Title: Four Lessons in Love
By: Caster
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: PG
A/N: I can't decide whether this story is three months late or nine months early. Despite this, I always try to look up on the up side of every situation: it was written, wasn't it? That's a lot more than I can say for the rest of my works-in-progress, which may never make it from my floppy to the Internet. I'm still not sure if I like this, but I spent far too long on writing for it to gather dust on my hard drive. Cheers!
Disclaimer: I don't own CSI. Also, I would like to make a disclaimer on my rendition on our favorite boy's families: the only family history I have on both Greg and Nick is what CBS offers on their site. Unfortunately for rabid fans everywhere, this information is very vague. But we'll always have Grandpa Olaf.
Summary: Both Nick and Greg learn four lessons in love as the crazy holidays crash into their lives.

***

Nick had never experienced a full-blown, in-your-face Sander's Christmas before, and just between you and me, he wasn't quite sure he'd survive to see New Years.

He was thinking this as he juggled a pineapple in one hand and a bowl of what seemed to be gray mashed potatoes (brought by Greg's Aunt Edna) in the other, praying to God he could make it to the refrigerator without dropping something in the process. After all, he was crammed in among twenty-three other people in the house and the kitchen was an impossible forty feet away. One wrong jab of the elbow; one trip over a rebellious shoelace and it was all over for anyone holding spill-inclined foods or breakable items.

"Hey Nick!" Nick cautiously looked up from his trek; he recognized the voice, but the name escaped him. There were too many relatives to try to remember in too short a time; the guy was probably an older cousin, only a few years younger than Nick himself. "You know where these presents are supposed to go?" The cousin attempted to actually see Nick's face above the sea of heads; when this failed, he held up several packages to make a point.

"In the basement," Nick called back, quickly protecting the gray mashed potatoes from certain doom as an orange cat went hurdling through the party, chasing what seemed to be an invisible mouse. No explanation was needed, as the cousin merely nodded and began his search for the stairs leading below the house. And besides, putting gifts in the living room was just asking for it, as enthusiastic family members were already occupying it to its full capacity.

Nick turned back, now only two aunts and three cousins away from victory; the refrigerator was shining like a beacon and he would be glad to get rid of his cargo. Sure, his Texas family's Christmas parties could get pretty extreme; everyone in town knew they could pull off a spectacular celebration. And every year, the entire Stokes clan would jet down to Texas for the holidays, so Nick was certainly accustomed to the volume of bodies and the laughter and shouting of small children. But while his family was tranquil and fairly calm, Greg's relatives were the polar opposite. There was no such thing as "internal dialogue" or privacy; it was a candid and outspoken family who made no apologies. As a matter of fact, Greg could be considered pretty normal compared to his numerous cousins. His Papa Roach t-shirt was nothing when measured up against cousin Agnis's custom hair, which she cut herself and dyed a festive green and red.

In any event, while Nick was fairly certain the men in his family were playing some football on the lawn of his Texan home, the men of the Sander's family were currently engaged in a little known Norwegian sport in the living room that involved a tennis ball and some fishing nets. Perhaps the living room wasn't the wisest environment in which to play any sort of sport, but the couches had been ceremoniously pushed back and all fragile, valuable possessions had been hidden within the deep recesses of a closet somewhere, far away from the careless swing and the extended length of a net.

Right about now, the women of the Stokes family were cooking some traditional dishes and gossiping, catching up with one another. Greg's female relatives did the same, laughing and berating the cat; only they were roasting up some recipes Nick wasn't even sure he could pronounce. Rømmegrøt? Rumor round the house was it had something to do with sour cream and cinnamon. He never minded trying something new, but he knew it was a bad sign when he had to hold his breath while standing in the kitchen. The smell of delicious cabbage rolls being boiled up was nauseating and for those not following along, the emphasis on "delicious" was sarcasm on his part. He loved all of Greg's relatives, but one thing he just couldn't do was cabbage.

However, there were some things that never changed, no matter which family he was with. He knew his little nieces and nephews were watching the Macy's parade in Dallas; the little monsters claiming to be related to Greg were upstairs with their eyes glued to the television screen. Greg himself would sometimes run up to catch a marching band, loving the sousaphones and drums, the music and loud costumes.

But Nick wasn't upstairs or playing long-forgotten sports. He wasn't trying to battle a demented cat and he certainly wasn't trying to find the lost door to the basement. No, he was in the kitchen with the women, making something involving a lot of sour cream and flour, only barely standing the reek of boiled cabbage. And while he definitely wasn't what you'd call domestic, he was a decent enough cook to warrant contributing to the Christmas feast; even if he wasn't, the ladies were a little understaffed and could use all the help they could get their oven-mitt sheathed hands on.

As he successfully (if not miraculously) located the salt (right after he made it to the fridge with no collateral damage), he could hear Greg tuning up some guitar strings in the dining room. He prepared himself; he knew Greg was still learning the instrument and was about to bust out some carols he had reinvented. Whether this was a good idea or not remained to be seen, but Greg practiced religiously and had such passion that there was no way Nick could ever tell him that maybe drums would be a better choice. Besides, the family seemed to think that Greg was pretty talented and far be it for Nick to disagree. When Greg knew he wanted to do something, he did it and never surrendered. There were so many things Nick loved about that man that he'd long since given up trying to keep count.

"Bad shot, one o'clock!" a voice called from the living room and Nick looked up just in time to see a tennis ball flying through the air, right towards him and his freshly sliced European cucumbers. In one smooth motion, he reached up and caught the offending ball before tossing it back to Uncle Wilheim, knowing that any warning he might give about games in the house would be breath wasted.

To be truthful, when Greg had first suggested his family in California for Christmas, Nick had been hesitant to say the least. He and Greg had been dating for almost a year and Nick loved him more than he ever thought he could; still, meeting the family was terrifyingly big step, even for a thirty-six year old Texan.

But he sucked it up like a man; knocked on the door, tentative and almost shy, anchored only by Greg standing next to him on the porch.

"They'll love you," Greg had promised and squeezed his hand. "Trust me." Nick gave him a nervous grin, saying something along the lines of he wasn't nervous in the least. This was as transparent as glass and when the door swung open, Mr. Sanders himself poked his head out and Nick had to fight the urge to turn and run in the opposite direction. Fathers were always relentless when it came to their children's significant others and Nick felt like he was in high school all over again when Mr. Sanders cast a suspicious eye Nick's way.

But Mrs. Sanders had more or less shoved Greg's dad out of the door way and let out a delighted squeal before her husband could protest; with one look at Nick she had said, "I always told my little Greggie that there were plenty of fish in the sea, but you're the prize catch, aren't you?" before throwing her arms around him in a welcome hug. The first thing Nick learned was that personal space was not an option in the Sander's family, but he didn't mind; so anxious he'd been with hopes they'd approve of him that he hadn't really planned on what he'd do in a situation where they almost liked him too much. He managed a weak, "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am," trying to adjust to the fact that Greg's family didn't consist of proper Texas ladies.

Nick supposed a lung-crushing hug was a pretty good way to start the morning and suddenly there he was, the family acting as if they had known him all their lives. Cooking, sharing secrets, telling horror stories of Greg when he was younger, stories Nick knew he could tease Greg with for months to come. It was his not-quite-adequate revenge towards Greg, because Nick had a bad feeling Greg was going to force him to eat cabbage rolls and there were few things as wicked as that. Nothing was tolerable enough when it came to cabbage.

And then his cell phone rang.

So busy he'd been trying to duck from another unruly tennis ball ("Bad shot, one o'clock!"), scavenging for some spare butter (a lost cause, unless that yellow stuff in the back of the fridge counted as anything. It expired four months ago, but did it matter if it was cooked? Was that a chance he was willing to take?), and battling off a possessed cat that he didn't check his caller I.D. He could only assume it was Catherine or Warrick, someone from work to wish he and Greg a happy holiday at an inopportune time. He answered with a small laugh and a "Hello?"

"Nick?"

It was the resigned voice of his mother.

He froze in the middle of his task, half way in the fridge with his hand brushing the unknown Yellow Substance. Her voice was heavy and unsure, even though he never expected to really hear from anyone in his family again. Not since he told them about Greg. "Mom?" he asked, making sure his brain wasn't playing tricks on him. He pressed his phone to his right ear and pressed a hand against the left; the voices and laughter were too loud and the house too small. Suddenly, he couldn't think.

"Hey sweetie."

"Hi," he replied, resisting the imminent stutter in his voice and the persistent abuse the cat dolled out on his now-tattered shoes. "What's going on?"

"Just calling to see how your Christmas is going," she answered, almost as tentative as he was. Above his head, he could hear ten pairs of small feet running around, excited that Garfield was now floating down the streets of New York. He wondered if his own little monsters were doing the same and knew they probably were.

Nick heard a million pieces of conversation on her side of the line. He could hear the voices of his sisters and nieces, the bellows of men tossing a pigskin, the laughter of his grandparents. Only for a moment was he homesick, because he had swore to himself not to dwell on the absence of his family, especially not during the holidays. It didn't sound as if they were missing him. He ignored the disappointment.

"It's going great, mom." A hesitant pause, then, "Yours?"

"Oh, you know. Just the usual chaos."

Nick spotted a clear opening to the backdoor. It was almost like a miracle; in this house, you had to push your way through to get to any given point. There was no orderly path of any sort. You risked your life in the living room, you risked your hands in the kitchen, and you risked your sanity upstairs with The Monsters. The only place anyone could have anything resembling a private conversation would be in the basement, bathroom, or porch. The first two were probably already occupied; the backyard, however, looked astonishingly empty.

"And how's everyone?" Nick asked, managing to work past numerous relatives and make it to the backdoor in one piece. He slid the door open, stepped out, and then slid the door close again, finding a seat on the abandoned back deck.

"Everyone's fine," she replied, her voice a little strained. There was a pause in their already awkward conversation before he heard her take a breath.

"Nicky, it's not quite the same without you here."

He felt a wave of relief at her admission. He wanted to be missed by his family. If they acknowledged his absence with just a little regret, then maybe there was a place their hearts where they didn't hate him, where they could look at him without disdain at the fact he wasn't what they molded him into. "You're the one who asked me not to come," he said softly, closing his eyes at the memory. He knew the route this conversation would take and he knew where it would end.

"I know, but if your… boyfriend-''

"His name's Greg."

"Fine. If Greg were to just visit his own family for Christmas or- or if you just came down here alone then there might not be a problem. It could be the way is used to be." Her voice held a tone of pleading; asking her precious son to return back to the way he was, not to cause any scandals. To be the good son he always had been before he left Texas.

"Where I was unhappy and hiding from everyone? Besides, everybody already knows about him and they know I'm not exactly straight." His own voice was laced with pleading as well, begging to be accepted and to forgive him of his non-existent sin. "You're dreaming, mom."

"I wish I was dreaming, Nicky."

Nick clutched the phone a little bit harder, his knuckles slightly white. He knew he would have to choose when he met the right guy; choose between his significant other and his family. He hated it. He hated that he was always a good son and his parents would still turn him away. Gender was such an insignificant variable to a relationship; didn't they realize Greg made him happier than he'd ever been before?

"I'll talk to you later, mom."

"Nicky-''

"Don't do this! You're not going to guilt me into abandoning Greg every Christmas so I can make everyone happy, okay?"

"Fine! Jesus, Nick, I don't know why I bothered calling."

"Neither do I. We both know things are going to stay the same."

"You're giving up your family for your man of the month?" It was an accusation and suddenly Nick knew what innocent suspects felt like on the wrong side of the interrogation room. "You're being so selfish! Tearing up the family as if we meant nothing!"

"I still love you, mom, and nothing's going to change that. But I love him too and he makes me happy. He's more than a fling."

"Don't say that, Nick."

"You don't have to hear it. Hell, you never have to see me again if you don't want to. But he's part of my life now. If you would just accept it then no one would have to choose anything."

He could hear her silence before her sobs, the fact she knew she was losing. She had moved from the busy dining room to her bedroom as she sometimes would, where her crying echoed off the walls, amplifying it over the phone and making Nick feel as if he just committed a heinous crime.

"I didn't raise you to be this way, Nick! Why can't you find a nice woman and be normal? Your brother did!"

Harsh words he knew were coming. He swallowed down the vile pain and whispered, "You'd better be quiet, momma. Dad's gonna hear you and he'll be upset."

"He'll be angry with you. Everyone here acts as if you don't exist. Please, Nick, leave that man and be a regular guy. Find a woman and have a family. Please."

Nick closed it eyes. "Goodbye, mom."

"Nicky…"

"I love you. Merry Christmas, okay? Tell everyone I said hi, if they want to hear it."

He ended the call and then proceeded to turn off his phone, fully aware he wouldn't be able to stand it if she or any other family member called again. He had already dealt with the feeling of selfishness that came with being in love with another man. He was tearing himself away from his family, but he wouldn't have to if they would just allow him to be who he really was. Still, hearing his mother's voice made him sick with guilt. He had pretended for so long and things always went smoothly; it was blissful ignorance on his family's part. He wasn't ashamed of Greg or their relationship. But… was it worth…?

Nick felt arms encircle his waist as Greg hugged him from behind before kissing his right shoulder.

"I bet I know who that was," Greg whispered. Nick unconsciously relaxed into the embrace; it was his default, his body's natural reaction to the younger man.

"I bet you do. But everything's fine. I just needed a quiet place to talk with her."

Nick could feel Greg sigh before he tightened his hold around the Texan. "I feel terrible," he admitted. "I feel like I'm responsible for all this. You could be with them if you wanted, if you didn't choose to be with me. Of course, I'm glad you chose me, but that doesn't quell the guilt."

Nick laughed a little before he shook his head. Greg had the terrible tendency to ramble on when he was nervous or upset and only he would use the word "quell" in a sentence. "They would have acted the same way no matter what guy I brought home. We talked about this already, sweetheart."

"I know. I love you, you know. I hope I'm worth all this trouble."

"I love you too," Nick replied, turning so that he was facing Greg, resting against the porch railing with Greg's arms still around his waist. "And of course you're worth it. We've come way too far to turn back now."

"But your family-''

"I moved to Las Vegas because I couldn't pretend and I couldn't conform. I love them. But I love you and you make me happy, so I've made up my mind and I'm sticking to it."

Their hands found one another's and their fingers intertwined, Greg propping himself lightly against the other man. "I just hope your Christmas isn't completely ruined. I know you're about to go crazy with the cat and… well, the fact we have to store presents in the basement speaks volumes by itself."

Nick laughed, leaning in to give Greg a quick kiss. "Your family's perfect. I'm just a little scared to eat their cooking."

"It's Norwegian food. It's good for you," Greg said, grinning at Nick's roll of eyes.

"I'm still debating on where to grab a burger. All I know is I was cooking something with a lot of sour cream and questionable butter. Besides, I have a phobia of eating foods I can't pronounce."

"If you love me, you'll choke down my people's cooking with a smile on your face. I'll let you gag and complain as much as you want when we get back on the plane."

It was tempting offer and he was about to reply when a bright flash and giggle interrupted their quiet, romantic moment. They turned to see cousin #9 standing in the back doorway clutching a disposable camera; Nick knew he might never remember all the names, but he was willing to give it a try. Until then, number labeling would have to suffice.

They were startled but didn't pull apart, merely casting the girl an amused look.

"Hope you like coal, 'cause that's Santa's bring you, you little brat," Greg said, the threat striking fear in nobody's heart.

The cousin laughed again, waving the camera tauntingly before saying, "It was a cute moment. Now mum said it's time to eat. Last one there's a rotten egg!"

The little girl turned, fleeing the scene of the crime, blonde pigtails flying behind her and the photographic evidence grasped in her small hand.

"Ah, food," sighed Greg, turning his attention back to Nick. "You can try our sour cream porridge."

"Is that what I was making?" Nick asked, wrinkling his nose. "I had to have used ten containers of that stuff."

"It's a traditional recipe," Greg explained, laughing once more at the look on the other man's face. "It's yummy. Everyone here likes it."

"Burger King it is then. I just hope they're open on Christmas."

"Remember you love me, if not my food."

Nick certainly couldn't argue with that logic. So he followed Greg back into the house where the cat was terrorizing the gray mashed potatoes and a tennis ball had just landed in the plate of cabbage rolls.

And somehow, he didn't mind at all.

Lesson #1: To be with the one you love, you must sometimes sacrifice a few things. Sanity, personal space, and decent food are the most glaringly obvious. Occasionally, though, there are more difficult decisions to be made. It all depends on what you're willing to give up. Let no one bully you into what you feel is the wrong choice.

…

362 days later.

Christmas was in three days.

The looming date was a huge deal for Greg, of course, because the Sander's (cousins #1-9 included) were coming to the city of Las Vegas for the holidays this year. With them came a manic cat and some gray mashed potatoes that weren't actually potatoes at all; in fact, no one knew what they were, but the family ate them anyway to appease Aunt Edna.

The year before, Nick and Greg couldn't begin to have enough room in their apartment to fit everyone, but in January they managed to organize their finances and pay off any creditors who might have been snapping at their heels. They bought a house October. It was only fifteen minutes away from the lab in a respectable neighborhood and Greg, who could have sworn three years ago that he would never have this kind of happiness, couldn't wait. Miracle upon miracles, he and Nick could even agree on the holiday menu. Sour cream porridge so long as there was a decent green bean casserole and under no circumstances was there to be any cabbage rolls.

It was Thursday and Greg had appropriately dubbed their kitchen The Lab, mainly because it looked like a mad scientist's workroom. There were dishes, pots, and pans scattered all over the counters. The refrigerator was stocked and there wasn't enough room in the pantry for all the canned corn and cranberry sauce. But Greg could certainly make due and remembered that if he could survive last year, he could conquer any year from now on with no sweat.

He plugged in the electric can opener and pulled out fourteen cans of green beans, carefully stacking them until it looked as if he had built a small empire. Nick had left almost twenty minutes ago to buy the things they had forgotten the first three trips to the store and left Greg alone to start working on the feast. You heard right: Greg was cooking alone. Frightening? Perhaps. But after Nick made him swear not to leave the oven on too long and thus burn down their house (their house. Greg couldn't stop a stupid smile from forming at the thought.) Nick left to go buy some decorations for their (their) tree; in his absence, Greg took the opportunity to pump up some tunes and dumped can after can into a ridiculously large pan. He knew Nick wasn't a huge fan of blaring music, so he got his fix when he could.

He almost didn't hear the phone ring.

Fortunately, the CD tracks changed and in the small window of silence he could hear the shrill ringing of the receiver; he quickly stopped the music before another song could blast out and picked up the cordless in spite of the Cream of Mushroom soup covering his fingers.

"Hello?" he asked, cheerfully, looking fully domesticated in his apron and not caring one bit.

Only silence answered him in return and after a moment he said, "Hello? Anyone there?"

Precious seconds were wasting away and if he didn't find some more butter, Nick would never trust him to cook again. Maybe it was a lonely teenager's prank or some faulty electronic message but either way, he was about to hang up. His thumb was hovering over the 'Off' button until he heard the soft voice of a woman on the other end.

"I'm sorry. I must have the wrong number."

"Depends on who you're looking for," Greg replied. The voice on the other line sounded like regret and hesitation and dread all in one bleak package.

"I'm looking for Nick Stokes. Is this his new number?"

"It certainly is," said Greg. He was about to say something else; he wasn't sure what, exactly, until it him like an anvil would Wild E. Coyote, like on the cartoons stations would play Christmas morning.

"You're his mom," he blurted before any intelligence he might have had could catch up. He wasn't prepared for this, not in an apron with the Tran-Siberian Orchestra playing in the background. He needed a Southern manners guide and a Texas Law Review; he needed the current weather reports of Dallas and Nick's family tree, complete with photos, birth dates, and current residences. He needed to do research before he could ever have a proper conversation with any member of the Stokes family. And Nick. He needed Nick. Yes, Nick would be pretty helpful right about now.

"And you're Greg Sanders, aren't you?" Matter-of-fact surrender. Her dear Nicky and Greg were still together, so it had to be one of the two on the other end of the line and it certainly wasn't her son.

"I am."

"Ah." Awkward pause, then, "Is Nick there?"

"Not at the moment. But all messages can be forwarded to yours truly."

"Oh. All right. Just tell Nick that I called about Christmas."

"Sure thing," Greg replied, his soup-spotted fingers groping for a pen and scribbling down the message on a spare piece of paper hanging on the fridge. His mind was traveling at an impossible speed. Why would Nick's mother call about Christmas? Did she want to see her son? Was such a phenomenon feasible? He considered his words carefully even as the words began tumbling from his mouth.

"Are you… I mean, are you guys coming up here this year?"

"I'm sorry?" she asked, as if she weren't expecting the question. Greg squeezed his eyes shut and resisted the urge to bang his head against the pantry door. Stupid! What were you thinking? Of course she's not coming!

"For Christmas?" he continued, knowing he couldn't back out now. "We're a desert but Nevada can still throw a great holiday party."

There was an uncertain pause at the other end and Greg prayed to God he hadn't made some sort of mistake, something to make the Stokes distance themselves even farther than they already had. "You're having Christmas over there?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yes, ma'am," Greg replied, wishing God would just send the lightening bolt already. "My family's coming over from California and I'm in the middle of opening fourteen cans of green beans. Can you imagine that? Nick's forcing me to be domestic. Neighbors everywhere have their phones ready for when they smell the smoke."

"Oh." Oh? Had his charming conversational skills suddenly died? He supposed bitter enemies didn't idly chitchat over the phone; if he was feeling the awkward strain, he was fairly sure that Mrs. Stokes was two seconds away from slamming down the phone and having a nervous breakdown.

"Yeah," he continued, his mouth working independently from his brain. When was he planning to shut-up? The possibility of never was as realistic as anything else at the moment. "W-we're decorating the tree today and cooking for the family.''

"In Nick's little apartment?" Her voice sounded incredulous. He couldn't blame her; they would have had to change the laws of physics to fit twenty-three other people in either Nick or Greg's apartment.

"No, ma'am. In our house, Mrs. Stokes."

A terrifying silence fell before, "You bought a house together?"

Greg couldn't stop his smile, despite the circumstances and despite his often neglected better judgment. "We did. It's white and brick and we're in a nice suburb. Plus we're only fifteen minutes from the lab, so that means extra time sleeping in. That scored major points with both of us."

There was a hush and Greg resisted the urge to fill it in with his nonsense, because he couldn't stand the uncomfortable silence. The quietness was heavy and he knew she was turning this new information over in her head, scrutinizing it and looking at all the angles.

Finally, her voice came through. She didn't sound angry or upset; it was more like defeat in the hands of an enemy she never thought she'd have. "This isn't going to go away, is it?"

Greg considered playing dense ("What won't go away, ma'am?") pretending not to know what she was referring to and sparing him about ten more seconds of dignity. But Nick came with baggage and Greg came with his own as well. Despite this, Greg loved all of Nick, not just the easy-to-understand, mess free part of him. It was all or nothing; that's what they'd decided and that was what they were going to stick to.

"No, ma'am. It's not going to go away," Greg replied, quietly. By then, he had wandered into the dining room and found a chair, sinking into it and resting his head in his hand. He wasn't ashamed of the beseeching tone in his voice; it wasn't surrender, it was compromise. It was a peace treaty. But more than anything, it was the strong desire for Nick to be happy. "Please come for Christmas. We'll cook whatever you want. You can have the master bedroom. Hey, we'll buy your ticket," he offered, weakly. "How about that?"

"It's not about that, Greg," she replied, and he felt slightly heartened that she called him by his name.

"Mrs. Stokes," he finally said, taking a deep and somewhat brave breath, "Nick loves you and he's still the same man you've always known. He's such a good guy and I love him like I've never loved anyone. He makes sure I'm okay and when the lab exploded he was there for me. Do you understand that? He's amazing. But he misses you and it would mean the world if you came just this once. Just one year, y'know?"

Another (now familiar) gap in the conversation before she asked, her voice slightly shaky, "The lab exploded? When did this happen?"

Greg's throat tightened at the memory, reminiscence he never liked to dwell on. It was hard and he still thought himself a coward; he still had trouble concentrating in the lab and his nightmares of fire and smoke still hid in the shadows of his subconscious. But for Nick, he would do anything, even return back to the place in which he tried so hard to escape. "About two years ago."

"Was he hurt?"

"No ma'am. He wasn't in the lab at the time, but I was." Greg closed his eyes, images of a blaze printed permanently in his mind. "I can tell you that he'd save this city if he could. Everything he does is for someone else. But you surely know that by now, don't you Mrs. Stokes?"

He could hear her exhaustion. He knew she had been torn apart- torn between her son and the opinions and reactions of the rest of the family, just trying to keep everything together and nearly fading away in the process.

"I have missed so much of his life," she finally whispered. It was a collapse on her part and Greg was lost on how to help. He settled on just letting her speak, allowing her to get everything out in the open. "Or I ignored it, which is almost worse. When he was nine… I knew about it. Don't you understand why I can't simply show up in his new life? He struggled so hard to leave here, leave Texas and all the things that reminded him of his painful days. I don't want to bring it back."

"You won't. He wants you and his sisters and father here with us."

"Greg…"

"He misses you, believe me."

"I miss him too," she whispered and Greg could almost hear her tears. "But I've been such a terrible mother. I knew and I did nothing. I don't deserve to see him."

Greg was aware that this was the tipping point. Just one slight push, one stroke of luck, then perhaps Nick could have what he's wanted for almost two years. "Then you at least owe him some happiness. Can we send you a plane ticket?"

"No."

Greg could feel his heart bottom out at the response before she continued. "That's not necessary. But if- if you're sure that he wants us there in Las Vegas then possibly… I don't know. Maybe we could stop by."

"Absolutely. Bring everyone. Pet goldfish and second cousins twice removed included, just so long as you get to Nevada this year."

A small laugh among her anguish; one speck of color on a snow-covered field. "I'll think about it."

Greg closed his eyes and said a silent prayer, tapping his fingertips against the tabletop anxiously.

Don't let this be a disaster.

"All right. You take care of yourself, Mrs. Stokes."

Please let this work.

"And you take care of my son, Mr. Sanders."

Let Nick be happy.

Greg doesn't need to be told twice.

Lesson #2: Honor and bravery isn't a much-used characteristic among men anymore and it seems that all the heroes have died. But wait; allow time to run its course. Time tests character as well as your cooking skills and one day, your good heart will pay off.

…

Greg knew why he was tense but hated to admit it to himself, much less to Nick. Nick was so calm despite the fact that his parents with whom he'd barely spoken for almost two years were coming for Christmas, all thanks to Greg's persistent calling, bargaining, and pleading.

All he knew was that he would never be able to tease Nick about meeting the parents again, because meeting the parents was a terrifying thing that should never be tried at home without the assistance of a trained professional. He even braved the packed mall to find something decent to wear, something a judge on the Texas Supreme Court would approve of, if indeed said judge approved of Greg at all. Christmas morning found him in the bathroom, trying to figure a way to make his hair spiky but not in the caliber it usually was. No rubber band bracelets or Papa Roach t-shirts. And no blue jeans or duct-taped sneakers; a pair of decent khakis and dress shoes he so rarely wore were donned instead.

Greg took one quick look into the mirror before heading down stairs where Nick was already cooking some breakfast and beginning the re-heating process of their delicious Norwegian-meets-Texas Christmas dinner. It was a brilliant plan, really: cook everything before hand and just pop it in the oven when The Day came. And today was The Day. Lord, he felt sick at the thought.

Nick looked up from his task and gave Greg a smile; for a moment, Greg could do nothing but smile back. How long have I been in love with that smile? It wasn't something he usually dwelled on. He knew what Nick sacrificed in order to be with him; was he selfish for wanting him all to himself? He remembered the first few months of their courtship. Greg had been so afraid that Nick would leave due to stress or pressure from friends or family, but he didn't bolt for the door. After the explosion, Nick told him there were some things worth sacrificing for and Greg was definitely one of them. He was in it for the long haul. Greg's heart melted at the mere fact.

God, please, don't hurt him anymore.

"Hey, gorgeous," Nick said, bending to steal a quick kiss. "You look good today. What's with the sudden sophisticated fashion you've got going on?"

"Are you saying my usual style isn't sophisticated? I wouldn't go there if I were you."

Nick grinned and rolled his eyes as Greg stole a piece of bacon cooling on a nearby plate. "I know your personal style is sensitive territory," the Texan replied. "But half the time you look like you should be in a garage band instead of law enforcement."

"Hey, I could have been a rock star. Brilliant scientist was my second choice."

"I'm sure it was, sweetheart." There was a comfortable pause in their banter as Nick gave Greg a quick once-over before turning back to his previous task and said, "You look nervous."

"I do?"

Nick nodded, a small smile on his face. "The absence of crazy hair worries me. Did you run out of gel or something?"

"Comedian, are you? I'll have you know I'm trying to be respectable looking."

The sound of food frying filled the kitchen, along with light from a chilly Nevada day and the smell of chow heating in the oven. There were decorations hanging from the ceiling and a tree lit up as if there were no tomorrow. There were carols playing in the background, music with violins and drums and all the beautiful sounds of what man invented long ago. They had spent only Lord knows how much on an innumerable amount of cousins and grandparents; aunts and uncles. They stored all the gifts in the basement.

Finally, Nick spoke. Morning light reflected off his glasses from the window where a gray sky hosted the sun. "You don't have to change for them. Be who you are."

"I want them to like me, Nick. If they like me, they might support us. No more tiptoeing around the issue. As you can probably already tell, the wheels of my evil master plan are slowly beginning to turn."

Nick laughed before shaking his head a little. "But it would be pointless if you were to turn into someone else. I love you no matter what they say. But you do look pretty hot in that shirt. Very GQ."

Greg grinned before striking a small pose. "Guess you'll have to pry all your sisters off me, right?"

"I'm sure I will, Greggo. But let's put you in a big ugly sweater instead, just to be on the safe side."

"No way. I'm too cute for that. They'll just have to resist my manly charms with sheer willpower alone."

"And while we're on the subject of changing yourself to meet the folk's standards," Nick said, looking over his glasses towards Greg's direction, speaking as if Greg's last comment hadn't even been heard, "maybe facts about blood spatter and DNA isn't the best table conversation, you know? My nieces get sick just watching forensics shows on the Discovery Channel."

"So you do want me to change. I'm crushed."

"You're never crushed."

This was true.

The doorbell rang.

Greg knew they would arrive early but he still wasn't prepared and even now felt he needed some proper research before he could meet anyone on Nick's side of the family. Nick and Greg exchanged slightly anxious looks and Greg felt a knot tighten deep within his gut. Nick smiled; charming, as he always was. He bent to give Greg another kiss, but it wasn't a quick brush before heading off to war. It was deep, evocative and Greg knew even if he messed up big time, Nick would still be with him at the end of the day. It was a reminder for the both of them that they would just keep trying no matter the circumstances. They would always give it one more shot.

"Don't you worry about a thing, okay? Your charms got 'em down here. That's got to count for something."

"Brave words for the guy whose not meeting the folks for the first time," Greg muttered softly, smiling gently when Nick gave him another kiss.

"I believe last year was my time to panic."

"You're not off the hook yet, mister. Guess what Aunt Edna's bringing?"

Nick let out a defeated sigh before turning and heading towards the living room, where someone was waiting behind the door. A Stokes or a Sanders, but did it really matter? They were together and that was all either man could ask for. "Please don't tell me I'm going to have to eat that gray stuff."

"In all its mysterious glory."

The lights shimmered on the tree and Greg took a quick look around their home. Their home. Because they were in it for the long haul and God knew Greg had learned more about it by being with Nick than he ever had alone. Images of lonely Las Vegas holidays before Nick were slowly fading away in favor of his new life, complete with all the things he'd never thought he deserved. He sent silent thanks for the man he loved and one small request to a God he now somewhat believed in.

Please let this turn out well.

He dusted off the invisible lint on his shirt and straitened out his tie as Nick opened the door.

Lesson #3: Be courageous in the face of both strange foods and potential doom. With devotion and trust and true friendship and affection, you can conquer anything. The secret is to just keep going.

…

That was their life.

In a house, brick and white, in a neighborhood with flowers, they were together. The laughter of Mrs. Sanders and Mrs. Stokes floated in the background but when Nick looked over at Greg from across the room, their eyes met and Greg smiled brightly, a light that Nick had never seen before shining in his eyes. The cat was looking up at Greg's precious fish tank hungrily. Upstairs, the children were watching the parade and running around madly. The gray mashed potatoes were stored in the fridge and the scent of sour cream porridge and green bean casserole drifted through every room.

In the basement, piles of gifts were stored and on the front lawn, Mr. Sanders was teaching Mr. Stokes the delicate art of catching a tennis ball in a fishing net.

On their mantle, a perfect moment captured by a small girl stood framed. It was Cousin #9's gift to Uncle Nick and it had to be the best present Nick could ever remember receiving. His mother had stopped once to stare at it; took it off the mantle and held the picture in her manicured hands. It was candid with no poses and no fake smiles. It was Nick and Greg with their arms around each other, fitting together as if they were puzzle pieces that belonged. And in a way, that's what they were.

Nick could see a small smile on her face as he watched her from a distance away, tracing the faces of the photo with her thumbnail. He knew with a great deal of relief that her desire to please her high-society friends wasn't trumped by her desire for her son to be genuinely happy, which he was. He walked over, barely making it through a sudden attack of The Cat, before he put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"How have you been doing, mom?" he asked and she returned the hug and somehow, things were settled. They were weary by the strenuous separation. It was time to give up the struggle and it felt better that way, because it had been a futile battle to begin with.

Between the walls, thirty-one people intertwined.

But Nick had Greg and Greg had Nick.

And because of this, forfeit wasn't a choice. Logic told them to quit a long time ago but they didn't, fear told them this would never work but they tried anyway. It was something more than what so many had summed it up to be. There were billions of people traveling the Earth, weaving a picture of bliss and destruction and amongst the wreckage and birth of the human race, they had managed to find each other. Careless affection was letting go when it got too hard. But they never let go in the beginning and they certainly wouldn't now.

That sort of love could never be wrong.

They pitied those who thought it was.

Greg called everyone to the table for dinner as the cat attacked the bowl of gray mashed potatoes that weren't really potatoes at all.

And somehow, no one seemed to mind.

Lesson #4: Be happy among things of true meaning and value. Family. Friends. Even disturbed cats. It's worth too much to just let it go.

FIN.