suddenly, Nick started to laugh.

Warrick lifted his head, jarred from his momentary blissful peace.

"Don't laugh at my misery," Warrick begged, his tone one of exaggerated woe.

"I'm not, I swear!" Nick chuckled, "I'm just…"

"Just what?"

Nick laid out the stark moment of clarity. "Here I am…on a mattress…on the floor…in a hotel room…holding a naked man!"

Warrick thought a moment. "Well, when you put it that way…" Then he, too, began to laugh.

"You realize, this would never have happened with any other naked man on earth…"

"Aw, man, now I feel special."

"You are special. But I swear, if you tell anybody…"

"My lips are zipped, honest."

Nick looked at him again, this time fully appreciating, in all its panicked, stark, naked clarity, just how much he really loved the guy.

"Thanks, bro."

"Think of it this way, Nicky…to do this you have to be pretty secure in your own sexuality..."

Nick nodded, a relaxed smile on his face.

Warrick finished the sentence. "…whatever it is."

Nick's expression grew sterner, masking his impulse to laugh out loud.

"Warrick?"

"Yeah?"

"Go wash your clothes…"