Title: Going for Breakfast
Author: podga
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: CSI and its characters do not belong to me. I write and post for fun only.
Summary: Sequel to Back to Normal. Series 5

When we spend hours, even days, sifting through belongings in the houses of the victims, when we invade their privacy and strip away their secrets by asking questions and insisting on answers, when we go over nearly every aspect of their lives, their families and loved ones rarely realize that it’s not about the victims at all; it’s about the perpetrators. It’s about finding what placed the victims in the wrong place at the wrong time, whether they were living their lives as usual that day or whether they’d done something differently. When we put it all together, we can start to understand who we’re chasing and how to catch them. It’s not that we don’t care about the victims; it’s just that by the time we arrive on the scene there’s rarely much we can do for them.

I sometimes wonder if those in love operate under a similar misconception: we believe it’s about the other person, when it’s really all about ourselves, our wants, our needs. We’re quick enough to suspect the other of ulterior or selfish motives; it’s just ourselves we have a blind spot for.

 

I don’t regret what happened with Nick the other night. I don’t, not in the least. Which is not to say that I don’t  wish it hadn’t happened.

If anything, I’m the one who put us both in the position we’re in today, because I doubt that Nick would have kissed me if I hadn’t given him at least some indication that I wanted him to do so. Helping him out with the washing up so that we could spend time apart from the others, hanging out long after everybody else left, those are the types of things you do when you want someone to yourself. If he hadn’t kissed me himself, I’m not sure what I’d have done. Maybe nothing; maybe I’d have just said goodnight and gone home, feeling both noble and horny.

I might have still made it safely out of the door if he hadn’t put my hand on his chest. That shocked the hell out of me, literally took my breath away. It was brave and almost heartbreakingly innocent at the same time, and I’m not sure if he was trying to arouse me or offer himself to me. Maybe both, but I zeroed in on the innocence, because it provided me with the motivation to walk away and not allow things to go further. It wouldn’t be just protecting myself and what I’d spent my life building from whatever madness we were both about to succumb to, it would be protecting him, as well. The fact that he so readily seemed to accept my feigned anger, the bullshit I was spouting about rebound affairs (hell, under any other circumstances I’d have taken Nick any way I could get him, rebound or no) and casual affairs, even as he stood there with his shirt hanging open, his face flushed, and his eyes bright with emotions I couldn’t even begin to interpret, was just further proof of his naïveté.

What I often forget about Nick though, is that he’s not naïve. He’s straightforward and direct, and he has more courage than anybody, including myself, ever gives him credit for, and that sometimes makes him appear as if he sees life in rather simple terms of black and white, but he’s aware of all the gray shades in between. So maybe he believed me, and maybe he didn’t. It doesn’t matter, because he pressed his attach on a completely different front.

There’s one thing I was absolutely honest about that night: once I realized what Nick intended to say, I didn’t want to hear it. It’s fairly easy to deny lust, sexual attraction, to tuck it away somewhere until it loses its luster. And we’re in Vegas; there are literally hundreds of opportunities to distract yourself day or night, people willing to offer you what you want without the inconvenience of expecting you to make choices, concessions or sacrifices. If all Nick wanted was sex, he didn’t need me, and I’d spent too many months making my peace with my feelings for him to be so stupid as to add a physical dimension to whatever our relationship was shaping up to be.

But he said it anyway, and it came out awkward and grumpy, and it killed any resistance I might have still put up. One night, I thought. One night. We both deserved that. And we were both mature enough to handle the boundaries after that.

I didn’t get around to second-guessing us until we were in bed together. He responded to the kissing and the caresses as long as they’d stayed within certain limits; stray just a bit and he’d recoil. I didn’t get it at first and thought that I was perhaps moving a bit too faster than he wanted to go, so I slowed down. After all, if we only had the one time, we might as well enjoy it. But we got stuck again and again and from the way he withdrew I knew that he wouldn’t welcome it if I applied more technique. We both came, but in his case I think it was more because he felt it his obligation to do so, perhaps so as not to insult me, and in my case… well, after all, this was Nick penetrating me, his skin slick against mine, his weight driving me forward, his arms around me, his breathing quick and harsh in my ear. Let’s just say an orgasm wasn’t that difficult to arrive at, and even though things were far from perfect, it still felt pretty damn good when I got there.

I didn’t hang around too long after that. Neither what we’d just shared (if sharing is the right word, which it’s not) nor how we’d agreed things would be afterwards was conducive to our exchanging confidences or even reactions. After all, what more was there for either of us to say?

 

Wishing it hadn’t happened came later, when I finally put two and two together: how Nick had managed to keep his sexual orientation secret for so long, a couple of remarks here and there, a comment he once made about that cop he was with, the fact that he froze up anytime a caress turned into something you’d associate more with sex between men than between a man and a woman. I knew I wasn’t his first man, but I was almost positive I was his second.

The only thing I can think of now is that I took advantage of an innocent at a particularly vulnerable time of his life. True, I hadn’t realized the extent of his inexperience, and I don’t just mean sexual inexperience, and, had I known, I would have continued to keep him at arm’s length, because, for too many reasons, I am the wrong person to be around Nick right now. What he needs is to have fun, get comfortable with who he is and what he wants. What he needs is to have a casual affair, several of them in fact, and that’s not something I can offer him and we both know it.

 

“I’ve reconsidered.”

He stands with his hands on his hips. He has his sunglasses on, so I can’t see his expression, but both his stance and the tone of his voice are aggressive, as if he’s expecting a fight.

“Reconsidered what?”

“Us.”

My first reaction is irritation. We’ve already settled this; I’ve already settled this, and I don’t want to keep covering the same ground over and over again. He wouldn’t be telling me that he’s no longer interested in me; logically, therefore, the only thing that he’s reconsidered is whether he’ll let us both move quietly forward with our lives.

“I haven’t,” I say firmly and try to walk around him to get to my car. He steps to the side, blocking me, one hand coming up flat-palmed against my shoulder to stop me from moving forward.

“You need to talk to me,” he says. “I’ll accept whatever you want, but you need to be honest with me.” His mouth suddenly tilts in a half-smile. “I mean, maybe I’ll accept whatever you want,” he adds

“Back off,” I mutter. “Just back the hell off.”

“You’re angry at me again.”

This time I really am angry at him, even though I know that the anger is covering something else. I even know what that something else is. Fear that I can’t be as strong as I need to be, fear that I don’t even want to be strong, that I just want to give in to something that every instinct tells me will end badly. Especially for me. It’s easier to be angry at him.

“No.”

“And you’re lying to me again, too.”

“I haven’t lied to you.”

“Sure you have. But I guess I’ve lied to you about some things, as well, so we’ll call it even.”

I sigh. “What do you want from me, Nick?” I ask him.

“To give us a chance. If it goes well, I’ll ask for a transfer. If it doesn’t go well, I’ll still ask for a transfer. Just… give us a chance.”

“I can’t do that,” I say roughly, and this time I shove against him, shouldering him to the side. He catches up with me at the car, leaning against the door so that I can’t open it.

“Why not?”

“Because for us to stand even the smallest chance of working out, we both need to change our outlook on life. And until you change yours, I don’t want to change mine.”

“What are you talking about? What outlook?”

“I’m too old to be chasing after somebody who’s not comfortable with who he is.”

By the way his lips tighten and his shoulders slump, I can tell that I’ve scored a direct hit.

“Seems to me like I’m the one doing the chasin’,” he mumbles, but I know Nick when he feels wronged or misunderstood, and there’s no heat in his protest. “How do you know what I feel comfortable with? What do you want me to do, tell everybody I’m gay so that I can prove something to you?”

I shake my head. “I’d settle for your starting to enjoy the sex.”

I only realize I’ve made a concession I didn’t intend to make when I see his head and his shoulders lift again.

“That,” he says nonchalantly. “That’s just a matter of practice.”

The way he says it makes me laugh, and he smiles at me.

“What do you say, Grissom?” he asks.

 

I could come up with hundreds of reasons and excuses not to do this. A lot of them I’ve already been using, but I could think of new ones, even more convincing. Most of them would appear to have to do with Nick: that he needs something different, somebody else, that he’s confused about how he feels about me, that he can’t possibly want me, that he won’t want me when he comes to know who I really am, when he feels less vulnerable, when somebody his own age comes along.

But I know. I know that Nick is his own person, and that he’ll take responsibility for making his own decisions and mistakes. I know I can neither protect him nor hurt him unless he gives me the power to do so, and that he won’t give me that power until he’s sure of me.

Ultimately it’s all about me, not Nick. About whether I’m willing to put everything I’ve worked for on the line for a simple chance. About why I even see it as putting everything on the line, when actually I wouldn’t be, because I’ve already been thinking about leaving the lab and doing something a little different. About the realization that the man standing opposite me is the first person I’ve loved deeply since Ben, over twenty years ago, and that the stakes are so high that I’m afraid to sit at the table, because I know I can’t afford to lose.

On the other hand, if I don’t sit at the table, I stand no chance of winning.

 

“Okay,” I say, and I know it sounds hesitant and reluctant and uncertain.

Nick frowns slightly, his eyes still hidden by his sunglasses.

“Please take off your sunglasses,” I say politely.

People say that in moments of extreme danger you see your life flash by your eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever heard somebody say you can see your future life in the eyes of someone else, but that’s what I saw in Nick’s eyes in that split second right after he took his glasses off: waking up with him, laughing, arguing, dreaming, making love. Being with him.

“Okay,” I repeat around the lump in my throat, but he must hear something in my voice that he didn’t hear above, because he smiles broadly.

“I guess I shouldn’t have started this conversation in the lab parking lot,” he says after a couple of seconds.

“Probably not,” I agree and I laugh.

He moves away from the car door, so that I can open it.

“I’ll see you later?” he says and for the first time this morning it’s he who sounds uncertain.

I stand, clinging onto the doorframe as if for dear life, awkward as a teenager.

“Do you want to go for breakfast?” I ask, and he nods smilingly.

 

He squirms around until he’s lying sideways with his head on my belly, and he reaches out to trace my lips with his fingertips. I capture his hand, kiss it, and press it to my cheek.

“Do you want to go for breakfast?” he smiles.

“You know, for five years I’ve been meaning to tell you this, Nick. Breakfast is a meal generally consumed in the early morning and involving food, preferably pancakes with maple syrup, and lots of coffee.”

“So you’re saying it’s not also gay code for let’s make love until we can’t walk straight?” he asks.

I consider it for a second. “Well, that depends. What were you suggesting a minute ago?”

He rolls over and props himself on his elbows.

“Same thing as you were suggesting that first time,” he murmurs against my mouth.

“I was suggesting breakfast,” I say firmly.

“Right,” he says, his lips curving against mine. “Exactly. Me too.”