Title: Slowly, but exceedingly fine
Author: Aimee Potente
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Pairing: Greg/Nick (And, yes, I know the difference between Warrick and Nick)
Rating: R
Status: Complete
Archive: To WWOMB, otherwise, please ask
Feedback: Yes, please -- be critical.
E-mail: aimeepotente@aol.com
Series: I don't think so
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, they belong to Jerry Bruckheimer and CBS
Summary: Nick. Greg. The open road. Possibilities abound.

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

Pause.

"Are we there yet?"

*

The scenery rolled by in a smear of gold as Nick roared down the deserted highway at three times the speed limit. He wasn't paying attention to the scenery, keeping his mind instead on the road ahead, navigating the straight shot to the Arizona border. The day wasn't so much hot as sweltering and Greg reclined, half-asleep, in the passenger seat, aviator sunglasses shielding his eyes from the bright glare of the sun.

They'd been on the road since eight that morning, getting off work and sparing time only to cash their paychecks before jumping into the car and speeding off into the sunrise. Nick had been downing a succession of caffeinated drinks since early in the day, but his eyes were beginning to droop as the clock on the dashboard inched towards four o'clock and the heat speeded the way to lethargy. He figured he could make it another couple hours, at least until they crossed the border into Arizona and found a place to crash. It wasn't as if there was any place to stop around here, anyway. Just sand and dirt for miles.

It was a nearly perfect day, and the satisfaction Nick felt at getting away from Vegas and the crime lab surprised him. He hadn't realized how much of his life was dedicated to work until he found himself characterizing this impromptu "vacation" as an escape. It made him feel guilty and anxious.

Greg stirred in the seat next to him, sitting up and yawning. "Are we there yet?" he asked after surveying the surrounding area.

"Three guesses, and the first two don't count."

"You know, you could really drive much faster."

"I'm already breaking the speed limit."

"There are no limits, Nick. Only the limits you place on yourself," Greg replied ominously.

"Thank you, Obi-Wan. I'll keep that in mind."

*

"I thought we asked for a single bed?"

Nick and Greg stood in the doorway of the motel room, surveying the small space and its well-worn furnishings. Two beds jutted out from the wall.

"Can we still have hot monkey sex in double beds?" Greg asked salaciously, plopping down on one of the beds.

"'Hot monkey sex'? -- And no, we can't." Nick walked around the room with short, agitated motions. "I can't believe this! I'm going down there right now and yell at the desk clerk until he gives us another room."

"Whoa, whoa, man." Greg jumped off the bed and moved to Nick's side. "Lets not make waves over an honest mistake."

Nick pulled away from the loose grip Greg had on his arm and continued pacing.

"Nick--"

"No."

"--I *really* think we should talk."

"No."

Greg sighed and started doing some pacing of his own. "Okay, all right, but how `bout you chew them out tomorrow morning?" He moved up behind Nick. "Let's just get some sleep."

"Fine," Nick answered, but stayed where he was.

"We can push the beds together and sleep next to each other."

"Yeah." Nick finally turned around and pulled Greg into his arms.

"It'll be all right," Greg reassured, holding tightly to his lover.

Nick didn't answer.

*

"Can't you yell at the manager *after* I get my free, complimentary coffee?"

"Greg, you don't *need* coffee."

The two men walked towards the elevator, bags in hand. It was still early enough in the morning that most of the motel's inhabitants were not yet awake, but there were a few like-minded travelers trying to get a head start on the day. The elevator was empty, though, when they boarded.

Greg snorted indignantly. "Back off, girlfriend. Guess who's driving today?"

"God help us," Nick muttered as he punched the button for the first floor. "Just be thankful Arizona doesn't have a three strikes law."

"Hey, isn't that the pot calling the kettle--"

"Watch it."

Greg snickered before lurching forward into Nick's arms when the elevator jerked to an abrupt halt.

"What the hell?" Nick demanded. After ensuring Greg had both feet on the ground, he walked over to the control panel and started punching buttons. "Damn, we're stuck," he admitted after ineffectually attempting to get the car moving.

"No kidding." Greg was silent a moment before adding, "Listened to any Aerosmith lately?"

Nick turned around and grinned at Greg. Not surprisingly, he gave up pushing the elevator's buttons for a while.

*

The Men's Wearhouse was silent, midday light streaming through the picture windows. There was one other man in the store, looking over the sport coats and twirling a cigarette anxiously in his right hand. Greg stood next to a display of brightly colored ties, admiring a purple and gold one and its matching handkerchief.

"You are *not* wearing that," Nick commented, coming up behind him.

Greg flipped over the price tag. "Apparently not."

"Com'on, bro, let's find someone who can help us."

"Why don't you beat it and let me pick out my own suit?" Greg asked.

"Because I don't want you picking out a purple one."

"Please, give me some credit," Greg returned. "Mustard yellow."

"Ah, well in that case, have fun." Nick leaned in and dropped a kiss on Greg's nose, seeming somewhat relieved to be getting away. "Remember -- black," he called over his shoulder as he walked out.

Greg smiled and waited until Nick was out of sight before approaching the counter and tapping the bell for service.

"Good afternoon," greeted the middle-aged man who emerged from a room behind the counter. "How may I help you?"

"I'm looking for a suit, a black one."

"Ah," the man smiled, "A wedding?"

"Funeral."

"Oh. I'm sorry," the man offered. "I think I have a Givenchy that would be just perfect."

*

Traffic flowed at a leisurely pace on the one-way street and throngs of people crowded the sidewalk. Nick was caught up in the bustle of movement, his feet gliding along the pavement, his eyes, hidden behind dark shades, staring ahead of him. His long, unhurried stride carried him past latte stands, sidewalk cafes, second hand bookstores, and an ice cream shoppe spelled with an "e" for no apparent reason. He observed his surroundings as part of his second nature, his pace never slowing nor tripping up. He kept walking.

Sunlight spilled across the walk, outlining in shadow the leaves on the trees that lined the street. The sidewalk was a patchwork of light and shadow, the plots of shade not providing anymore of a harbor from the heat than the patches exposed to light. His steps carried him from patch to patch, letting the light and shadow flow over him.

*

"My boyfriend's father died on Tuesday and he's been a horrible bastard since he got the news," Greg informed the man -- George was his name -- as he twirled in front of the full-length mirror, admiring the dark, Givenchy suit hanging from his lean frame. "I think it's too big."

"Well, if the funeral is tomorrow, we won't have time to tailor it. The length only shows in the legs, however, and I can pin them up if you would like."

"I suppose that costs extra?"

George smiled.

*

The thought struck with searing clarity: I can't play football with my father anymore.

Sundays playing football on the lawn when Jay would always fumble the ball and I broke my arm getting tackled by my cousins, Darl and Paul, and my father could throw the ball farther than anyone, till we were chasing it into the next day, and my mother would ring the bell for supper and calls us in and Grandmother would sit rocking on the porch, guarding the door and telling us over and over again how Grandpa got lynched, livin' in fear of the woolies, fingerprints on Mom's picture window and the spider web created by the baseball that bashed through it the summer I was first called a nigger.

And I can't play football with my father anymore.

*

"--It's like he has nothing to say," Greg complained. "He sits in the car, laughs at my jokes, but he won't tell me what's going on"

"I'll wrap this up for you," George said, taking the suit from Greg and heading towards the counter.

"Things were going really great," Greg told the full-length mirror.

"Mr. Sanders!" George called from the register.

Greg moved over to him, pulling his wallet from his slacks. "Okay, George, what's the damage? Let me down easy, man."

"$412.26. We accept credit cards."

Greg sighed melodramatically, but there was something truly mournful in the sound, along with an edge of anger. "There will apparently be no Gamecube for Greg this Christmas," he announced resignedly, passing his credit card to George.

As their fingertips touched in the transaction, George looked Greg directly in the eye and said to him, sincerely, "This too shall pass." Then he turned back to his register and took Greg's money.

But Greg left feeling unbearably light.

*

Small, electronic beeping sounds resonated from the other side of the car as they sped down the interstate.

Nick glanced over warily. "What are you doing?"

"Die, commie scum, die!"

"Greg, not in the car."

"Hah! Got another one!" Greg cheered happily, his fingers moving at lightning speed over the video game controls. "You shall never see another living day! Wa-ha-ha!"

Nick shook his head at the ominous tone his lover's laughter had taken. "Greg, could you please put that piece of crap away?"

"What? VGN is not a piece of crap! Just because *you* don't know how to play it--"

"I'm going to stop the car and make you walk if you don't stop playing with that thing."

Greg leaned in close. "What would you rather I play with?"

Nick groaned. "What is it about you and cars?"

"I'm just a healthy, growing boy, Nick."

"Yeah, well, hold that thought."

*

The engine made a ratcheting sound and died. And -- just to emphasize the extent to which they were screwed -- a plume of grey smoke escaped from beneath the hood.

"Uh-oh, that can't be good," Greg commented.

Nick ignored him and climbed out of the car. Greg rolled his eyes and followed suit, leaning against the car door while Nick examined the engine. "Can you fix it?" he asked.

Nick yanked something out of the engine and threw it on the ground.

"Okaaay. Don't we need that?"

Nick didn't answer, but, instead, continued to fume over the engine.

"Fine, don't talk to me. That's very ma--"

"Would you shut the fuck up?"

"What?"

"Do you ever stop talking? Don't you shut up?"

Greg was clearly taken aback. "I'm just trying to lighten the mood."

"Someone *cut* our fanbelt, Greg. Those assholes in Albuquerque sabotaged our car, what the fuck is funny about that?"

"Oh com'on," Greg said, trying to hide his growing irritation. "You don't know it was them. Where's your evidence?"

"*This* is my evidence." Nick grabbed the fanbelt off the ground and threw it at Greg. "Who else would have done it?"

Greg's face clenched in anger. "Well maybe if you hadn't *assaulted* them--"

"They called you a faggot!"

"I am a faggot, Nick."

Nick threw his hands up in exasperation and turned his back on Greg. His body hunched over the hood of the car in something resembling defeat, his hands gripping the hood tightly.

Greg remained a safe distance away and watched as his lover's shoulders started to shake. "Listen, I know something's wrong--"

"You don't know, you don't fucking understand!" Nick shouted, voice straining and almost breaking.

"I *do* understand! You think my parents were thrilled when I brought my Black boyfriend to their Syttende Mai celebration?"

"You don't know how I feel! You don't know what this *feels* like," Nick cried, the anguish tangible in his voice.

"Then tell me," Greg begged.

When Nick's fist connected with his gut, Greg doubled over in pain, the breath forced from his lungs and a searing ache burned a path from his stomach to his spine.

"MISERABLE!" Nick shrieked at him. "I feel *miserable*."

Greg straightened himself. "Okay, that's a start." Then he backhanded Nick across the jaw. "Will beating each other to a bloody pulp make you feel better? Will it bring your father back?"

Nick growled, slamming Greg up against the car. Greg pushed back. "People live, people die, you *move* on. That's the natural order of things. You're a scientist, Nick, you know that."

"No," Nick shook his head.

"You have to move on, man."

Nick stared pleadingly into Greg's eyes, a further negation on his lips, but instead of speaking he seized Greg by the hair and dragged him close for a forceful kiss.

Greg was taken aback by the desperation in the action, the pent-up *need* that recoiled into him with uncontainable force, driving their bodies away from the car in a graceless tumble to the side of the road. Sweat-soaked skin glided together, hands dancing, disembodied and possessive, across the chiaroscuro of their entwined bodies, stripping them to their bare bones. Dirt clung to their damp skin and pebbles dug into the pale planes of Greg's exposed back as Nick pressed him into the ground, hands and mouths scorching each other's skin, rhythm and movement (Connected). Greg's body arched, flowing like water into Nick's.

*I love you*.

Greg rolled himself to the top of their pile, laughing down at Nick (Invincible), his teeth closing around his lover's bottom lip sending vibrations of laughter through their mouths, electrical sparks shared between their teeth.

"I love you," Nick whispered against Greg's neck.

*

The Texas border reared up before them. Greg nudged Nick, who was dozing in the passenger seat, and whispered to him, "We're almost there."

*

At approximately four o'clock in the afternoon, they pulled into the cemetery, with its impeccably groomed lawn glowing emerald under the sun. Nick parked the car at the side of the road that snaked through the cemetery and pulled the key out of the ignition, leaning back in the driver's seat. From the window he could see people in black suits and skirts looking too hot and standing too still surrounding a hole scored in the ground.

"Are you ready?" Greg asked.

"No," Nick answered, taking a deep breath and reaching for the door handle.

*You move on*.

They stepped out of the car.

The End